Is my office bugged?

Is my office bugged? Short answer. Yes.

Well literally, yes. Also metaphorically. Or it least it feels that way. My latest column for Nature Chemistry is titled "Bug Bites," about the taste of bugs (and having a taste for bugs). It hatched while at my niece's wedding reception early in the summer. The crew of cousins got onto the topic from a conversation about cilantro (stink bugs taste like cilantro, as it happens), and then suggested I write about it.

As I was drafting the piece, I went downstairs to grab a second cup of tea from the carafe in the kitchen. I carried it upstairs, set it down on the desk, and got back to work. I absently-mindedly picked up the mug and noticed something off with the scent. It wasn't quite as floral as I expected. I peered into the cup to find a (dead) earwig bobbing about. Oh dear. Its alarm cocktail of dimethyl disulfide and dimethyl trisulfide had given my tea a mephitic edge.

I removed the unfortunate earwig, and drank the tea.

It seemed beyond coincidental that my tea should be bugged, was the universe listening in? I still can't figure out where it came from. I had rinsed the carafe with hot water before filling it with tea, and it had been tightly sealed. I had already had one cup of earwig-less tea in the mug. The sugar bowl is covered. Where did it come from? 

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I took a photo of the bugged tea and of the earwig I fished out, but it felt a bit too gross to illustrate this post. (I described it to Math Man over dinner who winced every time I said "mandible".) So the mug is my organic chemistry mug.

Proof

 

My seventh (!) book will be published this fall. A book of reflections for next Lent. The proofs came a couple of weeks ago, and once the manuscript for book eight (eight? eight?) went out the door, I had some time and space to devote to this devotional.

I still proof on paper, circling errors with a red ballpoint, pressing into the surface of the paper, leaving a literal wound to mark wounded text. I read it end to end, cold, then again side by side with the text I submitted. Were those snippets of scripture exactly what was in the lectionary? Quotes from the psalms sometimes are pulled from my memory (and my heart and my soul) as I write, not from any specific text. Better check against the source!

When the latest revision of the US English Catholic Lectionary came out, I didn’t add it to my collection. I have the most recent British one, the previous US one, but mostly I turn to the USCCB site or use Give Us This Day. The ritual books in my parish are stored behind the main altar, in a space reserved for quiet meditation in front of the tabernacle. So one afternoon last week, I laid the proofs on the small wooden altar, pulled the Sunday and daily lectionaries from the shelf, and with the Word before me, and the Word at my right hand, I proofed the pericopes. I could have taken the books and proofs to the small library next door, or to the sacristy, but this space felt right.

I used a book called Stones Before the Lord (about monastic architecture) when I taught a course on the history of contemplation in the West. Proofing on the altar left me feeling like I was laying stones of a different sort before the Lord. Stepping stones from Ash Wednesday to Easter, perhaps, or maybe a staircase cut into a cliff taking you from from a rocky beach on the wind-whipped Scottish coast to a chapel nestled high above. Or living stones, to use the image from the first letter of Peter, pulled from my own prayer. Stones I wanted to be properly cut and laid so they might support people's path though next Lent, and not be  stumbling blocks.

I found a few errors and marked them up, now it's headed back to Liturgical Press.

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Proofs. It's been a week of proofs. I proofed yeast last night to make pizza crusts. I proofed this book. I sorted through proofs of once new quantum mechanical theories, snapping a picture or two to remember the work I had done (and long ago published), then sent them into oblivion (actually the recycling bin!).

Firefly thoughts

 

I am in the throes of finishing a book manuscript. My co-author and I have been working on a book on the history of women chemists in the American Chemical Society for the better part of a year. The volume is to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the founding of the Women Chemists Committee. (The founding date might be April 14, 1927, when the committee met to recommend to the ACS that a women' service committee or early September, 1927 when the first women chemists' lunch was held. Anyway, next year marks 100 years.) The goal is to have the book ready for the fall meeting of the ACS in late August of 2027, which means we need to be done soon.

