Resurrecting Chicago

I’m confident that the translators wanted to keep certain values intact. As they faced translation problems they tried to retain core elements of the official Latin translation so that the final English text would attain a beauty and formality comparable to the Latin text.

My friend was a faithful and good man, Short of stature, yes, but you shouldn’t think to cross him.  He would not forget that. Nor would he ever forget a kindness shown to him.

He was a business man all his life, in fact, he was a salesman and a student of human nature.  He knew the right things to say and the right questions to ask to establish a relationship with a client that would make the guy want to buy whatever my friend was selling.

At one time, as a salesman for the family business he sold furs. When I knew him, he sold high end collectibles to people (mostly men) who had so much money they didn’t care the price of an item.  No matter, they wanted the thing. My friend would sell it to them. Both were happy.

Yes, it is hard to be good and a business man at the same time.  You know too much. You have all the advantage. The client, though, receives what he wants and happy with his purchase doesn’t care much about why the businessman is selling.

My friend looked at money in a slightly different way from most of his clients. Take donations.  He’d peal off several hundred dollars to send to a missionary who was building a clinic for poor indigenous in Mexico.  He called it “casting bread before the waters.”  I took that to mean my friend trusted that giving away without strings attached was the way to be a just man.

He once sent me a parcel of knishes which took a thousand mile trip to my doorstep. It was a spontaneous gift because he remembered that I loved knishes. He made them himself and when I tried to thank him he just said, “Hey, enjoy!”

He was raised in a strict Jewish household of parents who also came from generations of observant Jews,  He was taught to smile and he loved a good joke. Both he shared with his friends.

Recently, I learned that for some Jews a special day is set aside where the worshiper goes to a river and throws morsels of bread into the current while confessing their sins. The bread and the sins are carried away. This day, called “Tashlich,” occurs between Rosh Ha Shana and Yom Kippur.

I don’t think its a coincidence that Christians pray for daily bread in the most sacred prayer of the Savior. Bread is fundamental to cultures throughout the world. To eat bread is life-giving. To toss it upon the waters is sacrificial.

So, goodbye, good friend. I’ll miss contact with you.  I always considered you the richest man in town.

How is it that even today, two thousand years later, we can still hear that voice? The character of his voice brings the message. It is urgent. I need to hear it every year at Advent.

It got me to thinking about how important distinct voices are.

When I read something interesting I hate to say goodbye to it. I tell myself: “I have to remember this.” It could be because a narrative was engaging or an op-ed piece was particularly well-thought-out. What I really enjoy is writing that finds the gold within the ore of life and extracts it for me. Some paintings move me this way but more oftern it is a really good writer.

Richard Rhodes has a short piece in today’s Wall Street Journal (I love Saturday’s Review section because there is no financial news in it.). He tells us how he feels about writing in a distinct voice.

For Rhodes constructing poetry is like watchmaking, non-fiction writing feels like woodworking and fiction is more like throwing clay.

His theme is that writing, to be good writing, has to be edited, though not necessarily by anyone other than the author. The first edition has to be related to “voice.” Who is speaking? Our writing shouldn’t be simply a transcription of ideas which we hear on our heads, half-formed usually. Often it’s someone else’s voice which simply appears from out of our memory but which is notthe author’s voice.

School papers, emails, brochure writing need different forms of writing, different sounds and, often, dialects of the language of everyday conversation.  You edit your self-talk into a voice that your reader can understand clearly. The point of writing is the reader. The reader has to find an “anchor” in the writing that settles the reader into a particular point of view through the voice you have chosen to use.

My college professor, Elias Chaisson, used to stare down our class with stuff like: “Sloppy writing is born of sloppy thinking.”  That’s another way of saying, “Write with a voice that your reader can recognize in a world of competing noise.”

John the Baptist’s voice I recognize.

I want, also, to remember the voice of Richard Rhodes. I’d like to listen to him again.

See:
Richard Rhodes, Wall Street Journal, 11/10/2011. p. C12.

MALIAN CATHOLICS AT SUNDAY MASS

 OMG, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything here.  Since the last story, I’ve been to Africa and Missouri.

