Envying Converts

George Watt's portrait of Cardinal Henry Manning

I'm a Roman Catholic.  There, the big secret is out.  I was baptized in the Catholic Cathedral of St. Andrews in Grand Rapids, Michigan.  However, I was not brought to the Church until I was four months old, causing Msgr. Poppell to scold my mother severely. He impatiently explained to her that, by waiting, she was risking my soul to baby limbo should I somehow succumb to death before receiving the saving waters of sacramental baptism.  On that fateful day, my godmother, whom I don't remember (rest her soul) was late in arriving because she was slightly (very) intoxicated.  Family members had to go find her at her home, dress her, pour coffee in her and get her to the church. There was some slight trepidation as she held me during the baptismal rite. Folks were concerned that she might drop the baby on her head, thereby sending me to that much feared baby limbo.  My parents chose my eldest brother Tom as my godfather; something I saw as even more unusual than asking an alcoholic to be my godmother.  I figure that, being the fifth child to come along, they more than likely ran out of willing participants.  I often remind my brother that, as my godfather, he is responsible for me and is obliged to take me in should I need assistance.  I think he is developing hearing difficulties, as he never seems to acknowledge that comment.

I like being Catholic.  However, it may seem strange that I often wish I had been a convert to the faith rather than being baptized into the Church as an infant.  Ever since attending Easter Vigils and witnessing the catechumens being baptized during the liturgy, I have greatly envied the converts and their spiritual odysseys.  

Back in the mid 90s, I lived in London and worked with an American Catholic University who sent undergraduates there to study abroad.  Just for fun, I audited a class with the students entitled Christianity in Britain.  The class was taught by the Director of the Program, who happened to be an Anglican cleric.  I often had to correct his rather skewed version of things Catholic but at least he was good natured about it. The students teased me, pointing out that if I was really serious about learning, I would agree to also complete the assignments; namely, two ten page essays.  I cut a deal with them, telling them that I would write only one paper, but promised to make it a very, very long one.  They seemed quite satisfied with this compromise.

I thought long and hard as to what I would write about.  There were so many great figures in English history that influenced the course of Christianity in that country.  I toyed with researching Thomas More, Becket, and the Tudors.  Finally, though, I settled on the celebrated figure of Cardinal John Henry Newman, one time Anglican churchman who eventually converted to Catholicism--causing great joy amongst English Catholics and, I suspect, great consternation amongst Anglicans.

In the course of my research, I began reading the book "The Convert Cardinals" by David Newsome, detailing the conversion story of two individuals:  John Henry Newman and Henry Edward Manning.  I confess to never having heard of Manning; something which would not be surprising to most Americans, but would shock many Brits.  In the process of reading this book though, I became far more immersed in and fascinated by the life of Henry Manning, and quickly abandoned any thoughts of writing on Newman.

Overnight, my passion became the life, actions and activities of Henry Manning, one time Evangelical, Oxford student, Anglican clergyman, Catholic convert and, eventually, second Cardinal Archbishop of the newly established diocese of Westminster. Manning became a powerhouse at the first Vatican Council and was the impetus behind Pope Leo XIII's momentous social encyclical Rerum Novarum.  To this day, fourteen years later, I still find myself enthusiastically reading everything I can find by and about Manning.  My "essay" ended up being much longer than agreed on, and although I handed it in (for an A grade I might add), I do not consider it finished.

Manning, an eminent and renowned Anglican, was ardently anti-Catholic and even more anti-papist.  This is what makes his road to Roman Catholicism so remarkable and inspirational.  According to many sources, Manning struggled for six long years with the Anglican faith in which he was raised and of which he was such a well known luminary and leader.  One cannot begin to envision the internal conflict, self-doubt and torment that must have preceded his eventual conversion and acceptance of the Catholic faith. His decision to enter the Church resulted in the estrangement of family and life long friends, including the Prime Minister of England.  This conversion must have been doubly difficult given that, during that period of the 19th century, English society was vigorously suspicious, and sometimes, downright hateful of all things Catholic  Conversion to Catholicism oft times meant isolation from the intellectual life of England.  During this process, Manning showed himself to be the most moral, honest and valiant of men.  His path to Rome and his life and actions afterwards, as Cardinal Archbishop are, in my opinion, nothing short of heroic.