It's a tight timeline, and these days I am spending about 8 hours a day on it, 4 or 5 days a week. And when I'm done, I have not an tittle of mental energy or physical energy leftover to write for pleasure. (And yes, tittle — as in just a scooch. Which might come from Matthew 5:18 at least in the King James translation, which reads: "For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled." In the Greek ἰῶτα (iota and hence jot) or κεραία (keraia), in Latin titulus or little typographical mark, hence tittle. And weirdly enough I am preaching on the pericope that just precedes this verse in Matthew tomorrow: Matt 5:13-16.)

Meanwhile bits of other writing flash in my brain like fireflies, briefly bright, then gone — or at least hovering dully about, hoping to meet up with some other words and make something new. 

Blink. The New York Times news quiz a week ago suggested more people knew what distinguished a Basque cheesecake from a regular cheesecake (55%) than could recognize the title of Pope Leo's first encyclical (only 39% knew it was Magnifica humanitas). I was surprised, the encyclical seemed like big news to me, but that just tells me I am in a bubble.

Blink.  There is a great recipe for a lemon Basque cheesecake that I want to try.

Blink.  What is retirement like? A question I get asked a lot. I don't really know. I'm working pretty hard to finish this book. And a talk for a conference in a few weeks. And a short essay for next Lent into Easter. Right, and that homily for tomorrow. (Essay is actually done and delivered. Homily is done, delivered tomorrow.)

Blink.  I wish organizations kept better archives.

Blink.  I am so grateful to take handwritten notes again. Yes, I know, people retain information more readily when they take notes by hand rather than on the keyboard, but that presumes you can. For the moment, I can. But am also aware and appreciate that I have other modalities available when I need them. 

Blink. Remember when blinking colored text was a thing on a web page?  

Blink. It's been deprecated, so this won't...blink. 

Seriously, I preach

Heidi Schlumpf has an article about lay preaching in Commonweal that I read with particular interest as I did an 8-week preaching practicum for Catholic women this spring. 

A couple of friends shared the Commonweal article on social media and in the comments on one post someone implied that those who grumble and push back against the prohibition of lay preaching at the Eucharist aren’t serious about preaching. If they were, they’d put their energy behind celebrating and preaching at the Liturgy of the Word or the Liturgy of the Hours (particularly Vespers, or rather Evening Prayer) where preaching by the unordained is permitted. Besides, he noted, it's a moot point, because the priest shortage means no one is going to be getting much access to the Eucharist anyway.

I bristled at this take. I wanted to say, "Dude, I think the prohibition should be eased and I take my preaching very seriously!" I did not. Also, there is not really as much space for licit lay preaching at liturgies outside the Eucharist as he seems to think. I didn't say that either. I did say that preaching outside the Eucharist tends to be marginalized.

I note the liturgical norms that restrict the homily at the Eucharist likewise forbid lay persons from reflecting on the readings at many (most?) celebrations of the Liturgy of the Word.  The norms for Sunday celebration in the absence of a priest restrict the homily to the ordained (in this case a deacon) regardless of whether they include distribution of Holy Communion. If a lay person must lead such a liturgy, then they must read a homily written by a priest or deacon (New Zealand's bishops also provide a collection of generic seasonal reflections.) Even on weekdays, the preference is for someone to read a prepared homily, though the UK bishops conference permits a reflection on the reading by a lay person (not to be confused with a homily). Per the USCCB "A Liturgy of the Word with Distribution of Holy Communion should never be scheduled for the purpose of 'providing a role' for deacons or lay ministers." In other words, lay leadership (and/or preaching) in this context is a last resort, not a regularized space for lay preaching.

The norms regarding the Liturgy of the Hours say that a lay person cannot preside if a priest or deacon is present. Can they still preach? The norms are silent on this point, and presumably what is not explicitly forbidden is allowed. But even this still leaves lay voices on the margins.  I have lived in some of the largest dioceses in the country (LA, Orange, Philly). I have lived most of my life in parishes staffed by. religious orders (Franciscans and Augustinians). I have never lived in a parish that regularly celebrates Evening Prayer on a Sunday (my parish does celebrate Morning Prayer every day but Sunday). Philadelphia's cathedral parish does not have public celebration of any of the Liturgy of the Hours as far as I can tell. Would people come out a second time for for Vespers? Probably not. And given the hunger that has been inculcated in Catholics for the reception of the Eucharist, I don't think people are going to line up for Vespers in lieu of a Communion service. (Though apparently you can swap in the Sunday readings at the LOH and follow with communion, so that would serve as an opportunity for lay preaching.)

