by Kim Fabricius
Most hilarious Christmas holiday moment: Vincent Nichols, the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, accoutred in camp Christmas vestments, declaiming with the authority of vast ecclesial experience that the Government’s plans for gay marriage are “undemocratic” and “Orwellian”.
Sure, prayer in schools would prevent gun crime. Look at the UK. Here a daily act of worship in schools is a legal requirement. And gun crime is rare. Admittedly, so too are guns. Oh, and belief in God. However, with the apocalyptic advent of gay marriage, the imminent collapse of the family, and the inevitable ensuing moral chaos, we will no doubt be renaming our local elementary educational establishment “OK Corral Primary School”.
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. However, if it also thinks like a duck, it’s probably Mike
Bread and circuses: twofers now available at Mars Hill Communion services.
Building barns of bad karma,
Will reap what he has sown –
With the drone.
They’re Muslim, foreign, far away; and, of course, they constitute collateral rather than targeted damage (thank God for the principle of double effect, right?). Perish the thought, then, that there might be a connection (not, to be sure, of lament) between the gunned-down children of Sandy Hook and the drone-dispatched children of Yemen, Pakistan, Afghanistan: that is, between our domestic and international culture of killing kids. Same principality/power: Arma.
A Shiite once started a war against Saddam Hussein. You could take out an i and the e.
Breaking news: Michael Bird reports on an “emerging consensus” that “women can share in the didactic ministry of the church” (January 22). I think he means may share. Still, there’s progress on Dr. Johnson’s mal mot that “a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”
I asked God, “What is the one thing needful?” She replied, “Multitasking.”
Suggested title for a short apologetic theology on the motherhood of God: Mère Christianity.
The greatest preacher and sermon I’ve ever heard? That’s easy: John Coltrane, A Love Supreme.
A lot of people, some big names included, are leaving Protestant churches and joining Rome. I understand the lure, I do. It’s like you’re on one of thousands of crappy little craft lost at sea when – “Ahoy!” – you spy this immense ship which promises stability, durability, and direction. Like an oil tanker.
How would I describe the way we, as a culture, treat people with dementia? Nazi-lite.
Someone says of someone with dementia, “If I get like that, shoot me.” And I think, “If I get like that, shoot me.”
I wish I could paint. I have two canvases in my mind’s eye. The first, The Crucified with Dementia at the moment of the “cry of non-recognition”. Then the prequel, set in Gethsemane at the moment of Mark 14:50: Christ with Dementia Forsaken by His Friends.
As Augustine (almost) said, love God and will what you do.
If the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom, the love of contingency comes a close second (cf. Father Zosima).
Some say Judas lost his soul when he betrayed Jesus, others when he took his own life. Actually, it was when he became Secretary of (US) to (UK) the Treasury of the Twelve.
Alas, I fear that even an anti-theodicist turns out to be a theodicist.
The distinction between natural evil (otherwise known as Shit Happens) and moral evil may (or may not) be moot when it comes to theodicies, but it is absolutely crucial when it comes to the despicable scapegoating of pundits of the religious right in the aftermath of disasters.
It’s not only that our God is far too small, it’s that our faith is much too big, fat.
One should regularly go on retreat. Think of it as “downsizing”.
When I’ve got to make a snap decision in a family crisis, I couldn’t care less about WWJD, but I pray for enlightenment about WWAD. (Angie is my wife.)
Remember, the journey of a thousand miles begins with an “Ah shit, I forgot my …”
Books, chapters, even paragraphs are beyond him. An aphorist is a person who spends a lifetime failing to write even one perfect sentence.