Stations of the Cross

 

This is very strange. It's Thursday evening here in Texas and there hasn't been a storm following Stations of the Cross. Who knows, perhaps someone craftily paid off an installment of the hated Weather Tax to appease our idolatrous carbon deity. 

Perhaps, but that didn't detract from the power of this evening's devotion in which we prayed and meditated on our Lord's Passion and Crucifixion, all to the end of finding greater union with his sacrificial action; the same union which is given to us in the Sacrament of Altar.

I find this powerful, by Austin Farrer:

What, then, was done to this body? It was stripped, scourged, and nailed to a cross: stripped of all dignity and all possession, scourged with the stroke of penal justice, and nailed up like a dead thing while it was still alive. The body you receive in this sacrament accomplished its purpose by nailing to a tree. You are to become this body, you are to be nailed: nailed to Christ's sacrificial will. The nails that hold you are God's commandments, your rules of life, prayers, confessions, communions regularly observed. Let us honour the nails for Christ's sake, and pray that by the virtue of his passion they may hold fast.

 

Yes indeed,

God bless,

LSP

Bomb Cyclone Winter Eschaton

 

Many of you will laugh and shake your heads in scorn, but it's cold in Texas. Like no kidding, there's ice and even some snow. "Look," I announced in awe to a young soldier, "Snow, see it?" It took a while but he did, "Oh yeah, literal snow, wow." A few wind-driven icy flakes of it anyway.

So layer up, pull on an Arcteryx fleece, dust off the Carhart and face the new Ice Age. Such, my friends, is global warming. You see, the hotter it gets, thanks to people not paying carbon taxes, the colder it becomes.

I was struck by this, driving into a golden sunset across Lake Whitney dam to say Mass as clouds of mist steamed up from the water. Climate change can be dramatic, no doubt about it. Let's zoom in:

The Sacrament confected and the Sacrifice offered, ite missa est, it was time to drive back to the Compound, wary of black ice and grateful for the privilege of being able to celebrate the Eucharist. Where angels fear to tread, eh?

Domine non sum dignus,

LSP

Low Sunday 2020

Our Orthodox friends are celebrating Easter but for us in the West it's Low Sunday, and it sure started off ominously with low, dark clouds, thunder and the threat of torrential rain. I liked that, it seemed apt, celebrate the Mass in a storm. But the rain held off and the Sacrifice was offered on the church steps of Mission #1 with the people pulling up to the curb for the service. 

Good result, and I'll wager the only "public worship" being offered in this small bucolic farming community on Sunday, or any other day. Of course in England and some US states it'd be banned because it's so very much more dangerous than going to Walmart. Well, that's risky at the best of times, to be fair.

Mission #2 was a bit more advanced, we worshiped God in the car park and everyone stood by their rigs with facemasks. But I'm not sure why they did. How would wearing a facemask, when you're a sturdy 10 feet away from anyone else, protect you from the Red Death? Far more likely to infect yourself with and from the wretched mask. 

Whatever, it was a blessed event and I bellowed out the Mass and a short homily on the reality of the resurrection. Christ's victory was real and it's real for us too because he lives in us and we in him. So be firm, unshakable, rejoice and have hope because in Christ death and the grave have no power over us. DFTR, when you think about it.

Homiletics aside, the sun came out for the Domine non sum dignus (Lord I am not worthy) as I turned and faced the car park massive with the Body of Christ. In that moment, heaven shone on silver and the veil between the worlds was slim.

God bless,

LSP