I know for certain that I have “preached” at the Eucharist, in that a reflection I have written has been read at the time of the homily (sometimes with actual attribution, or as it was once reported to me, "written by a devout lady" which felt terribly medieval to me). At least once at a cathedral (though not by the bishop). If that is licit, why could I not read my own words? Or have my words blessed by an ordained minister ahead of time and read them with my own voice? Is it because my body is wrong? Not Christ-like enough? (I suspect that's the actual answer, a woman can never be as close an image of Christ as a man. Which grieves me, but that's another post.)

Seriously, I do get to preach (as one Carthusian abbot put it, the — presumably ordained — brothers were to preach with their hands, that is by the written word) a lot. I will preach to thousands of people in that sense every day next Lent, having written a book of daily reflections that comes out in the fall from Liturgical Press. I preach at retreats. I have contributed to collections of homilies. I reflect in Give Us This Day —which offers a veritable banquet of voices, from Augustine to my friend Fran, scientists and theologians, ordained and lay, saints and the rest of us. I believe that preaching, however I do it, is my vocation. How do I know? Of all the hundreds of reflections I've written or given, only once have I volunteered. Every other one has been asked for.  Called forth.

Charting a moral course: Popes, presidents and politics

"Pope Leo should stick to his lane. President Trump has said it. Vice President Vance is so convinced of it that he tried to school the pontiff on just war theory. Pete Hegseth’s Pentagon staff called the papal nuncio on the carpet to make it clear. What is the Pope’s proper purview?"

Frankly, I don't recognize much of my Catholic faith in the pronouncements emanating from the White House. And sometimes I get annoyed enough to make a public stand. I suppose I could stand outside the White House with a bullhorn and read from the Catechism of the Catholic Church, or the documents of Vatican II, but instead I write. I am grateful for the Philadelphia Inquirer who has given me a space to do that.

"I hear this administration saying that our morals are supposed to be detached from our everyday lives. That our beliefs — or our unbeliefs — are an entirely private matter. If we aren’t making our choices based on our own well-formed consciences, whatever tradition has formed them, then are they our choices at all?

Faith and morals are precisely what inform my politics, what guide my thinking about economics and social policy and climate change...Are there any decisions I make where my faith doesn’t play a role? Sure. Do I want mango or lemon water ice at Rita’s? But for the rest of it, I want my moral compass to help me navigate these challenging times.

Conscience isn’t a lane; it is the map that lets us find our way through all the lanes. Pope Leo is reminding us to not leave it behind."

Know where you stand and stand there, said Daniel Berrigan SJ. I know where I stand and I will stand there as long as I can and as long as it is necessary. 

Read the whole thing at the Inquirer. And yes, I enjoyed some alliterative moments...

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For the record, the proper choice is mango!

For non-Philadelphians: Rita's is a purveyor of frozen confections, particularly "water ice" (pronounced "wodder ice"). Water ice (also called Italian ice) is more crystalline than a sorbet or gelato, but not as crystalline as a snow cone. 

Hobbies

Five more lectures to go.  On solids and X-ray crystallography. A short tour through nuclear chemistry, aware that these 100 or so minutes might be all they get on the topic in their chemistry degree. Memories of my own undergraduate training surface, where we got to use the nuclear reactor to do neutron activation analysis of milk samples. Can I find a photo of the reactor to show them?

Chatting with a colleague in the hall about my plans to write: "It's good to have a hobby," he offers. I bristle a bit.  I'm not sure that I would classify my writing under "hobbies." Sketching is a hobby, knitting is a hobby, fly fishing is a hobby. (Which two of these do I do?) A hobby feels too casual a classification, bearing a frisson of frivolousness. Writing for me carries weight, sometimes serious weight. So is it a job? an avocation? a vocation?

