O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?

... we can give the supernatural world of evil too much power. I guess it's a case of either the devil isn't real or the devil is on every street corner hiding inside a pumpkin. Surely there is a middle ground where we acknowledge supernatural evil but we recognize its limited power in the face of the power of Christ.

Ironically I wonder if this might have been what some of the Christians were doing when they celebrated All Hallow's Eve and All Saints Day in the past. Those festivities were opportunities to laugh in the face of evil spirits, to dress up as them and sort of mock them, saying, "Hey check this out. These big, scary demons, they're just empty masks. When you compare them with the power of the risen Jesus Christ, they're not up to much."

I wonder if Halloween offers us a chance to affirm our eternal life while looking into the face of death which has actually lost its sting ... For Christians the scariness of death is not scary. Not really. Because we've got eternal life.

Peter Laws

St. James Church Cemetery

St. James Church Or Goose Creek Church And Cemetery, 1872 Engraving

Deliciously spooky!

Herbsttraum (Autumn)

 

Daniel Stark, Herbsttraum (Autumn), some rights reserved

Lovecraftian School Board Member Wants Madness Added To Curriculum

"Our schools are orderly, sanitary places where students dwell in blissful ignorance of the chaos that awaits," West said. "Should our facilities be repaired? No, they must be razed to the ground and rebuilt in the image of the Cyclopean dwellings of the Elder Gods, the very geometry of which will drive them to be possessed by visions of the realms beyond." ...

"Charles sure likes to bang on that madness drum," fellow school board member Danielle Kolker said. "I'm not totally sold on his plan to let gibbering, half-formed creatures dripping with ichor feed off the flesh and fear of our students. But he is always on time to help set up for our spaghetti suppers, and his bake sale goods are among the most popular."

"I must admit, he's very convincing," Kolker added.

This excerpt is from one of my favorite of The Onion's pieces. I enjoy rereading it every year. Do go read it all.

Inhuman, Gelatinous, and Disembodied

Shall I say that the voice was deep, hollow, gelatinous, remote, unearthly, inhuman, disembodied?

H.P. Lovecraft, the Statement of Randolph Carter

Wow. And somehow I feel I know just how it sounded.

Pirates

Illustration from page 141 of Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates

 Terrifying, am I right?

My Highway to Heaven by Blaise D'Souza

He was fifteen when he died. He had already catalogued the miracles of the world. Now a girl in Mumbai has three weeks to make them make sense.

Naomi Fernandes is sixteen, in Std. X, and not at all sure what she believes. So naturally, Sister Philomena picks her to run the parish's exhibition on St. Carlo forty panels on the Eucharistic miracles a teenage computer whiz from Milan catalogued before he died. Three weeks. One thousand rupees. A missing fortieth panel she has to find herself.

With her friends — Farhan, who is Muslim and can't stop joking; Kabir, who keeps saying he's fine; and Rajesh, a Hindu skeptic who fact-checks everything — Naomi starts reading. And the further she reads into a dead boy's list of impossible things, the closer it comes to her own family, her own friends, and a question she has never once let herself ask.

Moving between present-day Mumbai and Carlo's own short, joyful life, My Highway to Heaven is a warm, funny, moving novel about doubt and devotion, friendship and family — and about a God who goes looking for us long before we think to look for Him.

This teen novel swings between Naomi's journey and detailing various Eucharistic miracles described by Carlo Acutis. The miracle descriptions are brief but are just enough to pull the reader in. In fact, the entire book pulled me in. It is a book for teenagers but I was fully invested, unable to put it down at night, reading it in two days. I can highly recommend the book. It is indeed, as the blurb aptly describes, "a warm, funny, moving novel about doubt and devotion, friendship and family — and about a God who goes looking for us long before we think to look for Him."

Caveat
This book made me struggle — not with my faith, but with the idea of an AI written book. At the end, the author confesses that the book was written by AI. He did a lot of work, comparisons, and prompts to be sure it told the story the way he wanted. However, it was written by AI.

That was abhorrent to me. It destroyed my pleasure in the book. And yet the book didn't leave my mind or imagination. It kept coming back to me with moments I liked about the story and miracles. I found myself in a struggle as wrenching as Naomi's in the book. My questions to the author brought forth the comment that he himself struggles with expressing himself in writing, hence using this tool to write this story.

I discussed this with my family and select friends. Many had similar objections. A few, however, brought up both Alexandre Dumas's and James Michener's stable of researchers/writers. Another brought up painters from the 14th-17th centuries who relied heavily on stables of lesser-known painters who operated rather like an art factory. AI is not exactly the same thing but clearly this concept of group craftsmanship is a similar idea.

My Take

I still recommend the book. I really liked it and I think Blaise D'Souza's involvement makes it human enough. I'd have given it more stars except for the AI involvement.

I received this as a review copy and I think it is pretty clear that I didn't let that influence me.

Halloween Lagniappe: The Ghost House

This melancholy and evocative poem by Robert Frost is perfect for October.

