As was well demonstrated in the comments on my previous post (and in the comments box at Inside Catholic, for that matter), Mark Shea’s article about traditionalism and the sin of anger was largely ad hominem and without very much merit or credibility as it was written. (Jonathan and Hilary made the case best, I think.)

But what Shea talks about is still a real phenomenon - those individuals some of us jokingly refer to as “tradholes”. The angry, bitter, conniving, judgmental people who give those of us who actually love the faith and want to share the beauties of tradition a bad name. We wind up painted with the broad brush of influential Catholics like Shea and have to spend time fighting misperceptions rather than working toward restoring those things we hold dear and encouraging others to respect and enjoy them.

So how do we counter this? How do we protect ourselves from radiating bellicosity rather than good example? I remember a friend I was encouraging to consider the TLM once telling me that if tradition is all that we say it is, we should see it in the joy of the people who are drawn to it.

Anger has its place, but demonstrating that the anger is righteous has always been hard to do. It often enough seems to require sounding like a conspiracy theorist. The minute you start talking about Bugnini’s questionable allegiance, the Protestant interlocutors at Vatican II, the comments made about Paul VI’s attempts to make the Mass more Calvinist, the plot to forge Cardinal Ottaviani’s signature on a retraction of the Intervention, and so on, it’s hard not to sound like a loon. Sometimes, truth is stranger than fiction.

Rather than debate Mark Shea directly on this, which clearly isn’t likely to be a fruitful endeavor, I’d prefer to write a substantive piece from our perspective on anger, or lack thereof, in the traditional Catholic “movement”.  I’ve pitched the idea to the Inside Catholic editors, and they’re interested. We deserve a fair shake, and I’d like your input on this topic. Feel free to email me if you don’t want to leave a comment in the box. My address is skojec at gmail dot com.

UPDATE: I realize I’m being really general here, but I want to leave the door wide-open for your thoughts. If you’re looking for more specific questions, here are several:

1.) Are you an angry trad? Why?

2.) Where do you draw the line between justifiable anger and the sinful sort?

3.) Do you believe that expressing anger over the abuses that have become commonplace in the liturgy enhances or detracts from the arguments made for the superiority of traditional forms of liturgy and sacraments?

4.) Do you believe that one rite is superior to the other? If so, what is the best way to make that case?

5.) Is the young generation of traditional Catholics different in any substantial way from those who had the Mass taken from them?

6.) Do you see a change in attitude among trads following the implementation of Summorum Pontificum?

Just to get you started.

Filed under: Catholicism, Tradition | 51 Comments »

It’s no secret to those in traditional circles that Mark Shea has spent more than his fair share of words on blasting traditionalists for their conduct. Practically trademarking the term “rad-trad-malcontent”, he is known for his ready use of hyperbole and generalization in dealing with his opponents.

Most people who care to have reasonable discourse on the topics they disagree with him on have either resigned themselves to repetitive cranial interaction with the proverbial brick wall or have given up entirely. Some try to get themselves banned from his comment boxes, as a combination of these two strategies.

What is a shame in all of this is that Mark is sometimes a great guy to have on your side. We’ve had perfectly reasonable exchanges and he’s been helpful to me personally when I needed prayers and he was willing to ask his readers for them. I usually keep my distance from him, only sparring when I feel he’s said something particularly obnoxious.

Today is one of those days.

If you feel like it, drop a comment in the box on his article at Inside Catholic. It was a pretty shoddy piece, and I continue to be unable to grasp why he just won’t bother himself with liturgical debate, when he’s so ready to criticize those who care about this pivotal part of Catholic life.

Filed under: Uncategorized | 22 Comments »

So, I decided to give the ol’ PC one last look before heading off to bed. I had noticed earlier that the screen seemed to have a faint glow, so with all of the lights out, I watched it intently, saying the obligatory 3 Hail Marys to St. Jude that I say whenever my computers have oddly and seemingly irrevocably broken.