As a cradle Catholic, I cannot really claim to have suffered a similar estrangement of family and friends because of my faith.  I have not had to deal with intense internal conflict, in the same sense that converts must experience such a tug of war inside their minds and souls.  I was raised in the faith and therefore it has always been a part of me.  For this reason, I think many cradle Catholics take their faith for granted.  I have not had to sacrifice in order to claim the faith.  I have never really suffered ridicule or been forced to be an apologist for my Catholicism.  Next to Manning, my faith journey seems somewhat tedious and dull.

When one reads the conversion stories of the likes of Manning, Newman, Brownson, Hopkins, Waugh, Benson, the Wilberforces and Chesterton, it is difficult to resist the temptation to covet their conversion experiences.  They sacrificed much on their road to Catholicism, and, in sacrificing, received a faith that was precious beyond words and of inestimable worth.  

It was so with Manning who, upon embracing the faith of the Catholic Church, did so wholeheartedly and, perhaps to the dismay of his Anglican peers, never looked back.   If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well, and Manning exhibited that maxim with every action and every word of his Catholic life.  Perhaps it is easy to romanticize the lives of these great Victorian figures who converted to Catholicism, but it is reasonable to find their stories inspiring and, in a way, to acknowledge that which we share in common. Even though I cannot ever claim to be a convert to the faith, I do think that there is a necessity to daily re-commit oneself to what one believes. In that way, cradle Catholics are like the esteemed English converts from the 19th and early 20th century.  Conversion does seem to take a lot of prayer and thought; however, once the leap is made, it's not necessarily a done deal. Doubt doesn't automatically disappear.  I don't think that converts are magically endowed with the ability to be great mystics, and they don't instantaneously become saints (although it appears Newman might be an exception here--at least he is being beatified).  I am certain that they need to re-commit themselves to their faith just as cradle Catholics are all called to do.  Fortunately, we are blessed to have their stories and their examples to inspire us on our way.

The Convert Cardinals: John Henry Newman and Henry Edward Manning

Vacation Week

I am taking a week vacation to get my apartment and, hopefully, my life in order.  So, instead of my usual loquacious blogs, I thought I would let the photos of God's creation and other things do the talking.  For those of you on the academic schedule, who are desperately and frantically grasping onto the waning days of summer, enjoy every last minute of it, before old man winter comes and wraps his icy tendrils around us and sinks us into the bleak and dark days of that long, frigid season.

Zip's Thoughts on Winter

Sun City, Arizona

Grand Coteau, Louisiana

Dubrovnik, Croatia

OK, a little out of place, but you gotta love it, from Bucktown in New Orleans

Holland, Michigan

Traverse City, Michigan

Lake Tahoe, California

Holland, Michigan

Holland, Michigan

South Bend, Indiana

St. Joe River, Indiana

Seriously!  Definitely God's creation! The Pearl in New Orleans

Straits of Mackinac, Michigan

Dog Days of Summer, Mackinac Island, Michigan

Mackinac Island, Michigan

Lily Lake, Nevada

Grand Haven, Michigan

Zip at Lake Michigan

Hagar Shores, Michigan

Henderson Swamp, Louisiana

Goldfinches at Tabor Hill, Michigan

Notre Dame

Lake Tahoe

Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe

Isle of Capri

Capri Gondola

Isle of Capri

Arch Rock at Mackinac Island

"Big Red" Holland, Michigan

"When summer gathers up her robes of glory,

And, like a dream, glides away."

-Sarah Helen Whitman

Aging Gracefully

Yesterday, my home phone rang.  Big deal, right?  OK, it was.  I rarely use it.  Everyone calls me on my mobile.  So, 90% of the time, it's a wrong number.  5% of the time, it's a doctor or dentist's office and the rest are people I'd just as soon not call me. 

The person on the other end said she was from Alick's Home Medical Care Service.  I was prepared to tell her she had the wrong number, until she said she was calling for (gulp), me.  Huh?!  Alick's is a place for old people!  I get depressed just watching their television commercials--the ones showing how they can install this automatic chair that slides up and down the stairs at about 1.6 miles per hour.  In the chair sits a woman with a smiling, but rather blank and vacant stare on her face.  I suppose they are trying to convince us she's enjoying the ride.  My thought is that I hope she isn't going up to get to the lavatory, because, at that speed, she's never going to make it in time. Their commercials are usually followed by TV ads for funeral homes. After all, it's the next logical step.  First, you make the visit to Alick's.  Before you know it, you're six feet under.