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

Remembering John Paul II on his feast day

I wrote this when John Paul II was beatified. Rereading it, I was taken back to my feelings about this wonderful saint. I am truly privileged to have become Catholic during his pontificate. Not all the links work because it was so long ago, but I left them in so the sources are maintained.

----------------------

I really couldn't think of what to write for the occasion of seeing public acknowledgment of something I already know, that Pope John Paul II is a saint. Of course, I'm not the only one. Public acclamation of him as "the Great" began at his funeral. I was interested to read in one of Mike Aquilina's books recently that the people proclaim someone as "the Great." The Church later makes it official.

I couldn't think of anything better than this tribute which originated with my thoughts upon John Paul's death and which I have updated very slightly below. Nothing I can say can cover the scope of such a personality and many others in the news and online will doubtless do it better. But this is how I feel and that's often why you come by. So let's look back at the beloved Papa we all were so privileged to know.



At 9:37 p.m. on the evening of April 2, 2005, (a Saturday) Pope John Paul II died.

I will never forget it, not only because I loved him more than I realized until heard that news, but also for the company I was keeping at that moment. I was with fellow bloggers Mama T, Smock Mama and Steven Riddle in the Rockfish Grill dawdling over a long, enjoyable lunch. As I wrote the next day...

We were in a restaurant but it was as if we were in a soundproof bubble. Nothing else existed except the four of us and our shared, mingled sadness and joy. Tears flowed and we clasped hands and shared prayer together for our pope and our church. What an odd "coincidence" for us to be together to share that moment ... as if I believed in coincidence. In fact, my husband has said three times that he still can't believe how odd it was that I was with those St. Blog's parishioners at that time (and he doesn't repeat himself like that).

Today we are living in an age of instant communications. But do you realize what a unique form of communication prayer is? Prayer enables us to meet God at the most profound level of our being. It connects us directly to God, the living God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit, in a constant exchange of love.

Pope John Paul II
Celebration with Youth, St. Louis, 1999

The above photo and quote is one of a series that I did during those days of mourning afterward. I like looking through them. They remind me of what a treasure he was for the Church ... and for me.

• Until We Meet Again
• It Is Jesus That You Seek
• How Does the Pope Pray?
• The Heart of the Young
• What Made John Paul II So Real
• The Right to Life
• The Family
• Contemplating Christ With Mary

This was written much later but is my review of Peggy Noonan's book, John Paul the Great: Remembering a Spiritual Father. I highly recommend it and there are several good links in that review as well.

Fleeing Skeleton

Fleeing Skeleton by Władysław Podkowiński, 1892.

You could think of this as a bit of memento mori (an artistic or symbolic trope acting as a reminder of the inevitability of death)! Or just as a nice scary piece of art for October!

Notes on Mark: On the Mountaintop

The Franciscan Church of the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor

MARK 9:2-8

I am going to take several posts to quote William Barclay* on the transformation as I like how he explains both some of the details of this important event. Here we will look at when it happened and just which mountaintop they were on.

Mark says that this happened six days after the incidents near Caesarea Philippi. Luke says that it happened eight days afterwards. There is no discrepancy here. They both mean what we might express by saying, "About a week afterwards." Both the Eastern and Western Churches hold their remembrance of the transfiguration on 6th August...

Tradition says that the transfiguration took place on the top of Mount Tabor. The Eastern Church actually calls the Festival of the Transfiguration the Taborion. It may be that the choice is based on the mention of Mount Tabor in Psalm 89:12, but it is unfortunate. Tabor is in the south of Galilee and Caesarea Philippi is away to the north. Tabor is no more than 1,000 feet high, and, in the time of Jesus, there was a fortress on the top. It is much more likely that this event too place amidst the eternal snows of Mount Hermon which is 9,200 feet high and much nearer Caesarea Philippi and where the solitude would be much more complete.

The Gospel of Mark
(The Daily Bible Series, rev. ed.)

* (Do keep in mind that I like Barclay's insight into language and bygone customs, but his theology can be a bit wacky. That's not to say that I often don't find him inspiring. He can be. But just know that he should be read with caution.)

===== 

Sources and Notes Index   

El Gato Negro

Sometimes foreign movie posters capture the essence of the thing so much better than the American ones. That cat looks like a panther, ready to strike!

Kohada Koheiji

Kohada Koheiji, Hokusai
from the series Hyaku Monogatari [One Hundred Ghost Stories] (ca. 1830)
via J.R.'s Art Place

Based on a real event, the cuckold and murder victim Kohada Koheiji returns from the dead to torment his cheating wife and lover. Here he grins over the top of the mosquito netting that surrounds the bed of his killers.

See more at Public Domain Review.

Halloween Lagniappe: H.P. Lovecraft

Through all this horror my cat stalked unperturbed. Once I saw him monstrously perched atop a mountain of bones, and wondered at the secrets that might lie behind his yellow eyes.

H.P. Lovecraft, The Rats in the Walls

Another of my favorite horror authors chimes in for Halloween from one of my favorite of his stories. A lesser tale, but still a good 'un.