What does the OED have to say? A hobby is "An activity or interest pursued regularly in one's leisure time for pleasure." Or an avocation:  "an activity or line of work for which one has special talent or affinity; one's calling." Vocation, it  tells me,  derives from a summoning.

Writing is (mostly) a pleasure for me. Some of it is done in my "off-hours" from my paid job. This blog is probably a hobby. Regardless of the box I might drop it into, my writing is an integral part of who I am. The words call, and I cannot help but pick them up and start dragging them into place.

Qapla!

Qapla! Success! My latest column in Nature Chemistry came out last week. It opens and closes with Klingon — which may be a first for a publication in a scientific journal. 

Se'vIr lIngDI' tamlertej, tlhIngan Hol QaQ law' DIvI' Hol QaQ puS jatlh Michelle Francl. (More or less translates as "Should chemists publish in Klingon rather than English wonders Michelle Francl")

and 

TlhIngan Hol ghojlu'meH QaQ jajvam. (Today is a good day to learn Klingon.) 

Writing this piece I learned a bunch about synthetic languages beginning with Hildegard of Bingen's lingua ignota to Nobel prize winning chemist Wilhelm Ostwald's literal investment in Ido (an offshoot of Esperanto). He gave half of his prize monies to promote use of the language by scientists. Also  I was introduced to Volapük, which sounds like it could be Klingon, but is actually the name of another 19th century synthetic language.

The essay isn't about Klingon per se but rather tackles the issue of auxiliary languages and science. If English is the lingua franca of science, what is the cost to scientists who do not speak it as their mother tongue? Time? Visibility? Surely, but the ultimate cost is the work that doesn't get done as a result, or gets done more slowly. It costs us all.

So, a Gedanken experiment...would it level the playing field if we all had to publish in Klingon? Could you squeeze more science into a 15 minute talk if you did it in Klingon? Chaq!

Read the whole thing here.

One last time

 

We have a mature thunder plum out front, which blossoms every spring and shades the driveway in the depths of summer. It leans out from under the protection of the great oak, which is 75 years old. A youngster by comparison. Last year I noticed it had developed a fungus, black crusts on a few branches. I've seen this before and I knew what it meant. Soon all the branches would be covered. There would be a last bloom and then the tree would have to become something else. 

I'm down to the last 8 classes of my teaching career, one last season to bloom as a teacher, then I, too, will be something else. (Though thankfully not covered with a fungus!) 

I will learn to say when asked what I do, "I write."

Stripped of words: a homily for Good Friday

 

I am preaching at Morning Prayer at the parish today, a reflection which had its seed in an interview with Cardinal Timothy Radcliffe by Fr. Jim Martin SJ (you can hear the relevant piece here) and in a reflection in the forthcoming book for next Lent.

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…So shall he startle many nations,
because of him, kings shall stand speechless;
For those who have not been told shall see,
those who have not heard shall ponder it.…Isaiah 52:15

As we move through the Triduum, we also grow silent in the face of the enormity of what has been accomplished by God. Later today we will sit with St. John’s account of the passion, invited as Isaiah implores us to watch and to ponder. When I hear this version of the passion I am often struck by how Jesus, too, gradually grows silent. Gone is the sharp give and take with the religious authorities. He offers virtually no defense to Pilate. There are no words to reassure the repentent thief crucified next to him about paradise.

Once Jesus wept as he fervently prayed for relief. Now, we no longer hear him lifting up long, eloquent prayers to the Father. In John’s account of the crucifixion, we do not hear him pray at all. He does not cry out to God asking why he was abandoned. He does not commend himself to the Father’s care.

In the end, there is only his battered body, wracked with thirst, hanging on a cross. 

Some time ago I heard Cardinal Timothy Radcliffe reflect on what it had been like to try to pray during his recovery from a grueling surgery. “When I tried to pray the Our Father,” recounted Cardinal Radcliffe, “I couldn’t get past the two words…Our Father…I was just a body lying in bed.”  Still, he thirsted, not just for the water he was not allowed to have, but for God.