Anyways, the Alick's lady explained that my surgeon wanted me fitted for a thigh high compression stocking to wear after my upcoming hip surgery, in order to prevent blood clots.  This means that, now, I actually had to go to Alick's.  And, I am going to have to wear some groovy stocking that clearly won't be fashionable at all.  I had just come home from a very good trip to Louisiana, and now, I was instantly in a bad mood.

When I arrived at Alick's today, I had to wait for my appointment, and so I wandered around the "store."  Now, there are few people who enjoy shopping more than I, but this was not your typical mall type shop.  I was confronted with canes (and not the cool, classy kind, but rather, the ones with the four prongs), walkers with the little built in seats, oxygen equipment, those big chairs that raise you up to help you stand, hospital type beds, rows and rows of pill containers, surgical dressing, orthopedic shoes, and on and on and on.  I was depressed.  I didn't want to think about this stuff.

When I was younger, I used to tease older people about their age--a lot.  I don't think I ever let a year go by where I didn't send my parents and my brothers birthday cards that made fun of their age; because, of course, I am the youngest.  I don't want to generalize, but I think, as younger people, we see old age as something humorous.  That's ironic, since most of us will, one day, get there.  Well, I'm not so young anymore.  I like to think of myself as middle aged, but, in a recent conversation, the person I was talking to was urging me to consider that I am pushing past that point and that old age is, in reality, just around the corner.  Good grief.  Already?  I haven't even psychologically matured yet.  Is my body going to give up before I get a chance to grow up?

I have had gray hair since the age of 14, so I always looked old.  But looking old has had its advantages.  I was never carded when entering a bar (not that I would have tried to ever do so illegally).  I get the senior discount without being asked, even though I am not yet old enough to get it.  That's fine.  I'm not proud.  Looking old, and actually being old are two very different things. 

The truth is, I am beginning to fear old age.  It is no longer funny, and while I might occasionally tease my older friends or my brothers, I think the jibing has taken a much mellower and much more uncertain tone.  I do realize this new found fear isn't healthy or rational.  Frankly, dwelling on it is quite a waste of time, as I have absolutely no control over it whatsoever.

So here I sit, reflecting on why I have this fear of aging.  Many of my friends, and people I love and respect fall into the category of old.  As I wrote that just now, I almost didn't even want to use the word "old".  Calling someone old feels much like calling them a bad name, almost as if it's an insult.  But, in fact, that isn't the case. I don't mind them being old.  In fact, I appreciate the wisdom and grace that has come with their aging.  It's just that I don't want to get there myself.

I don't want to get there because of the unknown.  We don't really know how we're going to age. I recall a conversation I had, mostly jocular, with my nieces, and later my nephew.  My two nieces, after hearing me worry about being alone in my old age, said, "Don't worry Aunt Judy, we'll take care of you."  I asked them if they were going to change my diaper.  I was greeted with silence.  My nephew, on the other hand (and he does pretty well financially) said:  "I won't change your diaper, but I'll pay someone to do it." Great.  In all seriousness though, I worry that along with becoming wise and aging gracefully, there may also be a certain amount of pain and loneliness. Some people begin to lose their memory.  Others develop arthritis and are limited in the physical activities that they can do.  As it is, I'm having hip surgery.  Deteriorating joints go hand in hand with old age. Welcome to the club, Jude.  It's scary.

Ultimately though, fear of aging is linked with fear of death.  And, despite being a faithful Catholic, I must admit that I have those moments where the thought of dying and being no more is so frightening that I have to go and put in my DVD of Bridget Jones' Diary just to get the thoughts out of my head.  I'm almost ashamed to admit it.  As people of faith, we aren't supposed to fear death.  "Death, where is thy sting?" and all of that.  To admit to fearing death is to suggest that maybe I lack faith.

Well, I don't.  Not really.  But without doubt, there is no faith.  And I can't help that sometimes those doubts do creep into my head.  I only hope that, as I continue advancing into old age, they creep into my head less and less and that I change my perspective and am able to age gracefully as well, much like my senior friends.

Today I listened to a podcast by Fr. Jerry Fagin.  I ran into him in Louisiana this past week, and told him I had seen the podcast before and tried to play it, but couldn't get it to work.  After seeing him, I was reminded of it, and came back to listen to it today.  Interestingly, the talk is on the Spirituality of Aging. I looked at that title and thought to myself "oh my."  He is a brilliant and interesting professor, and I loved listening to him lecture, but I hesitated, reflecting on the coincidence that I had been musing, grumpily, about old age all day, and here I was preparing to listen to a talk for old people.

