I have it on very good authority that the Christmas season—at least, liturgically—isn't over till tomorrow, the first Sunday after Epiphany, when the Church celebrates the Baptism of Jesus, but I am rushing the season by taking my Christmas tree down today. It is a dwarf spruce, and I am taking it to Rockaway, where kind neighbors have consented to adopt it.
Note how deftly the Church has finessed the Feast Formerly Known as the Circumcision. Yes, you thought alternate side was suspended on January 1st for New Year's Day, but traditionally the eighth day after Christmas was the day the infant Jesus was circumcised. Perhaps concerned about the Jewish origins of this feast (Christbris?), the Church has revised its calendar to make January 1st a Marian feast: the Motherhood of Mary, or some such. (I have a new Mary calendar I could consult, but I left it in the car.) And, of course, the Baptism of Jesus took place thirty years later. To celebrate Christ's dip in the River Jordan, here is a link to a great surfing story by Paul McHugh in today's Times.
Showing posts with label Mary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mary. Show all posts
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Hail Mary
December 8th was the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and I must prostrate myself before Our Blessed Mother and beg her forgiveness for my blasphemy the other week in asserting that her feast day would be useless to me because it fell on a Saturday. As it happened, I was cruising for a spot on Saturday at around eleven A.M., my brilliant decision to procrastinate having caught up with me on Friday morning and necessitated that I put the car in a lot ($15, river view). “Car Talk” was on the radio as I stole out of the lot, having overstayed my fifteen dollars’ worth. In my eternal optimism, I drove past the Best Possible Parking Block, where, lo and behold, there was a big fat parking spot.
I had all I could do not to compound my sins by turning left on red to get to that spot before anyone else, though there was no competition in sight. I haven’t scored on this block in months. What makes this spot so sweet is not just the hours (street-cleaning is scheduled for Monday and Thursday, 8:30-9, a very civilized time to be up and about), or even the view, or the proximity of the local swimming pool, but the fact that when the broom comes you don’t even have to move, because the block is so well groomed. That cleanliness was an especially refreshing touch on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which is not to be confused with the Annunciation or the Virgin Birth or the Assumption, though of course they all follow from this: that Our Lady, in order to be worthy of her role as Mother of God, must herself have been conceived without sin. Pope Pius IX laid this out for us in 1854.
Of course there will always be those who wonder, Why all this fuss about the Immaculate Conception when we could be celebrating Hanukkah? To which I say, Aw, come on. It is one of only two alternate-side-suspended days devoted to Mary, the other being the Assumption, August 15th, which is directly related to the Immaculate Conception in that, if Mary was born without spot of original sin, and the wages of sin is death, then she didn’t have to die. So she was “assumed” into Heaven. Though artists had been painting scenes of the Assumption for centuries, the Church chewed on it for a good long time. Pope Pius XII made it official only in 1950.
I also learned, when I accidentally watched the world news on BBCA on Saturday night, that 2008 will mark the 150th anniversary of Bernadette’s visions of Our Lady of Lourdes, which took place beginning in February 1858. The commemorative 150th anniversary year began, however, last Saturday, to coincide with the Immaculate Conception. And in Rome the Vatican announced that pilgrims to Lourdes during the 150th anniversary year will receive a plenary indulgence—that is, time off in Purgatory (for a limited time only).
Actually I should not make fun of indulgences, because, in a way, that is exactly what I receive from the city when alternate-side parking is suspended: time off in parking purgatory.
I went out for a walk on Sunday, still grateful for the spot granted unto me, and passed a theatrical prop store that had in the window a life-size statue of Mary in her Immaculate Conception outfit (white gown, blue veil, gold sandals with pink rosettes). Next to her was a white wire sculpture of a dog—perhaps a Pyrenean mountain dog—and I am sorry to say it, but the dog looked as if it were sniffing her butt. I intend to go back with my camera.
On Monday morning at eight-thirty, I arrived at my spot with offerings of takeout coffee and the Times. At the head of the line—only six cars fit on this exalted stretch of asphalt—was the red Honda, idling with its windshield wipers on, whose owner seems to have been granted a perpetual indulgence: she is always parked on this block. At 8:40 I watched in my rearview mirror as the broom swept up the avenue, its driver not even pausing to look down the street. He knew it was already immaculate.
I had all I could do not to compound my sins by turning left on red to get to that spot before anyone else, though there was no competition in sight. I haven’t scored on this block in months. What makes this spot so sweet is not just the hours (street-cleaning is scheduled for Monday and Thursday, 8:30-9, a very civilized time to be up and about), or even the view, or the proximity of the local swimming pool, but the fact that when the broom comes you don’t even have to move, because the block is so well groomed. That cleanliness was an especially refreshing touch on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which is not to be confused with the Annunciation or the Virgin Birth or the Assumption, though of course they all follow from this: that Our Lady, in order to be worthy of her role as Mother of God, must herself have been conceived without sin. Pope Pius IX laid this out for us in 1854.
