Good Friday #2

It's Good Friday so let's have some Donne:

Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:

Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.

There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.

Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
Who sees Gods face, that is selfe life, must dye;
What a death were it then to see God dye?

It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes?

Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?

If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,

O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.

Yes, they speld differentlie in those dayes,

LSP

Good Friday

 

The Altars are stripped, consumatum est, it is finished, and TS Eliot writes:

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

 

Yes, behold the wood of the Cross on which hung the savior of the world. And you might remember the Reproaches, suppressed by the wicked heretic Cranmer and the latter day Roman Church. Here they are:

Seriously, what kind of satanic evil would cancel such music? The same wickedness, perhaps, that smashed altars, windows, monasteries and shrines, that killed bishops, priests and religious in an unholy spasm of destructive hatred. The same evil crew which shouted out Crucify Him! for their own profit.

We saw it in 17th century England, again at the Bolshevik terror in 1917 and originally on Calvary itself. On the sixth hour of the sixth day the followers of the False Prophet Caiaphas stamped themselves with the mark of the Beast as they cried out "we have no king but Caesar."

We know how this mutiny ends. In the meanwhile, repent, like the Prodigal and the Thief, and be lifted up upon the Cross which is the gateway to life itself.

Vincit,

LSP

A Maundy Thursday Reflection

 

Here we are, it's Maundy Thursday and we're faced with two mandates, to "love one another as I have loved you," and "This is my body... this is my blood... do this..." With Christ washing his disciples' feet and then celebrating the first Mass on the night before he suffered.

The two might seem unrelated or even discordant, especially liturgically, but hold on, the one follows the other. Jesus washing his followers' feet is an act of humble love and where is this brought to a point, exemplified, played out to the full? 

On the Cross. "He humbled himself taking the form of a servant and became obedient, even unto death on a cross," and again, "Greater love hath no man but to lay his life down for his friends." The foot washing, then, serves as a type or figure of the crucifixion.

And what is the Last Supper, the first Eucharist, but that same sacrifice made present for us under the forms of bread and wine? This is my body, this is my blood, given and shed for us upon the Cross to cleanse us from  sin. So we find ourselves back at Jesus washing his disciples' feet.

In the face of such a gift, of God's unfathomable love for us given in sacrifice on Calvary, what can we do but love him back and in doing so keep his commandment to love one another as he loved us.

Watch and Pray,

LSP

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

ESCHATON

 

It started off gently, with a soothing murmur of thunder and unassuming flashes of lightning. Yes, our Old Enemy the Weather was up to zhir old tricks again, pretending to be some kind of first year curate fresh out of Duke or some other lesser satan like Sewannee.

Then boom, the sky turned green, wind blasted out of the north driving sheets of rain before its onslaught as thunder crashed from heaven with all the elemental ferocity of MLRS on the Kharkov front. (What? Ed.)

In related news, 1000 marines wisely surrendered in a Ukrainian port, a French reporter claims the US is running the Ukrainian Foreign Legion, huh, and a church in Chicago is urging its congregation to "fast from whiteness" during Lent. What does that look like, Talcum X or Rachel Dolezal? Your call.

More seriously, please say a prayer for my rodeo friend who died on Saturday, he was a good man. His requiem's tomorrow, may he rest in peace and rise in glory.

Dies Irae,

LSP

A Bit Of This A Bit Of That

"So how's the Army treating you today, son?" I asked insouciantly, "It's been a good day dad, an easy day, except for the 5 mile run." I thought about that, "Whaddya mean, that's not too far." Ahem, let's see you do it, so-called LSP. Well, that was back in the day, so. "Right, not that far but half the platoon dropped out. I didn't."

I thought about it for an instant, "They're all getting back from leave, right?" and got a warning answer in the affirmative, "I know, we're Signals but still, if it ever gets real there'll be a great culling." A great culling. Let's pray that doesn't happen, and I mean it. Speaking of which, perhaps you remember our latest recruitment drive. Here's a snapshot:

In other news, our troops don't have to wear kabuki theater masks anymore and rejoice in their newfound freedom, or so I'm told. Perhaps war in Europe is focusing the minds of our rainbow elite General Staff.  

You can imagine. A Russian battle group, full of lessons from Ukraine, rolls over the rainbow border into Poland. Who will stop them? The Poles? Maybe, for a little while. The Germans? Hahahahahaha. The Dutch and the French? Snerk. No. What about England? Good call, but the Sceptered Isle doesn't even have an army, much less a navy. And on.

I say again, our elite rainbow oligarchy have been gambling on never, ever, having to fight a war again. Look how that's coming home to roost. Better cut your carbon footprint to net zero and open a trans bathroom. Pathetic.

Typical Chechens

Your Pal,

LSP

Warning Graphic

 

is this ISIS aesthetic stuff genuine ukrainian propaganda or is it russian propaganda to make ukrainians look bad? i genuinely cannot tell, does anyone know the source pic.twitter.com/QlsXh1Bzjg

— Russians With Attitude (@RWApodcast) April 10, 2022

Good question, RWA. In the meanwhile, this thing slugs itself out with ferocious intensity and Europe would like to fuel the fight in terms of arming the Ukraine. But here's the thing, Europe doesn't have any more guns to give. They have barely enough ammo to supply their own armies as it is, much less the degenerate Zelensky proxy.