The talk, however, while geared towards those who are older, is really relevant for everyone, or at least it was relevant to me.  What I took from it was that, as we age, we change our perspective on how we see things, and how we practice our faith and spirituality.  I wouldn't presume to dissect it, and the best way to know what he says is to listen to it:
http://norprov.org/spirituality/spiritualityforlateryears.htm.  (It does get cut off at the end, sadly, right at the point where he says he is going to end on an "up" note!)  When folks age, they do change their perspective of life.  I have witnessed this myself, living, for ten years, in the retirement community of Sun City, AZ.  The churches, without exception, were packed every single Sunday, unlike those churches and parishes in most of our communities (except for the mega-churches...a subject for another blog).  Again, I used to smile at that fact, thinking that, well, the old codgers are getting close to death and it's time to get right with God.  In effect, that's really true, although I might say it much less crudely and a bit more compassionately now.

It would be good to change that perspective much earlier in life, before getting old.  To achieve a mature spirituality is certainly a goal towards which to strive.  However, life experiences contribute to the maturity of our spirituality, and many of those life experiences, of course, come with age.

After I finished listening to this talk, I was filled with a bit more hope.  I can't honestly say I'm happily anticipating old age and death.  Frankly, that would be sort of sick.  I think the only way to glide into old age gracefully is to to continue to nourish faith and focus on spirituality.  I do worry that the doubts I have are indicative of, perhaps, a deficient faith; however, something Fr. Jerry said in this podcast really struck me:  "In our later years I've come to that place where I have to say that I will not be saved by my fidelity.  I will be saved by God's fidelity.  It's the faithfulness of God that I have to embrace. The root of our fidelity is God's fidelity in God's never-ending willingness to begin again.  No matter how often we fail, no matter how often we compromise, God is persistent in reaching out."  I found that very hopeful, and an exceedingly wise insight.  I do hope that when God is reaching out to me in my old age, He is patient.  After all, I will be moving much slower.  Who knows, I may be stuck on that slow moving chair wending its way up my stairs...

Reflections on Grand Coteau

This week I made a silent retreat at the Jesuit Spirituality Center at St. Charles College, in Grand Coteau, Louisiana.  The inner working of my mind and spirit during those days is a subject reserved for me, my amazing director and God.  However, it is, for me, impossible to not write about the place.  I have visited before, on several occasions; once to make a longer retreat, and once to visit my friend and mentor Fr. Tom.  It is difficult to spend time on the grounds there and not be deeply affected in some almost indescribable way—so affected that I am moved to express it.

There is something quite evocative about the College setting and the small town.  It’s as if one is actually transported back in time 100 or 150 years.  The surrounding stillness and silence are pierced only occasionally by the deep lowing of a big black cow from the neighboring farm, or by the unified song of the multitudes of cicadas joining with the crickets in the evenings.  I smile, recalling the warnings of my northern friends that the sound of cicadas signals the arrival of the first frost in six weeks.  Sitting here in front of the college at the end of July, I somehow think not…at least not here.

As I wander around the property, I see old buildings with peeling paint and random farm equipment whose purpose escapes me.   The grounds are guarded by countless magnificent old giants:  enormous oak trees dripping with Spanish moss.  Who knows how many years they have stood as sentinels?  And, towards the back stand two gigantic oaks, keeping watch over the cemetery, where graves reach back to the early 19^th and possibly even 18^th century.  Strolling through, I note that some markers are so old as to be illegible; however, many are inscribed, in French, and carry old, noble names such as Boudreaux, Gautier and Broussard. 

The building of the college is a relic of time gone by, with a somewhat institutional feel; yet, absent the sterility, and, somehow, much more welcoming.  There is a certain, indefinable scent to the place—musty, but not in a bad way.  Passing through the building, I imagine I can sense the presence of non-threatening ghosts haunting the corridors.   One cannot help but think and reflect upon all of the people who walked these halls, in meditation and prayer and study.  My own cousin, a Jesuit priest, was most certainly here, and so I feel an even deeper connection to the place.

