Resurrection: A Poem by Jennifer

Our parish is blessed to have many people who want to deepen their lives of faith through the study of God’s Word revealed in Sacred Scripture. We now have over 130 parishioners participating in our parish’s Bible Study. To accommodate so many people we offer three weekly sessions. As the usual facilitator, I occasionally cannot attend a particular session and must call on one of our parishioners to fill in for me. Most often I turn to Jennifer Smart, who kindly and ably takes the reins and actually does a far better job than yours truly. A lifelong student of the Bible and ancient history, Jennifer has also spent a considerable amount of time in both Egypt and Israel and brings to our sessions valuable first-hand knowledge of the Middle East and its people.

Jennifer is also a poet who some years ago wrote the following poem, Resurrection, which she recently shared with our Bible Study participants. It seems fitting to include it here as we begin Holy Week. I trust you will enjoy reading and meditating on these verses:

_______________________________________

                    Resurrection 

 “He is not here, but know that He is risen,”

The gathered mourners heard the angel say;

We marvel how this deathless gift was given

To those who witnessed that first Easter Day.

The rock that sealed Christ’s chamber seemed a portal

To darkness shrouding hopelessness and strife;

Instead it was a door to God Immortal

And passageway to everlasting life.

We join in Easter fellowship with others

To share the angel’s words the world has known;

Whenever we reach out to one another,

We link our hands and roll away the stone. 

_____________________________________

Thank you, Jennifer; and a blessed and fruitful Holy Week to all.

Take Away Our Pride

I include here a poem, really a prayer and best known as a hymn. These are timeless and particularly appropriate lines by the great G. K. Chesterton. These words were written in 1906, but could have been penned yesterday.

O God of Earth and Altar

O God of earth and altar, 

Bow down and hear our cry, 

Our earthly rulers falter, 

Our people drift and die; 

The walls of gold entomb us, 

The swords of scorn divide, 

Take not thy thunder from us, 

But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,

From lies of tongue and pen,

From all the easy speeches

That comfort cruel men,

From sale and profanation

Of honour and the sword,

From sleep and from damnation,

Deliver us, good Lord.

Tie in a living tether

The prince and priest and thrall.

Bind all our lives together,

Smite us and save us all;

In ire and exultation

Aflame with faith and free,

Lift up a living nation,

A single sword to thee.

The word of the Mainstream Media

Mainstreamed word

Straightjacket bound, witless, enslaved,

Plugged, budded into a formless,

meaningless world, to offer all 

Its fanciful, unholy word,

As the truth strolls by unseen.

In measured tones, past perfect teeth,

From an alphabet of sexes,

A kaleidoscope of faces,

Prepackaged lies fed to hollow,

Unseeking minds and ill-formed hearts.

Finger clicks reveal the echoes 

Of a subtle and false command,

Consistently calling to spread

Division to those near and dear, 

So all will share their hellish fate.

Embrace our word. Reject traces

Of all the truth you’ve ever known.

The music plays, tuneless and coarse,

Inviting each: Step to the dance, 

Come, stagger together to death.

One for Diane

In my last post I touched on a few poems I’ve long enjoyed and added a few words about how poetry has influenced me. Although I appreciate good poetry I am by no means a poet. On occasion, though, I pen a few verses, usually for a friend or to mark some family occasion. Most are attempts at versified humor and, although they might generate a few laughs, they're really pretty pathetic,. But every so often the muse strikes and asks me to get slightly serious and address something more meaningful. The quality is no better but they come from the heart.

Abut 10 days ago, while Diane and I were preparing lunch together, she suddenly collapsed and fell to the hard ceramic tile floor in the kitchen. She was unconscious for several minutes and the fall cut the back of her pretty head badly, ultimately requiring seven staples. A quick 911 call and the EMTs were with us. They took Diane to a local hospital, where they treated her head wound and gave her a CAT Scan. Because of possible neurological concerns, she was quickly transferred to Shands Hospital at the University of Florida in Gainesville, certainly among the best hospitals in Florida. When they moved her to the ICU, I was more than a little concerned. 

 

Although together now for 52 years, it’s too easy to forget there are fewer years ahead of us and we should cherish every moment. Not happy to be separated from her — COVID protocols limited the time I could spend with her — I took just a few minutes to write these lines of verse for Dear Diane while I waited for the gatekeepers to let me into the ICU. As I’ve already said, it ain’t great, but it came from within.

     To Be With Thee

How bleak a day can be

When I am not with Thee.