Here is this man who preached to the synod — who preached to the pope about hope and prayer —  confessing he could not pray. How many of us have found ourselves in these straits? Caught up in the maelstrom of illness — our own or those of people we love —  or overcome by fear or despair in the face of events that upend our lives, or shake the world, and unable to find the strength to reach for God. When even the prayers we know by heart slip away from us.

I am reminded of a snippet of poetry from Ranier Rilke’s Book of Hours, “like sand slipping through fingers,  all my cells are open, and all so thirsty. I ache…in a hundred places, but mostly in the middle of my heart.” Thirsting for God in every cell, aching for mercy in the depths of our hearts, our physical body becomes the prayer. Like the disciples who ask Jesus to teach them the words to use in prayer, we, too, are looking to Jesus to teach us how to pray in our most desperate moments, when the anguish of our wounds  is more than we can bear, and we cannot find even those words, “Our Father”.

Jesus’ silence on the cross speaks volumes. His arms wordlessly stretched out between heaven and earth, his whole body is a prayer offered to the Father for our salvation. It is a potent reminder that when our strength fails us, we can still pray as Jesus taught us from the cross, arms stretched out in longing, every cell thirsting. That when injustice or illness or infirmity or age strips us of our words, our very body becomes a prayer.

Lost in translation

 

I am working on a piece on reading chemistry articles in other languages. I am reading "Chemistry Through the Language Barrier," written in the late 1960s when Google translate was science fiction. The advice is practical - how can you wring what you need from a paper written in Czech or Polish or...Russian or Chinese? Well, when it comes to that last, the author's advice is best summed up as "Good luck and godspeed!", but Japanese is not out of reach he assures you.

Exercises are left for the reader, in part so you will believe his methods possible.

Yesterday I was happily ensconced on the divan in my office, a cup of tea on the side table and went to grab my yellow pad to jot notes and thoughts. Argh, it was across the room on my desk. Too lazy to get up, I grabbed the nearest blank writing surface: the next blind date book on my stack.  I happily scrawled away. Now I am trying to transcribe what I wrote into my electronic notes and finding myself at a loss translating sentences where the ink failed to write on the tape.

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Earlier I had been reading the foreward and mentally debating the author. Imagine my shock when I reached the end to discover my father-in-law had written that foreward.

Time present and time past: 2025 edition

 

“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.”  — TS Eliot, Burnt Norton

The winds are howling outside, gusting to 40 mph and more. Stripping off the few leaves still clinging to the pin oak and sending the last bits of 2025 tumbling down the block. Time past tangles with time future at this, the inflection point between years.

Time past? Steeped came out in paperback. I am in my last year teaching, retiring from Bryn Mawr at the end of the spring semester. (Forty years has gone very fast.) Math Guy and his beloved got married in a warm and sun-kissed garden in Philadelphia. Math Man won a golf tournament in Scotland. The apples did not fall far from the tree. Crash has a book out, which he co-edited.  Math Guy has a couple of papers out this year, including one in the Mathematical Monthly, a plum spot to publish I am given to understand.

I wrote:

• 60 blog posts (not including this one, and the most I have written for the blog since 2018
• 4 essays for Nature Chemistry (on acknowledgements, aliens (!), virtuous chemists, and being opinionated)
• 3 reflections in Give Us This Day (Holy Thursday, feasts of St. Thomas and St. Cecilia)
• 3 op-eds in the Philadelphia Inquirer (decrying the NIH cuts, on the loss of Pope Francis, on the president’s quasi-endorsement of health scams)

…and a book of Lenten reflections, coming out from Liturgical Press next fall.

I live blogged the papal conclave for the Inquirer, watching the Holy See gulls on the roof for hours on end and delighted to see an Augustinian from Chicago succeed Pope Francis.

I talked tea up and down the East Coast, and on radio programs in both hemispheres. I gave a half dozen retreats. I gave one last research talk. I gave the charge to the senior class at Convocation in September, the class that I will walk out of Bryn Mawr with. 

