Ready for the Second Coming?

A commenter on a recent post declared that the Lord was "the biggest progressive/liberal in history," and asked, "Are you ready for the Second Coming?" This was essentially my reply: Jesus was a progressive, in that he challenged the Jews of his culture to see the Almighty in a new way, and to integrate the demands of Law with those of Love. He was not "progressive" in the contemporary sense of seeking greater and greater civil authority over people, He didn't say, "Sell all your neighbor has and give to the poor." He didn't advocate for immorality, corruption, or covetousness; he said, "Go and sin no more." The progressives of *his* day are more comparable to the money-changers he drove from the Temple. Yes, Jesus was a radical, in the original sense of the term (radix = root). He calls us to return to our true roots, union with and obedience to Almighty God. Politics have zero to do with it. He said to pay your taxes, obey secular laws unless sinful, and pray for civil rulers. A simple program for political life. In a democratic republic, we have the additional obligation to vote and to support just laws. But the earth is not our home; it's a bus station waiting room, complete with characters. Hell, yes, I am ready for the Parousia! I will turn 70 this month; not many do-overs left for me, so I commend myself to the mercy of God and pray for a holy death. The Lord will come, for me at least, relatively soon. Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus!

Monarchy or Republic?

There's no question that a democratic Republic can be tyrannical, corrupt, and ultimately self-destructive. It is subject to all the effects of original sin. However, in a republic there is always a remedy for abuse short of regicide. Yes, huge governments are unwieldy and inherently unjust. That's why I am passionate about states' rights an an agrarian culture. The fundamental unit of government is the county, and as far as possible things should be run from there, with recourse to state or federal governments only when a task is too great for the county. And that's precisely the system our Founders established. In much of America, that's still how it works. Most of the faults in our Republic stem from the usurpation of local powers solidified after the Civil War. Can there be injustice in a local government? Certainly. We're still dealing with fallen human nature. But it seems to me that governance, overall, is bound to be fairer if the governor has to face the governed daily, to sit by them in church or see them in Walmart. Some young idealists yearn for a return to monarchy. Taken as a whole, though, I believe the average citizen in a democratic republic is better served, freer, and more prosperous than in a monarchy. I think this has been true throughout history, with the possible exception of the monastic system in the Middle Ages. Then the abbots ruled large swaths of farmland, and the farmers who worked there were fairly, even kindly, treated and could avoid contact with the secular government for the most part. The worst injustice they faced was taxation by greedy monarchs to finance wars and lavish homes. Now, many feel that our democratic system isn't working any longer. Elections are riddled with fraud, candidates are limited by lack of money, and tyrannical political correctness, and the courts have arrogated rights never envisioned by the Founders. But at least we can *change* this system to reflect the common will. Through elections, Constitutional amendments, litigation, as well as simply speaking out, we *do* have the power to alter the polity.

When yarn says "I love you"

Afghans. We still have afghans crocheted by my grandmother, who lived to be 103. She continued crocheting long after she was unable to walk and her eyesight was failing. If someone would start her on a color, she could proceed by touch.

I've only made a few afghans in my life. Crafts R not us.  But each one I made was a special labor of love. When I was separated from my son for the first time, I did an oversized "Indian blanket" Afghan in brilliant hues, which I sent with the note: "A big, colorful afghan for my big, colorful kid." I think it made both of us happy.

Today, it needs a little repair--some loose ends--but it pleases me that, of all his possessions that have come and gone over the past 25 years, he still has this one.  ❤

Cor Sacratissima, miserere nobis!

Traditionally, the month of June is dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, that so human heart that loved, rejoiced, wept, and suffered as Christ lived His earthly life, and which finally was pierced by the soldier's spear as He died on the cross. Scripture tells us that water and blood poured forth from that wound, an image that has nourished countless Christian meditations through the centuries, and which reappears most recently in St. Faustina's representation of Divine Mercy. First popularized by Thirteenth-Century Benedictine Abbess St. Gertrude, the devotion was renewed in modern times the visions of St. Margaret Mary Alacoque, a French Visitandine nun, in the Seventeenth Century. It is perhaps not surprising that this focus on the Heart of Christ has been proclaimed primarily through women. Although it's certainly a facile generalization that men follow their heads, while women follow their hearts, it's true that the gift of empathy seems to be abundantly showered on women. They have been called "the heart of the home," and the glue that binds families--and hence society--together. In Isaiah 40:15-16, God tells us that He loves us with an intense maternal love: "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me." Reading this, any mother who has ever nursed a child knows exactly how strong is God's love for us. And although Jesus is God, He is also man, and He loves us, each of us, with the same fond, foolish love a mother feels for her baby. It is this deeply human love that devotion to the Sacred Heart represents. Such love is only one of the perfections of God. He is certainly not "God the Mother." The Sacred Heart shows one aspect of God's nature; He has an infinity of qualities, something not always grasped by non-Christians and some Protestant Christians. The Bible itself gives Him many names, however. When I was in graduate school in Nashville, the Protestant Vatican, I used to keep a holy card on my assigned library carrel of "Jesus Christ, Teacher." You've seen it: JesuIs holding a book open for us to read. One day when I went to the library I found that someone had scratched out "Teacher" and penciled in "Savior." How I wished I could tell that anonymous editor that, yes! He is our Savior. And our Teacher, and our King, and our Redeemer Who paid the price of our sins. So how does devotion to the Sacred Heart fit in today? Does anyone practice it as revealed to St. Margaret Mary? Among other things revealed to her were promises of incredible graces for those who promote this devotion, enthrone an image of the Sacred Heart in their homes, and assist at Mass on nine First Fridays to offer reparation for the insults given to the Lord by sin. Shortly after I became a Catholic in 1980, I did my best to carry out these requests. They didn't seem old-fashioned to me, but a means to express my love and gratitude for so great a Savior, and my sorrow at having ignored and offended Him for so many years. In the South, when something profoundly saddens someone, he says, "That just hurts my heart!" Maybe during this month of the Sacred Heart, we can reflect on what things are hurting the very human Heart of Jesus nowadays. Beheadings and rapes and destruction of churches? Lukewarm Catholics who flout His teachings? Wholesale mockery of Christians by the secular culture? The plight of refugees from wars and disasters? Probably. But what am I doing to sadden Him? I know I am doing something, because I am a sinner, and it is sin that grieves this Heart of perfect Love. For more than a century, Catholics have prayed the Litany of the Sacred Heart to console the Heart of Jesus and in.crease our love for Him. I propose it as a daily prayer during June. Cor sacratissima, miserere nobis! Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us.