Though I set aside my fears, 

The hours yet pass like years. 

We’ve been as one so long

To be apart seems wrong.

So many times before,

Through each I’ve loved you more. 

In whom can I confide?

For Thou hast been my guide.

I need Thee here with me 

So I complete can be. 

I know there’ll be a day

When God calls one away.

But love alone empowers

And binds two hearts like ours.

We shall forever be

In love, yes, Thee and me.

__________________

To Diane, November 6, 2020

Fortunately, after four days at Shands, and every test the neurosurgeons could think of, she was released, presumably in good health. She's doing wonderfully and looks forward to having the staples removed this afternoon. Thanks to all for your prayers. God is so very good! Everything is a gift.

Fr. Gerry, R.I.P.

On October 3rd we lost a wonderful priest, who returned to the Father he loved and served with all his being. He died just two days before his 90th birthday, so his life was long and filled with grace. I can honestly say that Fr. Gerry Shovelton was the holiest and happiest priest I have ever known. Not only was he an example to all who knew him, but he also quietly influenced the lives of so many, always for the good.  

Until Fr. Gerry arrived as pastor, Holy Trinity Parish, in West Harwich on Cape Cod, had been led by mission priests of the Sacred Hearts Congregation (SS.CC). As our first diocesan pastor, he was joined by Fr. Tom Frechette as Parochial Vicar, so we were blessed with "Tom and Gerry" for a number of years...and what a blessing this was!

I remember the day Fr. Gerry approached me and asked, "Have you ever thought about becoming a deacon?" I'll admit, the thought had crossed my mind several times, but I'd always dismissed it, thinking myself far too unworthy. After sharing these thoughts with Fr. Gerry, he laughed and said, "Dana, no one is worthy, absolutely no one, but God calls us anyway. Go home, and you and Diane pray about it, then let me know what God tells you."

Yes, it was the two of them -- Dear Diane and Fr. Gerry -- who encouraged me to pursue God's call to the diaconate. They also conspired to lead me to The Villages. I suppose, then, one could say that Fr. Gerry led me in both spiritual and worldly matters. Other than my father, few men have had more influence on me.

His funeral is today, at St Timothy's Church here in The Villages. It will be a sad occasion for those he leaves behind because he will be so greatly missed. But it is a glorious occasion for this man of God who rests now in the loving presence of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit he served so well. For those of you knew and loved Fr. Gerry, here’s a link to a video of his funeral Mass: 

Fr. Gerry’s Funeral Mass

Last night, before bed, I jotted a few inadequate lines of verse, just to remind myself and others how this humble and holy priest came into our lives and changed them.

 

                Father Gerry

You came into our lives

in unexpected humility,

pleading for a blessing

from those blessed by your presence.

You came into our lives,

Cape Cod sand-blasted wash-ashores,

young and old and in-betweens,

and let us love you as shepherd.

You came into our lives,

pointing always to the One,

calling us out of ordinary lives

to do the extraordinary for Him.

You left as quietly as you came,

but the scent of holiness lingers,

reminding, moving, changing us

one loved life at a time.

-- Deacon Dana McCarthy (12 October 2020)

—————-

Fr. Gerry Shovelton, pray for us.

AI: Clever Stuff, If a Bit Creepy

I've been aware of and followed the developments in artificial intelligence for decades. I'm by no means an expert, just an interested bystander who finds the field rather fascinating, if a little scary. I'm sure many of you share these same sentiments. It's convenient to allow technology to relieve us of many of the repetitive, mundane, and time-consuming tasks that fill our days, thus freeing us to focus on those things only humans can do. The trouble is, defining that strictly human work has become increasingly difficult as AI capabilities have expanded to include much more than simple tasks. 

For example, autonomous (self-driving) cars and trucks are already on our roads and will no doubt continue to improve. Ultimately, when autonomous vehicles actually prove to be safer than vehicles driven by human beings, we will have to answer the question: "Should humans still be permitted to drive cars?" I suspect at some point the answer wiill be, "No!"

I suppose my first involvement with AI dates to my years teaching computer science at the U.S Naval Academy during the years 1973 to 1976. Several of my faculty colleagues had managed to access an entry node into what was then called the ARPANET. I suppose, in a sense we hacked our way into the network. ARPANET (Advanced Research Projects Agency) was a Department of Defense effort aimed at creating a worldwide network accessible by government researchers, technology companies, and academic institutions through which they could access powerful computer systems from a distance. ARPANET was actually the predecessor to the Internet that we know and love today. 

