Funeral

 

The funeral went well, with cowboys and cowgirls from all over the country descending on Waco to pay their respects. Quite a thing. I told them a short story in the homily, which went something like this.

Bud didn't suffer fools gladly though he was always good to me, and sometimes in a tough way. A few years ago I was laid up in bed with a broken femur, thanks to a mad Arab, and called Bud on Saturday to see if he'd lined up a priest to cover the Mass on Sunday.

"No," he replied. "Why not?" I asked, "Because you're going to do it." Not wanting to seem like a wimp I rolled up to church on a walker the next day and said the Mass. S took a photo and made a meme; there I was at the Altar on a walker with him alongside. And the legend? "When an old cowboy bullies the priest into saying Mass with a broken leg." We laughed but he was right, got me moving again.

 

And that was Bud. What a good man. We had a lot of fun over the years, mostly at church, where we'd go back and forth, "I'm going riding after Mass," I'd tell him, "Huh. Don't fall off." Well, you can't take that lying down, "Don't worry, if things get tippy there's always the pommel thing." A moment of silence, "We call it a saddle horn."

Again, "Why don't you genuflect anymore?" I'd ask. "Because I don't have any kneecaps," straighteye stare, "Maybe you're just a dangerous Protestant." He was, you understand, a faithful High Churchman and a catholic Christian. To say nothing of an outstanding athlete and really good man.

But I won't bang on. Rest in peace, my friend, and thank you all for your prayers.

God bless,

LSP

Texas Light

 

The famed City of Lights, aka Paris, France, is great but Texas has light too, from the heavens. That struck me as I drove out to take the Sacrament to a churchman who'd just got back from hospital after hip surgery. There it was, the sun breaking through the clouds like the presence of God blessing the land of the Lone Star State.

And there I was at the ranch, parking up by an old Chevy 2500 and looking over at round bales, a random dog house sitting on the side of a storm shelter, and a barn beyond. A lot of memories. Many, many hours dove hunting and walking the treelines, gun in hand, a few unsuccessful coyote calls under a bright moon, target shooting photos of Episcopal bishops with GH, rest in peace, and on. What good times.

A cacophony of tiny dogs greeted me at the door, "Come on in, Fr. LSP!" And I did, TR was recovering on a recliner and everyone was watching Yes Prime Minister, a favorite in this part of rural Texas, but that had to pause for the short service.

Think, God, in the Sacrament, visited that house and the people who received him were united to his victory on the Cross. The sun, if you like, broke through the clouds and the glory of God shone. What a wondrous miracle, and how dim our eyes are to see it, but I won't preach.

TR's a neat guy, he used to cowboy at the King Ranch and I asked him once what it was like, "I'll tell you Father, nineteenth century work for nineteenth century pay." In related news, he cooks what might be the best brisket I have ever tasted. Just outstanding, and that's no idle plaudit.

God bless you all and grant TR a full recovery.

Tantum Ergo,

LSP

Convention

You know the old saying, "Bishops should be locked up and put in a cage." So true, but there's an exception which proves the rule, Jack Iker, Bishop of Fort Worth. I tell you, I have not served under a better bishop. Professional, uncompromising in the Faith and remarkably pastoral.

That and far more in mind, it was moving to hear Bishop Jack give his last address to the Diocese before retirement at our Convention this weekend. Quite a thing. Regardless, I sat next to an interesting woman at the convention dinner who told me that when it came to religion "she'd seen and heard everything."

A Typical Owl Idol

I thought about this for less than a second and fired back, "You have? What about this. Our local Church of Christ's teaching its members that the Original Sin wasn't Adam and Eve, no, it was Adam and Lillith. You know, the demon. What about that?"

She was confused and wondered where this curious teaching came from. "Perhaps from the Kabbalah, a grimoire or even the OTO." Huh, "What's that?" Well, you get the drift and she glazed over as I explained the reinvention of occult ritual magic under the aegis of Aleister Crowley. Who can blame her?

MAGA 2020

The night finished at the hotel bar with assorted priests, bishops, and clergy, great fun, as was talking with a couple of cowboys. I figured they were with the rodeo but no, just riggers and we swapped tales of horses and broken bones. What a good crew.

Texas

Saturday saw the business of the Convention, which was mercifully brief, and I headed for home via the country route. It was alright.

Free Roger Stone

LSP

The Road To Emmaus

If you haven't been too busy reading the excellent Malochio of Bodie, you may have noticed that today's Gospel was the Road to Emmaus. Here we find the risen Christ progressively revealing Himself to Cleopas and his companion as they walk away from the heavenly city, Jerusalem. 

He does so through Word and Sacrament. But note this, the turning point in the Gospel and the disciples' journey of recognition occurs when they near their destination and constrain Jesus to stay with them and eat. Then, in the confection of the Eucharist, the scales fall from the the disciples' eyes and they see Christ for who He is; the Word who has expounded the word becomes Flesh.

So with us. If we're to recognize the risen Lord we have to open our hearts to Him in faith and then the guest becomes the host, serving us the word of of truth and salvation and the bread of everlasting life.

To be fair, I didn't do this remarkably powerful Gospel justice but the people seemed to like the message.

"Good sermon, padre," said one cowboy as we sat in his ranch office after Mass. "Thanks, chief, I appreciate it," I replied, looking at an old saddle that was stood up next to a holstered 30-30. "That's a relay saddle," explained my friend, whose father had ridden the rails from Montana to Texas in the '30s to cowboy. Then, as we left the HQ, he pointed out another saddle with hooded stirrups, or Tapederos. 

I picked up handful of scarred leather, "The guy I ride with out of Aquilla uses these."

"Makes sense when you're moving through mesquite and brush."

"Right, like chaps," I observed, thoughtfully, "Not to be confused with the kind of chaps you might find in, say, Oak Lawn, Dallas."

My colleague, who's forgotten more horsemanship than I'll ever know, snorted, "Ain't that the truth," and we climbed into the Gator and got back on the road.

I file this edifying tale under God, Guns, Church and Country Life in Texas. And you know what, there's nothing wrong with that, at all.

Ride on,

LSP