So far, so good

Relaxing in a recliner in the infusion center receiving my second Benlysta treatment.  Is it my imagination, or do I already see some little improvement in my fatigue level? I still tire very easily, but I'm not spending ALL day semi-horizontal. This morning I awoke at a normal time, then folded laundry, changed the kitty litter, made a decent brekfast, dressed, applied makeup, and was ready when my ride came. Wonders.

The L Word

There's a new biologic specially developed to treat lupus, the first new treatment in fifty years, and I am awaiting lab results to see if I qualify. For about one third of patients, it gives dramatic improvement in the pain and fatigue characteristic of the disease. My reaction to the rheumatologist's suggestion that I try it has been strange. I feel devastated that she thinks my case is that serious. I am a champ at denial, and despite having been virtually bedridden at times, I have always thought of my lupus as relatively mild. But I have been abruptly snapped out of that denial. Reviewing my life, it's blindingly obvious that, since childhood, most of my chronic health problems have been caused by lupus. Even my Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune illness. But my doctors, too, seem to have been in a kind of denial. When I was in my twenties, my knees suddenly went south on me, joints red and swollen to the point that I was often on crutches. But when an intern suggested it might be lupus, my PCP pooh-poohed the idea. If only he had done an ANA test! Although not certainly diagnostic of lupus, the presence of anti-nuclear antibodies at least suggests the need for further observation. I might have been spared a couple of decades of "mystery ailments" and the endless eyerolls from skeptical physicians. Finally, in my early fifties, I was given the  diagnosis of MCTD, mixed connective tissue disease, with elements of several autoimmune illnesses. If anything, that diagnosis is more complicated than a straightforward diagnosis of any one autoimmune disease. But still I was stunned the first time my doctor used the L word. I don't know why that's more ominous; clinically, nothing has changed. For the last twenty years or more I have had debilitating fatigue most days and moderate pain 24/7. I have accepted it. It's almost become essential to who I am, since there was no real hope of relief. Even Fentanyl doesn't touch the pain. Now there is a small possibility that I could get better. I feel excited, a bit fearful, and very, very angry. As I review my life and all its suffering, failures, missed opportunities, and losses, I am furious to think what this disease has cost me. Behind that anger, I suspect there is also a deep abyss of sadness into which I really don't want to look. As in Nietzsche's famous conceit, however, I'm afraid that abyss might end by staring back at me. So instead I wait and entertain the astonishing possibility of getting better. It's only the dimmest gleam of hope, but after years with no light at all, it's enough to see the way ahead.

The Jewish Cardinal

Yesterday I watched *The Jewish Cardinal,* French with subtitles, a pretty good biopic about the life of His Eminence Jean-Marie Lustiger, the Jewish Holocaust survivor who became a Catholic and rose to the office of Cardinal Archbishop of Paris. I had always admired his courage, but knew few details of his life.In one powerful scene, he visits Auschwitz during the controversy of the Catholic nuns who had a convent on the grounds. As took in the terrible reality of the place, he fell to his knees, crying out over and over the plain facts of his mother's name, her murder there, and the date. His agony pierced my heart, and I began to cry. My granddaughter, Sophie, who was watching with me, asked what he was saying. I tried to explain, but I could hardly speak. "He's crying for his mother, who died there. During World War II, bad men killed many people . It's very sad." Then I lost control and had to wipe the tears away. Sophie hid her face behind a pillow. She'd never seen Grandma cry before. I almost never cry, in fact. Stoic, stiff upper lip, carrying on regardless, which makes me good in emergencies, but perhaps not so good at empathy. But this film grabbed me. Heartily recommended. On Netflix.