I remember, during one of our ARPANET searches, coming across a program developed by someone at Stanford Research Institute. The program was called "Parry" because it simulated a person with paranoid tendencies. When you ran the program you could type in a question and it would offer seemingly paranoid responses. All very amusing 45 years ago. Not long ago I came across an interesting 1974 critique of Parry: Ten Criticisms of Parry.

Motivated by Parry, pretty much as a lark, I decided to write a poem-generating program -- cleverly called "Poem" -- which I occasionally enhanced during my three years teaching at the Academy. It was actually a good teaching tool. It held the students' iinterest and showed that programming wasn't restricted to mathematical, engineering, or scientific applications.

My first, rather simple version generated free verse in ten-syllable iambic pentameter. If I recall correctly (and it's been a while), my final version generated rhyming verses in a variety of meters, and even created some rather weird similes. The program was publicly available on the Academy's computer time-sharing network and was a big hit with midshipmen who sent this computer-aided doggerel to their girlfriends. I was hoping to code a sonnet-writing program, but never had the time before I was transferred back to sea duty and flyiing helicopters.

Today, thanks to Amazon and Apple, we have Alexa and Siri talking to us, recognizing our voices, answering our questions, running our homes, and listening in on our domestic lives. Very handy things, but, yes, more than a bit creepy.

For example, the other day I picked up my new iPhone and asked, "Hey Siri, what's the temperature?" She responded with, "It's about 81 degrees." Thinking the modifier "about" was somewhat odd when giving such an exact temperature, I turned to Alexa and asked, "Alexa, what's the temperature?" She said, "Dana [yes, Alexa recognizes my voice...], it's currently 81 degrees Fahrenheit in The Villages. Today's high will be 83 degrees, with a low of 67." Diane, having overheard these exchanges between me and the two disembodied female voices, said, "Alexa, you're a lot smarter than Siri." How did Alexa respond? In a way I never imagined: "We all have our gifts."

Yes, indeed, we've come a long way from paranoids and poems to personal partners who at some point will probably know more about you and me than we know about ourselves. I suppose the larger question is: what will be left for humans to do -- in the workplace, the home, the world? And what will happen when the tools become more intelligent than the toolmakers?

Thank God for Strife

Sometimes, inundated as we are by all the craziness and violence, all the strife of the world, we can be tempted to question whether God is paying attention to His creation. But such thinking is deeply heretical and simply echoes the beliefs of the deists that God is a kind of eternal, cosmic watchmaker who makes the watch, winds it up, and then just sits back and watches it run for good or ill. God, of course, is nothing like that. He is the God who creates out of love, the God who enters into His creation and into the lives of those He loves, and does so to the extreme. No divine "watchmaker," no indifferent God would send His Son into the world to be killed by those He created in a divine act of redemption. No, indeed, our loving God does the unthinkable.

Anyway, this all crossed my mind this morning after Mass as I stood at the copying machine in the parish office waiting for some of my course materials to be copied. (I do some of my more serious thinking while standing around waiting for things.) As I waited my cellphone buzzed, alerting me to a news flash. Apparently a shooting in nearby Orlando had resulted in several fatalities. I said a quiet prayer for those who had died and then oddly found myself offering a prayer of thanksgiving.

Kilmer in Uniform

I wasn't sure why I was thanking God for strife and mayhem, but then recalled a poem I had read a few weeks ago. It was written by Joyce Kilmer, an American poet killed by a sniper's bullet during the Battle of the Marne in World War One. The father of five, he was only 31 years old.

Most people remember Kilmer because of his most famous poem, "Trees," which you might have been forced to memorize in 8th grade as I was. (Thanks to the late, great Sister Francis Jane, O.P. for that.)

In my library I have a two-volume edition of Kilmer's Poems, Essays and Letters that I occasionally open. My liking for him probably relates to the fact that he lived for a time in my hometown of Larchmont, NY and attended the same church my family attended -- St. Augustine Parish. The poem in question is appropriately titled, "Thanksgiving":

Thanksgiving

By Joyce Kilmer

The roar of the world in my ears.

                Thank God for the roar of the world!

          Thank God for the mighty tide of fears

  Against me always hurled!

                     Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,

                    And the sting of His chastening rod!

                      Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,

        And Oh, thank God for God!

Yes, indeed, we, not God, are responsible for all the strife in the world, and it is only by His grace that we continue. And for this, and even for the "sting of His chastening rod," we can thank God.