The screen did, in fact, glow. I hit “Enter” and it went black. Then it glowed agin - but ever so faintly. I hit “Enter” again. Black.

Then, suddenly, I heard the Windows sound. Not having heard this the last few times I had tried booting up, I was encouraged. I peered at the screen in the darkness, and lo! I saw the ever-so-faint outline of the password box.

I suddenly began laughing. I clicked the wheel on my monitor and found the contrast control. I began to spin it. The screen faded into view. I laughed harder, still spinning the wheel. In seconds, the screen, which had had the contrast turned all the way down (by Ivan, no doubt, who loves to play on the computer - pushing buttons and spinning knobs - so long as no one is watching him) had faded back to its normal luster.

Nothing was broken at all. The symptoms, such as they were, made sense. No doubt as several of us tried today with no avail to boot the computer, we all shut it down without running the shutdown command. This meant that in addition to my boot selection screen (I have a dual OS boot selector for Vista and XP) which pauses 30 seconds unless you select an OS by hitting - you guessed it - “Enter”, there was probably a warning screen saying that the computer hadn’t shut down correctly, with another timer. Not wanting to damage the computer if there was something wrong, I hadn’t left it powered up long enough to get through both screens and hear the bootup sounds, leading me to believe something was fried.

Apparently, my deductive capabilities were the only thing fried, which is why I am going to go to bed right now. It’s been a very long week already, and it’s starting to show.

St. Jude - Ora Pro Nobis! (And thanks!)

Filed under: Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

OK. So I came home tonight and it appears my computer is fried. I am greatly vexed. It’s a custom build that I put together at Christmas. From memory, here’s a rundown:

• EVGA 608i Motherboard
• Intel Core 2 Duo E6550
• XFX GeForce 8800GT (Alpha Dog Edition - it came overclocked but due to instability i’ve been running it slightly below clock speeds)
• 2GB Corsair RAM
• 2 HDs - A 320GB Seagate Barracuda SATA drive (primary) and a 300GB Western Digital EIDE for storage.
• Linksys Wi-Fi PCI adapter

Here are the symptoms:

I boot it, everything spins up, lights come on, monitor even has signal. (No blinking light indicating nothing is coming in from the card.) The screen is black, however, and no sound comes out of the speakers indicating Windows has loaded. I get no BIOS screen, nothing.

I checked inside, and the fans are all spinning - MB, CPU, Video Card, etc. (BTW, I have an Antec Sonata II with the built-in Antec 500W PSU, so power draw should be fine here.) I plugged my iPod in when I got home, not realizing that the thing was dead, and it has gotten nearly a full charge, so there’s power making it from the PSU through the board to the connection on the front panel.

My guess is CPU or MB failure. I tried taking out RAM, unplugging the older HD, swapping the monitor to the other output port on the GPU. Nothing.

I suppose, with all the instabilities I’ve had with the GeForce card (lots of lockups and artifacts when running it at factory overclocked speeds) that maybe the GPU finally died. If it’s anything, I hope it’s that, but it’s a PCI-E card and I don’t have any spares to swap with it (all my old cards are AGP and the MB doesn’t have an AGP port.)

I’m kind of at a loss here. I don’t want to start buying stuff to try to fix it, especially because I don’t have the budget for it. But just about everything I do is on that PC, and I don’t want to be down for the count for the next however many months until I can scrape up the cash. I’m using my wife’s laptop for the moment, but that’s a short-term fix at best. All of MY stuff is on the PC, and this thing isn’t nearly as functional.

Any thoughts?

Filed under: Uncategorized | 2 Comments »

“So there’s Dick Cheney, comin’ down the stairs, and he misses a step. And he’s falling, see? It’s like this enormous, pinkish-white blur, just tumblin’ end over end. Y’all know that Dick’s a machine, but me, I’m thinkin’, ‘Hey, it’s a darn good thing he ain’t Nukeular.’ “

(image source)

Filed under: Funny | 7 Comments »

Invisibility Cloaks, here we come:

Researchers at the University of California in Berkeley have developed a material that can bend light around 3D objects making them “disappear”.