Of course there will always be those who wonder, Why all this fuss about the Immaculate Conception when we could be celebrating Hanukkah? To which I say, Aw, come on. It is one of only two alternate-side-suspended days devoted to Mary, the other being the Assumption, August 15th, which is directly related to the Immaculate Conception in that, if Mary was born without spot of original sin, and the wages of sin is death, then she didn’t have to die. So she was “assumed” into Heaven. Though artists had been painting scenes of the Assumption for centuries, the Church chewed on it for a good long time. Pope Pius XII made it official only in 1950.
I also learned, when I accidentally watched the world news on BBCA on Saturday night, that 2008 will mark the 150th anniversary of Bernadette’s visions of Our Lady of Lourdes, which took place beginning in February 1858. The commemorative 150th anniversary year began, however, last Saturday, to coincide with the Immaculate Conception. And in Rome the Vatican announced that pilgrims to Lourdes during the 150th anniversary year will receive a plenary indulgence—that is, time off in Purgatory (for a limited time only).
Actually I should not make fun of indulgences, because, in a way, that is exactly what I receive from the city when alternate-side parking is suspended: time off in parking purgatory.
I went out for a walk on Sunday, still grateful for the spot granted unto me, and passed a theatrical prop store that had in the window a life-size statue of Mary in her Immaculate Conception outfit (white gown, blue veil, gold sandals with pink rosettes). Next to her was a white wire sculpture of a dog—perhaps a Pyrenean mountain dog—and I am sorry to say it, but the dog looked as if it were sniffing her butt. I intend to go back with my camera.
On Monday morning at eight-thirty, I arrived at my spot with offerings of takeout coffee and the Times. At the head of the line—only six cars fit on this exalted stretch of asphalt—was the red Honda, idling with its windshield wipers on, whose owner seems to have been granted a perpetual indulgence: she is always parked on this block. At 8:40 I watched in my rearview mirror as the broom swept up the avenue, its driver not even pausing to look down the street. He knew it was already immaculate.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The Cure
I was running late this morning, after a bad night—plague of planes from JFK, the roar of a neighbor’s ancient air-conditioner (on a cool night yet), and Norbert up to his old tricks, knocking the phone off the desk and overturning the kitchen garbage, looking for pepperoni—but still, there was no conflict about whether or not to go down to the beach for a swim before boarding the A train. Today is the Feast of the Assumption, or Ferragosto, the name day (in Europe) of all people named Mary, and the occasion of a pleasing superstition: if you go into the water today, you will have good health all year. Also, lest we forget, alternate-side parking is suspended on this day, commemorating the Assumption into Heaven of the Blessed Virgin Mary. In parking terms, the Assumption is really the only thing August has going for it, though, like Fourth of July, this year it falls on a Wednesday and doesn’t do anyone much good.
I had time for only a quick dip. There was a calm sea, a negligible amount of seaweed, clams at the high-tide line, and a few piping plovers ranging and cheeping on the beach. I caught a wave of just the right soft exuberance, towelled off, clapped my cap on my head, and was almost on the boardwalk before I realized that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and remembered that I’d stored them in said cap and had felt some obstacle while putting it on . . . I went back to look for them. They are very lightweight glasses, and I was afraid the breeze or a gull might have carried them away, but before I had time to panic I spotted them on the sand. At the deli, where I stopped for takeout coffee, the woman behind the counter said, “Have you been swimming already?” I told her about the traditional August 15th dip, and another customer said, “Oh yeah—the cure.” I felt like an evangelist.
I had to hustle to get the train, but my luck held. “You’ve got time,” said a man at the turnstile. I recognized him from the neighborhood: he has brown dreadlocks gathered into a thick tangled ponytail. “You’ve got two minutes. It comes in at 9:06, this train.” It was 9:04. The A train was late at Broad Channel, however. A storklike black woman did yoga on the platform, balancing on one leg. I finished my coffee and ate a banana.
I was in for a really rich meal on the train: I have reached those chapters in “Decline and Fall” where Gibbon treats the rise of Christianity. Some months ago, I was at the train station at Saxa Rubra, nine miles north of Rome, which, I wrote (rather glibly), was where Constantine defeated Diocletian. Well, it turns out that Diocletian was that rare emperor who abdicated before being murdered (he retired to Dalmatia to plant cabbages), and it was the army of Maxentius that Constantine defeated at Saxa Rubra. “The emperor himself attempted to escape back into the city over the Milvian bridge, [1] but the crowds which pressed together through that narrow passage forced him into the river, where he was immediately drowned by the weight of his armour. His body, which had sunk very deep into the mud, was found with some difficulty the next day. The sight of his head, when it was exposed to the eyes of the people, convinced them of their deliverance, and admonished them to receive with acclamations of loyalty and gratitude the fortunate Constantine, who thus achieved by his valour and ability the most splendid enterprise of his life.” [Footnote No. 1 (mine, not Gibbon’s or Oliphant Smeaton’s): This is that very same bridge, the Ponte Milvio, where lovers write their names on padlocks, attach them to posts on the bridge, and throw away the key; and where sellers of padlocks are doing a land-office business. There was an article in the Times about it.]