I visited the Catholic Relief Service projects in Mali, Africa. Eight days of travelling throughout the country gave me a good idea of the world’s sixth poorest nation. Rice with a bit of red sauce is the staple of the country. Water is precious in a land of sand, wind, dust and heat.

In Mali, CRS is working with ongoing development projects while providing nutritious meals for children. By serving those meals at school, parents see a value in sending their children to school.  Like any parents, Malians are concerned that their children have enough to eat. Up to now, formal education has not been a value in a culture where there are few books and fewer jobs requiring schooling.

The Catholic Church in Mali is strong, though only about 3% of the population.  The Mass I attended was jammed with three or four hundred Catholics who celebrated reverently and joyfully. The group of eleven I was with were the only white people at that Mass. It makes me more aware of what it means to be Catholic.

The muslims that work for CRS are quick to explain that muslims and Catholics live and work side-by-side.  Each religious and cultural group tries to respect the customs and religious events of the other. Muslims attend Catholic funerals and weddings and vice versa.

This is a far cry from the radical muslim element and the defensive Christian posture that most of us in the US are used to.  Perhaps, we can learn from the people of Mali how to live together in harmony..

 For most people, that kind of a journey would be inconceivable. My brother-in-law,for example, who lives in Chicago, thinks any trip beyond fifty miles is dangerous. Why leave home for the unknown?

But, that’s the reason I want to go, to experience the unknown. I like adventure and going to Africa fits well with  my personality. The Lord seems to like to call me to the unknown. I’m not always comfortable with alien cultures but I’m asking Our Lord to give me courage to face what I do not completely understand.

I’m not going on a safari.  I’m going to Africa to experience the work of Catholic Relief Services in Mali. The international outreach American Catholic Church or “CRS” extends a helping hand in over a hundred countries. In Mali I expect to see clinics, schools, and agricultural projects staffed and managed by CRS workers, many of whom are locals.  Because Mali is one of the poorest countries in the world, CRS has several large food dispensaries there. It will be my first experience of that kind of destitution.

By the way, I am going to try to set foot in the province of Timbuktu. I remember that
name as a fabled desert city, isolated and remote.  “Timbuktu,” a place where you could simply disappear and be lost forever. These days, Timbuktu in east central Mali is said to be decaying and somewhat abandoned, a far cry from its glory days as an ancient city at the crossroads of several trade routes.  Truck and plane travel move more things faster than caravans of camels.

There are ten of us going, seven pre-theology students from Mundelein seminary outside of Chicago and three priests. The young men will bring energy and a sense of freshness to the experience. I hope some of that stuff rubs off on me. You’ve got to have “the right stuff” to
be a servant minister in the priesthood. And, now that I think about it,a version of today’s horoscope could be prayed over each man as he is ordained to the priesthood. “You are going on a long journey.”

Usually I approach this blog at the end of the day which for me is about 8:30 PM. I’m often too tired to think much, but responsible enough to want to get something down before I miss another two weeks.

Today was the sabbath and I celebrated two Masses. The people were wonderful and the deacons at St. Isidore’s are interesting and make me want to know more about their callings. One of them preached at my Masses today.

Deacon Don, whose real job is as a private investigator is a convert. His mother, Episcopalian,  refused to go to his baptismal ceremony in the Catholic Church. She did come to his ordination some years later.  Businessman, father and clergyman, his life is full.

When he told us today of his grandson, William who is handicapped and functions at the level of a child, it was wonderful to see his affection for this boy, now a twenty-two year
old man. He called him “grandson” and “my buddy.”

Sometimes, my celibacy hurts.  There are no children in my life and no grandchildren. And, no wife.  Also, no in-laws, pediatric appointments or arguments with a wife. I know where everything is because there is no one around to move things except me.  I also have to worry only about myself most of the time. Let your guard down and that kind of life can make one deveop into a crusty old bachelor.

My prayer life always helps to relieve any pity-party stuff going on in my soul about this
lack of family. Serving in the Church and meeting warm-hearted parishioners reminds me that I have a family.

Maybe I should pay more attention to how people address me after Church: “Hi, Father!”
“God bless you, Father.” Hey, Padre! Take care of yoruself, O.K.?

I know the Church is my family and it is enough for me.