The materials do not occur naturally but have been created on a nano scale, measured in billionths of a metre.

The team says the principles could one day be scaled up to make invisibility cloaks large enough to hide people.

Stealth operations

The findings, by scientists led by Xiang Zhang, were published in the journals Nature and Science.

The light-bending effect relies on reversing refraction, the effect that makes a straw placed in water appear bent.

Previous efforts have shown this negative refraction effect using microwaves—a wavelength far longer than humans can see.

[snip]

Light is neither absorbed nor reflected by the objects, passing “like water flowing around a rock,” according to the researchers. As a result, only the light from behind the objects can be seen.

Filed under: Geek Stuff | 1 Comment »

Our parish dates back to the 1800s. As such, it’s beautiful, but a bit small. There are no cry rooms. The narthex is a narrow corridor in the back of the church with double-hinged doors (easy for little hands to push) large, hollow radiators (easy for little hands and feet to bang on) an old holy-water font (easy to splash in or bend the frame of) and miscellaneous other things to get into. It’s also got a understandably dirty tile floor from all the grit that Mass-goers track in from the DC streets, so when your kids like to do the commando crawl, they act like human dust-mops.

Sophia, as she nears the age of three, is beginning to behave in Church. Not wonderfully, mind you, but as long as she is with mom she rarely if ever has to be taken out to the back. Ivan, on the other hand, is a human dynamo, climbing and squirming and flipping and flopping. The boy never sits still, humming like a fusion reactor from the moment he awakens in the morning and his eyes snap open, filled with mayhem and mischief.

Because of this, I rarely get to keep him inside the church building for longer than it takes to get to the homily. From that point, we spend most of our Mass outside, with him roaming the grounds and expending his energy as he runs from the small Marian shrine to the kneeler in front of the crucifix to the park bench to the bars separating the grounds from the street and back again. On slower days, I can usually follow along in my missal or say my rosary as well as possible until I hear the bells for the Hanc Igitur or the Consecration or the Domine Non Sum Dignus (depending on how rowdy he’s being) and head back in, hoping that God will forgive me if I receive Him whilst less-than-adequately disposed. I figure I need the graces, so I usually opt to be a communicant rather than miss out.

This past Sunday, I brought my camera with me in hopes of getting some pictures of the Church and DC while we were down there. I accomplished neither, but what I did decide to do was document Ivan’s Sunday Mass gymnastics for future reference. I hope the boy becomes a priest. I will make sure he has a copy of every one of these, so he can share with other suffering parents his own youthful exuberance for anything but sitting still. (There are quite a few in this gallery. I had burst-mode turned on and haven’t culled them yet.)

You’ll notice, approximately half way through the photos, a picture I snapped of a sign outside the church that reads, “To The Calvary” with a finger pointing toward the Sanctuary. It’s old, and peeling, but its message rings true. I would much rather be able to subdue my rambunctious 20-month-old and join my wife in the pew so I can focus on the Sacrifice, but as Sophia has proven, this is a phase that will pass. For now, I simply have to endure it, on the Sundays Jamie and I can’t take turns at home with the toddlers, and remember that I’m following His will.

There is a kindly old black woman who works at the rectory and usually stands in the narthex with us (for as long as we can manage back there) monitoring everything that’s going on. I joked with her yesterday that “Someday, I’ll actually get to be INSIDE the church for Mass.”

“Well,” she laughed, and then gave me a more serious look, “The Man Upstairs knows what you’re doin’.”

Yes, I suppose he does.

Filed under: Catholicism, Family, Uncategorized | 4 Comments »

It seems to me that one of the easiest ways to plant the seeds of Catholic Culture is to follow Sunday traditions, or, if you haven’t established them yet, to find ways to do so.