The critics never cared much for Joyce Kilmer's work. Most considered his poetry too simple and far too religious. These, as you might imagine, are the very traits I find most enjoyable in his poems.

Apparently, however, the leadership at the New Jersey Turnpike Authority disagree with the critics and, like me, enjoy Kilmer's work. As you travel north on the turnpike, you will encounter the "Joyce Kilmer Service Area" where you can stop for high-priced gasoline and even higher-priced fast food. I consider it a mandatory stop, a waypoint on a minor pilgrimage of sorts, and buy milkshakes for Dear Diane and me.

One can only hope the poet would be amused, if not altogether pleased.

Mercy

Late Have I Served Thee

Three score and ten,

The days of our years

Approach speedily.

I number the hours

And press down, 

Shake it together, 

Run it over,

Hoping to do 

All the undone,

Trying to atone

For the wasting

Of a lifetime.

From the hungry,

From the stranger,

From the dying,

From the prisoner,

From Him

I hear the whispered,

Blessed word

Of forgiveness.

The Prayer Stone

I finally found it

in the back of a drawer

with paper clips and pencils, 

under a box of erasers

I'd bought long ago

but never used. 

 

Its polished surface

shone black against my palm.

My hand closed around it, 

felt it's cool smooth artificiality.

I wondered at the 

absurdity of it all.

 

No primitive sacred stone

was ever polished 

by a rockhound,

sealed in a mesh bag 

with fifty others, 

and sold to church ladies.

 

Yet it sits on the counter

where it reminds me 

to touch it

a hundred times a day 

and ask the impossible 

of my God, not a stone. 

 

Joyce Kilmer

Sergeant Joyce Kilmer in uniform (1918)

It's always nice to be pleasantly surprised by something you just stumble on.

Today, while glancing through a collection of religious poetry, I came across a poem penned by Joyce Kilmer. Kilmer, an American poet, literary critic and journalist, is best known for his poem "Trees" with which most high-schoolers of my generation are familiar. Kilmer joined the Army during World War One and was killed at the 2nd Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the age of 31. He is probably the best known American Catholic poet of his time.

Kilmer was a prolific poet but until today I had read few of his poems. But those that I had read I found especially appealing because of their simplicity and deep feeling. Interestingly, these are the same traits for which many modern critics disparage his poems. But then, who cares what modern critics think? After all, they write only to each other.

The poem I came across today is a brief hymn to the Blessed Virgin.

       The Singing Girl

There was a little maiden
   In blue and silver drest,
She sang to God in Heaven
   And God within her breast.

It flooded me with pleasure,
   It pierced me like a sword,
When this young maiden sang: "My soul
   Doth magnify the Lord."

The stars sing all together
   And hear the angels sing,
But they said they had never heard
   So beautiful a thing.

Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,
   And Saint Elizabeth,
Pray for us poets now
   And at the hour of death.

God's peace...

Wendell Berry

Recently I've been reading some of Wendell Berry's work, in particular his essays and poetry. I was first drawn to him because of his name. I have both an uncle and a cousin with a similar name -- Wendell Barry -- and Diane's mother had the maiden name of Berry...so I was curious about this American man of letters.

Perhaps I'll write more about him in a future post, but this morning I'd simply like to offer you a small sampling of his verse, a short poem I read a few moments ago as I waited for Diane to get ready for breakfast:

I know that I have life
only insofar as I have love.

I have no love
except it come from Thee.

Help me, please, to carry
this candle against the wind.

God's peace on this beautiful gift of a morning...

It didn’t seem important

It didn’t seem important –

not at the time.

Just another poor man

dressed like the bums

who came knocking at the back door

when I was a kid.

Remember?

You do if you’re old enough,

and didn’t live in a fancy house

with a fence and a gate

to keep the riff-raff out.

It didn’t seem important.

We gave him a meal,

a good hot meal,

with a nice dessert,

and seconds until we ran out.

That seemed like enough.

It really did.

I even brought him coffee –

cream, lots of sugar –

when he came in early,

as he always did.

It didn’t seem important – 

at least not to me.

Handing him the cup

I could smell the booze,

the old stale smell

of cheap booze.

He’d slur a “thankya,”

but missing all those teeth

he was hard to understand,

so I’d just nod and

hurry back to the kitchen.

It didn’t seem important –

until he died.

They found him lying there,

early on a cold morning,

curled up on the hard ground

behind the bushes,

right outside the door,

of the soup kitchen.

It just didn’t seem important

to talk with him

or pray with him

…and so I never did.