Out back, behind the college in the simple Jesuit cemetery with unadorned headstones, I discovered, sadly, the names of men I had known from my days at Loyola:  Fagot, Rivet, Clancy and Montecino.  After discovering the fourth name I recognized, I ceased looking.  They paved the way for a new, younger generation of novices who will pass through here, searching their hearts and souls in an attempt to determine if God is calling them to follow down this path, which goes through Grand Coteau.  I know such a young man, who will be entering in the fall.  May God bless him.

On my final evening here, I sit out on the front porch of the College in a rocking chair.  As my decaying hips throb in pain, I wonder to myself, somewhat jokingly, if this is what it’s like to be in an old folk’s home, rocking away, out in the quiet country, and wishing I had a younger body.   The humidity is unbelievably thick and heavy in the air, as is typical for a midsummer’s eve in Louisiana.  I never, ever minded Louisiana summers.   There is something wistful about the near oppressive heat and humidity and dampness of the place that causes one to be strangely content and at peace.  The climate is indelibly tied up with the slow and unique culture of the Deep South.  Great southern authors have been able to describe it in ways that allow the imagination to see and feel it.  I, however, cannot.  But the heat and dampness, and the faint scent of decay remind me of magical days gone by, spent with my family and friends long ago here in this state.

But, oh, the insects.  I had forgotten that they are as ubiquitous and omnipresent as the God that created them.  I am afraid I never quite learned to appreciate them and they are everywhere:  spiders falling in your hair (or out of your hair), and cockroaches the size of jumbo jets roaming the hallways and the sidewalks.  The other day, I was stung by a bee on my arm while swimming in the huge pool.  And, this evening, thoroughly doused in deet, I still feel the dastardly mosquito critters alighting on my arms, legs, ears, fingers and face—on any spot that I may have missed spraying.  Their bites leave large, itchy welts to remind me of my time here.   All part of God’s creation.  When Fr. Tom suggested I see God in nature, I wonder, was he talking about this?

As I leave, I will carry with me prayers:  prayers for those who will pass through on silent retreat in the Ignatian style, in search of a deeper understanding of the great Mystery of life.  I pray for the novices who begin their journey here as Jesuits.  I pray for those wonderful Jesuit priests and brothers who have gone on to a greater reward for service well done.  And, most of all, I carry prayers for the great and gentle priests who remain at St. Charles college, serving their God by serving us all.  Ad majorem dei gloriam.

Fr. Tom Madden, SJ

Recently, I have had several occasions to reflect back on my years in college and graduate school at Loyola University.  I was inspired to reminisce after a chance encounter with an old college friend a week or two ago.  And, even more recently, I travelled to Louisiana to undergo a directed retreat with my old Boss, mentor and friend from Loyola.   There is so much to think about from my college years-- and most of it good.  I studied in New Orleans, and so it goes without saying that it was non-stop fun.  By and large, I enjoyed my classes and my professors very much, except for the Statistics class and the creeper who taught it.  I could have lived my entire life without that particular experience and am relatively certain I wouldn’t be a lesser person today.  Nevertheless, in the end, I proudly took away two diplomas from Loyola.   But, more valuable than sheepskin by far was the opportunity to develop and sustain a relationship with the great man I have come to call my mentor in life:  Fr. Tom Madden.

A mentor is so much more than a teacher or a counselor.  Admittedly, I am not a fan of counselors, but that is based upon a somewhat negative personal experience.  I think it is a valid profession, and accept that counselors have assisted many people who find themselves in trouble; however, I really believe that in any successful mentoring relationship, several things have to be in place--things that may or may not necessarily be inherent in counseling relationships.  Most importantly, at least for me, the conversation has to be Christ-centered.  I think that there needs to be a level of complete trust, which is sometimes difficult to achieve when you’re paying someone to listen to you.  And finally, it helps tremendously if the one listening holds personal interest in and genuine affection for the person he or she is listening to. 

As for teachers, well, I have had plenty of great teachers at Loyola, and I think of them all fondly and with tremendous gratitude.  I was thrilled to see one of my favorites, Fr. Jerry Fagin, this morning at breakfast at the conclusion of my retreat.  He is a fantastic man, a great priest and incomparable in the classroom.  I still cringe about the day when we were acting up in class, forcing him to sternly tell us to quiet down—something that was NOT in his nature.  It was painful—obviously so, because I still feel badly about it and remember it all too clearly.  Something tells me that he isn’t hanging on to that particular memory though.  He seems to have gotten over it.  Back in December, wandering through the halls of Loyola University, I encountered my favorite teacher, with whom I had four classes in Philosophy.  Upon saying hello and re-introducing myself, he had the nerve to blurt out “I don’t remember you.”  I was shattered.  Fine.  See if I invite you to my next graduation party Dr. Herbert.   You spent the whole time ignoring me and talking to Fr. Rowntree anyways.  Dork.