In the thrill of battle, Gibbon failed to mention Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, but that is no doubt because he wanted to give himself a running start. So far, I have read only the early parts about Jews, pagans, and early Christian proselytizers. This morning, I got to a section on the immortality of the soul, in which Gibbon backs up all the way to Moses. Smeaton, too, is pretty excited, and contributes a footnote that takes up an entire page.
While I have been reading these chapters, I have noticed around me on the train people who are reading Hebrew. Sometimes they move their lips while they read. Stealing a look at the pages open in front of them, I am dazzled by the typography and layout. I knew that Hebrew read from right to left and that the books opened from back to front, but I didn’t know that the text was laid out in dipperfuls of prose surrounded by text in columns of varying width, with sidebars and marginalia and footnotes. Gad!
Meanwhile, a woman next to me was carrying a small paperback called "The Art of Lying." She didn’t open it for the whole ride.
I had time for only a quick dip. There was a calm sea, a negligible amount of seaweed, clams at the high-tide line, and a few piping plovers ranging and cheeping on the beach. I caught a wave of just the right soft exuberance, towelled off, clapped my cap on my head, and was almost on the boardwalk before I realized that I wasn’t wearing my glasses and remembered that I’d stored them in said cap and had felt some obstacle while putting it on . . . I went back to look for them. They are very lightweight glasses, and I was afraid the breeze or a gull might have carried them away, but before I had time to panic I spotted them on the sand. At the deli, where I stopped for takeout coffee, the woman behind the counter said, “Have you been swimming already?” I told her about the traditional August 15th dip, and another customer said, “Oh yeah—the cure.” I felt like an evangelist.
I had to hustle to get the train, but my luck held. “You’ve got time,” said a man at the turnstile. I recognized him from the neighborhood: he has brown dreadlocks gathered into a thick tangled ponytail. “You’ve got two minutes. It comes in at 9:06, this train.” It was 9:04. The A train was late at Broad Channel, however. A storklike black woman did yoga on the platform, balancing on one leg. I finished my coffee and ate a banana.
I was in for a really rich meal on the train: I have reached those chapters in “Decline and Fall” where Gibbon treats the rise of Christianity. Some months ago, I was at the train station at Saxa Rubra, nine miles north of Rome, which, I wrote (rather glibly), was where Constantine defeated Diocletian. Well, it turns out that Diocletian was that rare emperor who abdicated before being murdered (he retired to Dalmatia to plant cabbages), and it was the army of Maxentius that Constantine defeated at Saxa Rubra. “The emperor himself attempted to escape back into the city over the Milvian bridge, [1] but the crowds which pressed together through that narrow passage forced him into the river, where he was immediately drowned by the weight of his armour. His body, which had sunk very deep into the mud, was found with some difficulty the next day. The sight of his head, when it was exposed to the eyes of the people, convinced them of their deliverance, and admonished them to receive with acclamations of loyalty and gratitude the fortunate Constantine, who thus achieved by his valour and ability the most splendid enterprise of his life.” [Footnote No. 1 (mine, not Gibbon’s or Oliphant Smeaton’s): This is that very same bridge, the Ponte Milvio, where lovers write their names on padlocks, attach them to posts on the bridge, and throw away the key; and where sellers of padlocks are doing a land-office business. There was an article in the Times about it.]
In the thrill of battle, Gibbon failed to mention Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, but that is no doubt because he wanted to give himself a running start. So far, I have read only the early parts about Jews, pagans, and early Christian proselytizers. This morning, I got to a section on the immortality of the soul, in which Gibbon backs up all the way to Moses. Smeaton, too, is pretty excited, and contributes a footnote that takes up an entire page.
While I have been reading these chapters, I have noticed around me on the train people who are reading Hebrew. Sometimes they move their lips while they read. Stealing a look at the pages open in front of them, I am dazzled by the typography and layout. I knew that Hebrew read from right to left and that the books opened from back to front, but I didn’t know that the text was laid out in dipperfuls of prose surrounded by text in columns of varying width, with sidebars and marginalia and footnotes. Gad!
Meanwhile, a woman next to me was carrying a small paperback called "The Art of Lying." She didn’t open it for the whole ride.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)