So, I’m curious - how do you keep Sunday Holy? Going to Church is a given. The Family Rosary is another obvious choice. What else do you do? Does your family have regular traditions, read certain books, engage in particular activities, eat special meals?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Filed under: Catholicism | 3 Comments »

The one thing that bugs me about the Christian Bale/Christopher Nolan Batman movies is the stupid Batman growl. Bale, quite frankly, sounds like an idiot, and it’s the one thing that continuously shattered my suspension of disbelief. I kept thinking, “Nobody talks like that. A million Batman adaptations and he’s never before talked like he’s trying to sound like that weird sand/puma thing in Aladdin that guards the Cave of Wonders. What is up with this voice?”

Apparently, I’m not the only one it was a problem for:

(H/T to Dale)

Filed under: Funny | 2 Comments »

The sound came like thunder out of a clear blue sky.

She waited silently, sunlight streaming green-yellow through the foliage as the rumbling grew louder. Whatever it was, it was drawing nearer, and it didn’t sound good.

Still as a statue, and camoflauged to match the earthy hues of her surroundings, she searched for the one who was stalking her. She had caught a glimpse of the assassin, a powerful, dark creature that did not have the need for a coat of greens and browns to blend into its surroundings because it was somehow able to disappear into the ever-present shadows. It relied on stealth, raw speed, and brutality. She shivered as she thought of its poison-tipped implements stabbing past her armor, into her flesh, the weight of its heavy body bearing down on her as it wrapped her in its sinuous limbs. She was being hunted by a living nightmare, and she had to get away. She hoped that this new distraction might provide cover as she made her escape from the dense jungle.

The noise had grown deafening now, and with it came colors and smells with which she was unfamiliar. A shadow passed overhead as the machine - it was definitely some sort of machine - razed the canopy to the West of her hiding spot. The new clearing allowed more sunlight to pour in, and she felt exposed. She looked for the watchful, glossy black eyes of the thing that desired her, wished to consume her, but she saw nothing. Time was running out. If the machine made another pass, it could destroy her along with the surrounding vegetation. She crouched low, the muscles in her lithe, powerful legs tensing. She would only get once chance at this, and she needed to be ready to spring into action.

* * *

Something was wrong. The prey was close. So close. He could smell it. He could almost taste it, and he was hungry for it. There was murder in his mind. A lot of prey was running about on this fine day, but one in particular, this juicy female, would provide quite the feast. He had kept patiently after her, darting across sun-lit patches into the shade, creeping low along the ground. He could not see her from where he was, and now, with the vibration caused by this new thing, he could not detect her movements with his heightened senses. His many eyes gave him a preciseness of vision that was unparalleled, but he relied less on this when he was hunting than on being able to sense the slightest disturbance in his surroundings. Motion was what triggered his attack, and avoiding motion was what his prey was best at. Oh, she could sit remarkably still for one so capable of flight. She was fast, faster than him if he lost the element of surprise, and this roaring, rumbling thing that was so unceremoniously destroying the shadows of his domain was costing him the upper hand.

Suddenly it passed over head, and the noise was deafening. Dirt and grit and shredded plant life twirled tempestously around him, and he dug his claws into the earth to keep from being pulled into the vortex. The shadow of the thing passed, and he found himself exposed, bathed in hot, bright sunlight, beating down on him and giving away his position. It was not often that he felt fear, but the thing was leveling everything around him, reducing his hunting ground to dust. His own predators were few, but most of them came from the sky, and his ability to go unseen was all that protected him from their vicious attacks. He scrambled as fast as he could, making the most of his many legs, darting away from the noise and the sun and toward the edge of the forest that yet remained. The thing, the murderous, roaring engine of destruction had turned to follow him, and it was closing fast. He stopped for an instant, wondering if the terror had a visual acuity based on movement, but it kept on. It was almost on him now, and in a panic he burst forward at top speed, overcoming obstacles as if they weren’t there as he dove for cover.