My mentor never forgot me, and that’s because the relationship wasn’t one-sided.  I am in no way suggesting that I ever taught the Boss anything.  In fact, that’s laughable.  That’s VERY laughable.  (Wow, I’m still laughing.)  But for some reason that I was never able to fathom, I knew without question that Fr. Tom genuinely liked me, and, more importantly, genuinely cared about me.  Maybe he saw something redeemable in me, who knows?  I am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.   I never felt that the time he spent with me was obligatory on his part.  I knew, intuitively, that he was happy to talk to me about whatever seemingly great (and usually pathetically small) problem was troubling me.  And, unless he is just a really good actor, I am still certain of his friendship to this day, and am grateful beyond all proportion.  I do not question why I am fortunate to be a party in this relationship.  I take it as a sign that I must be somewhat special to have earned the affection of such a great man.  It is one of the best things in my life.

There are few people in my sphere that can get away with saying some of the things that Fr. Tom has said to me.  I will take it only from him because I know two things:  1) He always has my best interest at heart and 2) He’s almost always right.  Damn.  That can be rather annoying.  A word to my friends:  don’t try it.  Don’t ever try it.  You are NOT Fr. Madden.

The Boss is everything you would want in a mentor.  Sagacious, kind and gentle, but firm enough to be willing to give you a good kick in the seat of your pants when he sees that you need it.  But most of all, what draws me to him, and what drew all of my friends to him as well, is, quite simply, his goodness.  Fr. Madden was, for many of us, a compass of morality and the barometer of what was right, true and just.  I joked with him recently that the phrase “What would Fr. Madden say?” was uttered so often after our transgressions that it was a mantra.   More importantly, it preceded the “What Would Jesus Do” fad by years. We should have marketed it and made bracelets.   Disappointing the Boss was just about the worst thing anyone could envision doing.  My favorite such story, which illustrates this very point, occurred one evening in the French Quarter, when I was an undergraduate.  I was out with a group of friends, and, at about 2:00am, someone suggested the very un-Fr. Madden like idea of entering into one of those seedy, vile places that were quite prevalent in the Quarter.  I instantly balked at the suggestion, because it seemed to go against everything I had been taught about right and wrong.  My friends were very persistent, and one asked me if I wasn’t curious about going inside.  My response went something like this:  “Of course I’m curious, but what if Fr. Madden sees me coming out of here.”  And the reply from one of my brighter friends:  “What would Fr. Madden be doing in the French Quarter at 2 in the morning?”  I saw her point.  We went in, and I remember being somewhat repulsed by the experience and relieved when we exited.  God punished us because when we left to go find the car to return home, it had been stolen.  For the record, Fr. Madden wasn’t in the Quarter at 2:00am. 

It is difficult, or perhaps, impossible to envision how our lives would be different had we chosen other paths or never met certain people.  I cannot say for sure how my life would be altered had I not had the opportunity to know Fr. Madden.  When I think of what I have learned from him, and then I mentally remove those things from my psyche, I'm slightly frightened at the thought of what I would be lacking.

What I have learned from the Boss isn’t at all complicated.  It is, however, incredibly difficult to master.  And this is why I claim him as my mentor—because he has mastered it, and I want, more than anything, to be like him (sans the SJ after my name), and to maybe, once in my life, be able to impact the life of some young person as he has impacted mine.  And it basically boils down to this:  quietly and humbly live out what you believe without being overly demonstrative.  Speak the truth, especially when a person needs to hear it; and if it’s a very difficult thing to say, do so kindly and with love.  Treat everyone as Christ would.  Be kind, be gentle.  Be sincere and honest and wise.  Pray.  Pray a lot.  Make Christ the absolute center of your life.  Never utter a harsh word.  Strive to be saintly, not sanctimonious.  Never be embroiled in scandal.  Go where God leads you, even if, maybe, it’s not what you might want. Take time with the people who need you and teach them by word, or example, or both, what it is they need to know.  Be congenial, make jokes and laugh when something is funny.  Be compassionate.  Be mature.  ESPECIALLY be mature.  Defend what is good and what is right.  Always take responsibility for your actions.  Don't make excuses.  And, most importantly, when someone does something wrong, give them the “you just disappointed Fr. Madden” look, and then…nothing further need be done.  Point made.