I solved the Wordle 500 days in a row and Math Guy and I have jointly solved the NYTimes crossword 1500 days running. I became a gym rat, clocking hours every week on the rowing machine and learning to bench press. Both serious cardio and weight lifting have been shown to slow the progression of Parkinson's, the former is in Phase III trials at the moment. 

Time future? I am working on a new book (women in chemistry). Sketching out a book proposal, or perhaps two. There are two more reflections queued up for Give Us This Day. Parkinson’s continues to be part of my daily reality. I am beyond grateful for the pair of molecules that have given me back so much of what I had lost, and for the care team (and the prayers) that help me make the most of what I have. 

Time present? My desk, I would like to see the surface of the second desk in my home office. A draft for a parish mission coming up in about a month. The laundry, which is certainly contained in time past and time future both.  And regardless, it will be 2026.

Happy New Year!

Chewing gum and baling wire

I grew up in rural Illinois, in a small dairy farming town west of Chicago. I belonged to 4-H. There was no store to make a quick run to if you ran out of something, so an expression I learned early was that things could be held together with chewing gum and baling wire. (It also means I know what baling wire is, it’s used to tie up bales of hay, and gets re-used for lots of ad hoc repairs.)

About 5 years ago my right hand got glitchy, so between books I took myself to see the orthopedic hand surgeon. His conservative (and effective) remedy was a small off the shelf splint which kept the joint stable. Lately the splint hasn’t been quite enough, and another joint has gotten into the act. A return trip to the orthopedic practice, and a consult with two amazing physical therapists who put their heads together to figure out how to stabilize the joints and still let me type and I now have two snazzy custom splints to wear when I am at the keyboard. They are fabulous, and fabulously violet. Most fabulously of all they work, so I can work. 

I feel a bit like I am held together by chewing gum and baling wire, but remain grateful for people who can problem solve.

O Cecilia!

 Writing this reflection gave me a serious Simon & Garfunkel earworm last February!

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, with all my heart;
I will declare all your wondrous deeds.
I will be glad and exult in you;
I will sing praise to your name, Most High. — Psalm 9

On this day, we celebrate the memorial of St. Cecilia, so it is not surprising that a line in the opening verse of the psalm caught my eye: I will sing praise to your name. Cecilia is, perforce, the patron saint of music and musicians, of all who give voice to God’s praises in song.

Over and over in the psalms, we hear the imperative: Sing! Qui cantat, bis orat, said St. Augustine (perhaps). To sing is to pray twice. Music propels a text out of two dimensions. It pulls us into a space where beat and timbre, harmony and counterpoint can rouse us, can give shape to what is ineffable, unutterable.

I take a deep breath to begin the entrance hymn, and encounter God’s expansive grace, enabling me to be just a little bit more than who I was a moment before. I feel the pew shiver under my hands as the organ digs into a deeper register, my awe of the all-powerful, ever-living God literally palpable. I hear the woman behind me in line for communion break into a soprano descant and am reminded that in prayer, as in music, we are called to be one Body, one Word, our differences intricately woven into a stronger and more beautiful whole.

St. John of the Cross called prayer the breathing of God in the soul and of the soul in God. So, whenever I sing in prayer, the living Word of God breathes within me, and I, alive with that Word, breathe within God.

— From Give Us This Day, November 2025

Back to the ordinary

"We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming…" I created the document in mid-June. Forty-seven reflections to write (forty-eight if you count the preface), forty-seven meditations to design. An empty space waiting for words, or perhaps waiting on the Word. Twenty weeks and seventeen thousand words later, it's off to the editor.

These last few weeks in particular I feel like I have been living in Lent: walking toward to Jerusalem, jostled by the crowds, facing the Passion. The lectionary selections for Lent are like a greatest hits list, so bits and pieces appear in the Ordinary way of things. And each time they do I am momentarily disoriented. The Pharisee and the tax collector are praying...Is it Tuesday in the first week of Lent? or the 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time? Or both?

I keep envisioning it as a Fourier transform experiment, hitting all the frequencies at once, then capturing the free induction decay and transforming it into the other domain, where each peak pops up out of the noise. It's just not clear which domain I am in when writing. (Apologies to the non-spectroscopists out there.)