So how will it all pan out? Who knows, but I'll go out on a limb and call maybe you shouldn't have gambled on never ever having to fight a war again. Yes, UK, I'm looking at you and while we're at it, maybe it's a good idea for an island to actually have a navy. Just a thought.

Kursk,

LSP

Nice Ride

 

That in mind:

"..." pic.twitter.com/15pIe9HyzY

— Russians With Attitude (@RWApodcast) April 9, 2022

 

Don't say gold backed Ruble.

Your Old Pal,

LSP 

Pray Hard Please

 

The text came in early this morning, "They think he's developed pneumonia. White blood cell counts are up and organs don't look good. We could lose him today." 

This was my friend and MC at one of the missions, a man I'd worshiped with at the Altar, Sunday by Sunday, for the past thirteen years. An outstanding athlete in his day, he's now on a ventilator. 

So I dropped everything and drove to an ICU in Waco to administer the sacrament of Extreme Unction, and offer the prayers of the Church. “Go forth, Christian soul..." and if it's God's will, return to health. I'll be honest, everyone's praying for a miracle and I''m asking you to do so too.

He was and is a good man. Nothing remotely fake about him, he called his shots as he saw them and if he didn't suffer fools gladly was always good to me, sometimes in a tough way.

For example, a few years back I was laid up in bed with a broken hip, thanks to a mad Arab, and I called my friend on Saturday morning, "Hey, have you got a priest to cover the Mass tomorrow?" A short pause, "No, I haven't." I thought for a moment, mind like a steel trap, "Why not?" A shorter pause, "Because you're doing it."

Not wanting to seem like a pathetic soy of a wimp I rolled up to the Altar the next day on a walker and said Mass, MC at my side. One his daughters took a photo and produced a meme, when an old cowboy bullies his priest into saying Mass with a broken leg. Ha. But hey, he was right, got me moving.

I say again, please pray for a miracle and in the absence of a sign, for the angels to escort this good soul to paradise.

LSP

Sun Rising

 

The day dawned bright, the sun shone in a clear sky as birds sang, no chemtrails here, life is good. Then, after Morning Prayer and the obligatory stroll to the Pick 'n Steal, I drove to Cleburne, population 30,289, quite the metropolis.

I tell you, it always feels out of place and stranger in a strange land when I leave the protected zone of this bucolic if asset stripped rural haven and venture into the world. There it is, Walmarts with polished concrete floors, strip malls in abundance, CPAs, all this cacophony which has become the way we live now.

Note GOLD ceiling strips. Yes, real gold

Some, who live in real isolation, will feel this more keenly, and there it is. Business taken care of I climbed back in the aging rig and headed for home and Stations of the Cross. Must get an oil change on the old truck, write up a talk on the final two petitions of the Pater Noster, clean some guns and pick up the Specialist from the Metrosprawl airport tomorrow.

While we're at it, could someone, please, bring the Ukraine adventure to a conclusion? Thanks, readers, in advance. Oh, and let's see the rest of Hunter's laptop hit the news too, apparently gigabytes are being uploaded somewhere in Switzerland. Yes, please.

God bless you all,

LSP

Just Scanning The Horizon

 

So here we are, on a cheery Tuesday evening in CONUS or more precisely, North Central Texas (NCT). And what's going on? Vultures were gathering on lamp posts this morning as I patrolled to the Pick 'n Steal. Ominous, apocalyptic perhaps.

Were they a presage of things to come, the death of the PetroDollar in the face of a gold backed Ruble/Yuan? Maybe and let's face it, how can a currency which is an IOU at interest to a privately owned bank, the Fed, be worth anything other than debt? And we all know the problem with that, at some point someone wants to be paid back.

payback?

In other news, the Ukraine action is clearly a genocide, yes, of late Soviet era tech, and true to form our media and ruling elite are more or less baying for World War III. We have to mobilize for Ukraine if we don't want our democratic freedom to be destroyed by Russia, which has a GDP rather less than California.

Such an existential threat or would that be PR firm agitprop reinforced by every mainstream media outlet in the Western world. Remember Trump? Of course you do, what a miserable, traitorous Russian spy. As you savor his despotic, orange, NYC perfidy ask which country allows Christian prayer in state run schools. Which country isn't able to define the difference between men and women? Hint, not Chechenya.

But enough of that, we'll see how it all plays out. In the meanwhile, curry's on the go, vegetarian because Lent, and mango chutney. Here's the thing. A curry without mango chutney is a poor beast, but who wants to drive all the way to Waco to get it? No one. Solution? Make it yourself.

Stay tuned for another episode of Cooking With LSP.

Your Buddy,

LSP

Mother And Son

 

From the land of the Ice and Snow and pre-deployment exeat. Dog inna fight? I'll leave it there but feel free to comment on the iniquity of the MIC.

Your Old Friend,

LSP