I suspect, perhaps, that Fr. Tom might be a bit put out with me for writing something akin to a panegyric, because, in the end, he seems to exude humility.  But I am reminded of a conversation with a college friend of mine, Steven, years ago, when we were talking about something entirely different.  His words to me were something like "For crying out loud, what is this world coming to when you can't tell people how you feel about them?"  Nothing earth shattering or especially revelatory, but those words stuck with me.  At the end of the day, I think it's important, not only for the person expressing those sentiments to do so openly and honestly; but also for the recipients of those words, in order for them to be aware of how they have affected others in the most positive ways as they go about their lives and ministries.  There is, in this world, far too much negativity and it is way to easy to get caught up in an inimical vortex; and, sadly, we become all too used to speaking and thinking that way.  So, thanks for everything, Boss.  You’re a star.   Your life has clearly been lived AMDG and you will always hold a most special place in my heart.

A Tale of Two Cities, Part 3

In this lengthy travelogue, I had initially intended to discuss both my first trip to Egypt as well as my time in London; but I have yet to get through the Egypt portion.  I find that the mere act detailing parts of my trials and travails through Cairo cause in me a sort of mental exhaustion, and so I had to take a break between my last post and this one.  In regards to London, it probably doesn't matter anyways.  Most folks have been to London, and, quite frankly, I probably shouldn't be publicizing my antics while living there anyways.

I did have one very great day in Alexandria with two of our students who were studying at the American University in Cairo.  I cut a deal with them:  I pay for everything, but they plan every portion of the day.  The plan would not be a go unless one of them agreed to meet me at my hotel and escort me to the train station at the beginning of the day.  In the brief time I had been in Cairo, I discovered that, by far, the most difficult thing was getting around.  Walking was dangerous as it involved crossing the streets (see my previous blog post).  Taking taxis was the most expedient and least expensive way of going.  However, the day before our Alexandria trip, I had an experience that bears repeating.  I had walked out of my hotel and down the road a bit to hail a taxi.  When the gentlemen pulled over in what seemed to be perhaps a 1973 Fiat, I went to open the door and the door handle came off in my hand.  I stood on the street, looking at it wonderingly, and not sure what to do.  The taxi driver was getting frustrated with the time I was taking to enter the car, and he actually honked his horn at me, causing me to put the handle up to the window to show him.  Upon seeing the handle in my hand, he uttered something in Arabic, which, if you read my other blog posts, you know I did not understand, got out and grabbed it from me, and then guided me to the other side of the car.  During the rather harrowing ride, he politely made me an offer or two, which I refused and then, when we arrived to the site I had requested, he demanded that I pay him for the broken door handle as well as the fare.  I exited the taxi, handed him 10 Egyptian pounds, which was more than double of what the fare should have been,  (rolled up in a wad, as my students had instructed me) and started walking away rather briskly.  He yelled after me, but I kept going.  Seriously, was it MY fault his car broke?

Anyways, back to Alexandria.  One of my students, Scott, gallantly agreed to meet me and escort me to the Ramses train station, where he and Brendan between them obtained some first class tickets to Alexandria.  Travel is ridiculously inexpensive.  I would recommend a first class ticket.  There weren't any available for the return trip, and while it wasn't exceedingly uncomfortable, the door between the cars would not stay shut, and banged throughout the entire journey, causing every single one of us in the car to, at one point, get up and try to repair it (unsuccessfully).  It drove us all nuts.

Nevertheless, we arrived in Alexandria, after what I remember to be about a two hour train ride.  A word to the women--do NOT use the bathroom at the station.  I was scarred for life. I have to say, the guys weren't too thrilled with whatever they witnessed on their side either.

Scott had planned out an excellent day for us and I was impressed at the research he did.  First we went to have a look at some impressive Roman ruins at the Roman Theatre.  It's a very well preserved amphitheater with a lot of really beautiful mosaic work. Alexandria passed from Greek to Roman rule about 80 BC, and, as you can see, the Romans knew how to build stuff to last.