For today I am grateful to be anchored back in a single time. 

Writing around the block

 

I am working on a long form essay, due in about a week. The topic and content came easily, a dive into the literature helped me sharpen the question, I have far more than I need. But. The. Intro. 

I tried writing around the block, doing a solid sketch of the arguments and data. I tried walking around the block (twice). I tried a dose of poetry (see Poetry Pharmacy). I finally just tried writing something, anything, that might launch the essay.

It has taken me a full day of writing to craft an introduction that I was happy (though not delighted) with. I wrote three different version. Well, five. The last three are all variations on the same theme. Run forward, run backward. Two paragraphs, no, let's make it three. The conclusion fell out of one draft like an overtaxed gearbox, sparks flying off the pavement. 

It's not as strong as I would like, I'm still fretting about the hand off from the introduction to the body. I resorted to my default, "I would argue...". It will do. It is done for the moment, and as the saying goes at Bryn Mawr, done is good.

Drawn into the wounds: Feast of St. Thomas

 

It's the feast of the apostle Thomas today, and I'm reflecting on the readings for Give Us This Day. The piece was written last fall, while I was on the road in Scotland and Rome. We'd been to the National Gallery in Edinburgh (which has no Caravaggios in the collection, though it does have a portrait of Carravaggio) so visual art was on my mind. Some of my favorite churches in Rome have Caravaggios, but The Incredulity of Saint Thomas lives in Berlin.

I wrote that Caravaggio’s depiction of the scene from John's Gospel "pushes me to wonder if Jesus is seeking more than a simple “yes” or “no” in this encounter—hoping for yet more than the exclamation wrenched from Thomas’ heart, “my Lord and my God!"... [here] Jesus is shown with his head bent near Thomas’ head, his hand guiding Thomas to touch his wounds. It is an intimate moment as Jesus reaches out to draw Thomas deeply into his very self, into the woundedness that healed the world.

Perhaps this Gospel is also an invitation for to me to be drawn into the woundedness of the world, to believe that I can [ed. and do and must!] encounter Christ, bruised and pierced, at every turn."

Earlier this week I listened to an episode of a new podcast, The Spiritual Life, hosted by James Martin SJ and Maggie van Doren. This episode included an conversation between Fr. Martin and Timothy Cardinal Radcliffe which touched upon Cardinal Radcliffe's time as a patient after serious surgery. 

Fr. Martin referenced Joseph Cardinal Bernadin's little book, The Gift of Peace (completed just two weeks before he died).  It's short, so I pulled it off my shelf to read on Sunday. I was struck by Bernadin's view of his vocation to be present to people in his own illness. I was struck by the tangible, physical nature of his response. The handwritten note at the start of the book, the script titles to each chapter. The list of 700 names of people who had asked for his prayers, held in his hands at the altar.

What does prayer look like in our most difficult moments? Perhaps when we doubt we can find our way to prayer, Jesus takes our hands and says, "touch me, feel my wounds."

Styling T Rex

I got the proofs for an essay yesterday that opens with a mention of Tyrannosaurus rex. “Shouldn’t that be italicized?” asked a co-author. Well, yes. Most publications would say that the scientific names should be italicized. But should it be? Maybe T. rex should be bold - to suggest the extra space that I'd be willing to cede to a predator of T. rex's stature. Or perhaps italic's tilt does reflect T. rex's literal posture, as it leans forward chasing its prey. Should I elect an underscore, a subtle nod at italics, or a stylized sketch of the ground across which a T. rex races? Maybe it’s best to use strikethrough - suggesting what might happen to me should I be too slow to escape a Tyrannosaurus.

Which brings me to fonts. Serif? Non-serif? I think the serifs hint at the teeth and claws that stand ready to shred a T. rex’s prey. Leave the smooth roundedness of Arial or Comic Sans to the brontosaurs (though they don't exist? didn't exist?)

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At least according to Wikipedia, brontosaurs are indeed dinosaurs. 

And I did correctly correct the proofs and italicize Tyrannosaurs rex. TBH I italicised it, it’s a British publication.