He was not fast enough. The hot blades of the machine swept him up, and in, and pain and darkness overcame him simultaneously.

* * *

She saw the thing overtake him. She felt a mixture of relief and horror. Relief, because she had seen her hunter, stripped of the disguise of darkness, and it was a truly terrifying sight. The huge, hairy, dark body, the vicious fangs, the innumerable eyes, the eight limbs - two more than she herself had at her disposal. All of it was too much. It was a creature created for killing, and she knew she could not outrun him forever.

The horror she felt was a surprise to her. There was a certain sympathy she had not expected to feel as the thing thas stalked her was sucked into the wicked maw of the machine. It was a horrible death, and if the beast had deserved it, it was hard for her to see anything killed so terrifying a fashion. And now, it was headed for her. She still crouched, coiled to strike out, waiting for the opportune moment. The roaring was so loud now it consumed all other sounds, and she knew that before long the entire forest would fall to this new predator’s ravenous jaws. Finally, when it was almost on top of her, she leapt - leapt with all of her might. She cleared the top of the canopy in that one, fantastic jump. She was higher than the machine now, high enough to see the enormous creature that was driving it. At the apex of her jump, she spread her small wings and pumped them furiously. They were small - insufficient for anything like real flight - but they could extend her jump quite a distance, and she wanted to be as far away as she could be from things that hunted and chopped and killed. From her vantage point in the sky, she saw many others of her kind abandoning their homes among the broad, green leaves. They too were leaping, they too tried for distance with wings outstreched. None, she noted with a sense of satisfaction, soared nearly so high as she.

* * *

Steve released the grip on the lawnmower and let it sputter out. It was a nice day for August, with a cool breeze that came and went, but he was hot, and hungry.

He walked inside, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm. He clicked off the iPod in his pocket and removed the headphones from his ears. There was a plastic jug of water on the counter, and he took a long drink before setting it down. Just then, Jamie, his wife, came into the room.

“It’s like a game of cloak and dagger out there.” He said. “In the tall grass, there are hundreds of grasshoppers, crickets - you name it - and spiders too. There was a wolf spider out there almost as big as the one I saw on our front step a few weeks ago. He must have been this big.” Steve spread his thumb and forefinger nearly two inches apart, holding his arm out in front of him.

“Ooh. That one was in my garden the other day,” Jamie said.

“What do you mean, ‘that one’,” Steve asked with a laugh, “There’s lots of them out there. Whatever the case, this one in particular is gone. He must have been out hunting grasshoppers. He tried to make a break for it but I mowed over him.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, I hate those things. Hey, so what’s for lunch?”

* * *

It was dark. He was covered in something cold, wet, and heavy. He tried to move, and it sent pain searing through his body. Still, he couldn’t stay lying buried beneath whatever it was. It smelled like grass, mixed with an odd, chemical odor. The same odor that emanated from the machine that had nearly killed him. He gathered his strength, and pushed. It was grass, and with an effort, ignoring the pain, he tunneled out of it into the sun. He made a quick appraisal of himself, and saw that one of his legs was gone. He tried walking, but it was awkward, the perfect balance he was used to now lost. He was, he noticed, still quite hungry. There was nothing left of the forest of tall grass that had been his hunting ground for the last month, but no matter. It would grow back. A number of baby crickets and grasshoppers made their way among the green stubble along the hill, looking for a new place to hide. He would have to settle for these for the moment, until he had his strength back and could learn to cope with his missing appendage. The strong, statuesque female he had been salivating over was nowhere to be seen, and was no doubt more than a match for him in his current condition. He had been kicked by an adult grasshopper before, and it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat, even in top fighting shape, let alone maimed and hurting.

He saw a youngling bounce near him, blissfully unaware of the danger. He increased the flow of venom to his fangs, and waited. Closer. Closer.

In an instant, he struck. Struck like death from above.

Filed under: Story Time | 2 Comments »