Also on slate for the day was a trip to Pompey's Pillar, but first, LUNCH.  I had a blast eating in Alexandria, because, frankly, it's cheap and you get a ton of food.  Anyone who knows me knows I like a ton of food.  We went to some local place and I don't have a clue what we ordered, but there were dishes of hummus, tahini, olives, and other things I can't name.  I was a happy camper.  I love dipping pita bread in stuff.  I hope these guys don't mind me posting this photo.

Next, off to Pompey's Pillar.  Why would we go all the way to Alexandria to see a pillar?  Quite frankly because it's MASSIVE.  It's a 25 meter high red granite structure.  For those of us who have not mastered the metric system, 25m = 82 feet roughly.  Yes, it's big and the diameter isn't anything to scoff at either.  It's estimated to weight about 285 tons and is one of the largest monolithic columns ever constructed.  I will put pictorial proof below.  You can see the little teeny guys at the base.  Those are my students. The pillar, by the way, is the largest structure in Alexandria.  The column is actually a Corinthian column dating back to about 297 AD.  I'll save the history lesson for later.

Alexandria has a surprisingly great museum called the Alexandria National Museum.  I say that because of my experience in the Egyptian National Museum in Cairo.  In my other blog I noted that, while the contents of the latter museum are beyond belief, the building itself was getting pretty shabby; and it was way overcrowded with so many artifacts that many weren't labelled, but rather, shoved in a dusty corner.  The Alexandria National Museum is relatively new.  NOTE:  don't miss the mummies in the basement.  Remember my previous advice:  if you're not going to see mummies, don't go to Egypt, because how could you live with yourself when you have to admit to your friends that you went to Egypt and didn't see mummies!  The museum details the history of Alexandria from the Pharaonic, Greco-Roman, Coptic and Islam periods.  It has some really fabulous artifacts--the one below from the Roman era:

From there we went to see one of the coolest things ever:  The Catacombs of Kom El Shoqafa.  Sadly, they confiscated my camera, as they don't allow photos, and so I have no pictures.  Catacombs are always creepy and therefore you should not miss this opportunity.  It was used as a grave site from the 1st-4th century AD but wasn't discovered until 1900 or so when a donkey cart fell into it.  I bet the ass was pretty creeped out by falling in a necropolis!  Anyways, I had to steal this photo from the internet of the banquet hall in the catacombs.  Mourners actually went down there and sat around and feasted.  Hmmmm, not my thing really, as I can't imagine sustaining an appetite at a grave site, but here you go:

We then dashed off to the Citadel, but sadly did not get there in time to enter.  The Citadel, of course, guards Alexandria from sea attack and it's incredibly picturesque, and therefore, I took an incredible amount of pictures.  The Qaitbay Citadel is erected on the same site as the Lighthouse of Alexandria, which was, we all know, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.  The Lighthouse is no more, sadly.  The fort was build in the 15th century by Mameluke Sultan Qaitbay to defend against those crazy Turks.  Now, it's just a very cool tourist attraction.

And as the Citadel is on the shores, I couldn't resist some photos of the sea:

From there we went for one of the best seafood meals I ever had at a place called Samakmak.  It's owned by the premiere (retired) Egyptian belly dancer in town.  When you walk in, they want you to pick your sea bass off of the platter so they can prepare it.  I preferred to let them do it for me.  And then the food comes, and comes, and comes.  The best part, for me was the seafood tangen which was a stew loaded with crab, crawfish and all sorts of other shellfish.  It was amazing.  As for the sea bass, it might possibly be the best I ever had.  I would argue it certainly was the freshest.  And, in the end, it was by far the least expensive amazing seafood meal I ever ate.  I can't even remember all the food they brought us, but the tally for three of us was less than $35 total.  I have a hard time ordering sea bass and a drink anywhere here and getting out for less than that, just for myself.  This was for three of us, and I was full before the main meal came.  So, I'm high on Smakmak.  Everyone will tell you to eat at the Fish Market, which shows up in all the guide books.  We couldn't find it, but in the end, I was happy we didn't.

All in all, a big thumbs up for Alexandria.  It's a lot less overwhelming than Cairo, but still contains some amazing and interesting things to see.  The air is much cleaner (where ISN'T the air much cleaner?) and it has the advantage of a beautiful location on the Mediterranean.  I found that I wasn't harassed as much, and it was a much more relaxing place to be.