A potent wizard

I follow an account on bluesky (@bookgaga.bsky.social) that regularly posts poetry. Today's selection was short and evocative for me, "Emerald Inula" by Sam Cherubin. (Full poem is here)

"i.

Apples in Schiller’s desk, Balsam of Peru, rockrose,

rose alba, Helichrysum Everlasting, Immortale.

Why can’t this be enough?

ii.

Dried petals staining the pages.

Attar of cells breathing sun.

Flesh never accepting, but aching."

I learned that inula was a plant and that the 18th century German poet and philosopher Friedrich Schiller kept decaying apples in his desk drawer because their aroma spurred his creative juices when he was feeling stuck in his writing. 

Smell is a potent wizard, wrote Helen Keller. Indeed. Like Schiller's apples, the scent of rose congou in the afternoon can draw words to the page.  The shadowy fragrance of incense, all balsam and frankincense, that shakes out of my alb transports me to a darkened church, prostrate before mystery. The sweet sharp smell of an organic chemistry lab summons my father's ghost. What is scent enough for me to stir sentences into words, to conjure up  memory, to assuage the aches of loss? One molecule? Two?

Holy Thursday: Fully Immersed

 

I am "preaching" Holy Thursday (Carthusian style — a long ago abbot of that most silent of orders told his confreres that they preach with their hands, by writing, not with their voices). Or maybe I should just say I am preaching today. Period.

Today begins the Triduum, a single liturgy unfolding over some 5o hours. We will come and go, but there will be only one collect — tonight — and one closing prayer — at the end of the Vigil. Holy Thursday is sometimes celebrated as the institution of the Sacrament of Holy Orders, sometimes as the institution of the Eucharist. But either of thsoe two characterizations seems to do justice to the depths of the mysteries at play in this liturgy. It's not an anniversary, it is a prophetic call to the baptized.

Last summer, when Give Us This Day's editor invited me to write the reflection for today, I will admit to being slightly intimidated. I have written many pieces for them over the years (50? I haven't really kept count), including for Christmas and other major feasts, but this day, these days, felt far more freighted. 

I sat down to write this with the powerful readings that direct our attention both inward — take this and drink — and outward — wash the feet of others, but my mind kept drifting to the unspoken, to what lies above and beside and below. Wade in with me to all that surrounds us, and that invites us to become what we receive, that calls us to be the Word made flesh. In the world today, where cruelty seems to be the watchword and mercy and justice are given short shrift, it seems all the more important to gather our strength and go forth as Christ commanded.

"After the starkness of Lent, with its stripped altars and veiled statues, it’s always a shock when I walk into the church on Holy Thursday. The altar is draped in crimson satin, the chapel where the Eucharist will repose is overflowing with flowers and candles. Tendrils of incense wind toward the ceiling, a gathering cloud of prayer above the nave...

Listen! Hear the Word that commands me to wash my neighbors’ feet, that whispers to me, “take up your cross,” that speaks my name and sends me out to make manifest the Good News. Verbum caro, panem verum, Verbo carnem éfficit. Become flesh in me."

The full reflection can be found here, along with a beautiful icon by Olga Bakhtina.

Aging with intensity

 

I love cut flowers, they feel like such a luxury. Right now there are sunflowers on the dining room table, and another vase of them on the passthrough by the kitchen sink. Roses from Math Man have just made their way to the compost, circling back to...tomatoes or basil.

Much as I love fresh flowers, I am fascinated with watching them age. These lilies were in my study at home, fading and drying, in their own way as beautiful as they were fresh cut. The colors intensify as the petals dry. Curves and ridges appear, reflecting the late afternoon light. And at the last there is a barely audible rustle as the petals surrender to gravity, one following another. When I go down for the day, I gather the fallen petals and pull the last few stems from the vase. Dust to dust.

Like the flowers, I am aging, though not that fast. Wondering if my colors will deepen, and whether my wrinkles will be as interesting in the late day sun. Will I rustle as I surrender bit by bit? (I feel more inclined to shout these days, but that's another post.)

I want to age intensely, intentionally. To offer up, rather than give in.