Eulogy for my grandfather, David Crawford

Delivered at St. Paul's United Methodist Church, Stevens Point, Wisconsin

August 13th, 2018

But we would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning them that fall asleep; that ye sorrow not, even as the rest, who have no hope.

We must read what St. Paul wrote to the Thessalonians very carefully. Is St. Paul saying that Christians should not be sad at the death of another Christian? Is he saying that our supernatural hope that those who have fallen asleep in Christ will rise like Him, should cancel out our natural tears?

I think that St. Paul understood human nature better than that; if we read more closely we see that we ought not to sorrow in the manner of those who have no hope. So even if we're confident of a life after death, even if we're sure of the joys of heaven, we sorrow nevertheless, and rightly, because we're human, and because our beloved who have been taken from us, however temporarily, are precisely that, beloved to us.

But the question then remains: how does our sorrow differ, as Christians who have hope, at the death of our grandfather, our father, our brother, our brother-in-law, our friend and fellow faithful church-goer, our husband? I think that Grandpa Crawford—that's who he was to me, and so that's how I'll refer to him—had a notion. 

When he came home from the hospital the Sunday before last, I was blessed to visit together with my wife Rosemary and our five young boys. Grandpa's bed was set up in the living room where his recliner ordinarily would be. He was lucid and at peace, finishing up a visit with my brother Jamie and his wife Nikki. Of all things, he was overjoyed to be eating a Jimmy John's sub after the liquid diet restrictions of his last hospital stay. After I spent some time talking with Grandpa, I finally brought in my family. All the boys ranged round Great-Grandpa Crawford's bedside, their faces somber, their gazes downturned.

Propped up in the bed, Grandpa looked at them hesitantly and then said hoarsely, “Smile, smile!” Ever the skeptics, the boys weren't convinced. We had told them that their Great-Grandpa was dying, and kids naturally know that death pierces the mysterious veil between the here and the hereafter and is therefore a solemn thing. But Grandpa wanted it, and so I tickled the baby and got him to laugh, and suddenly there were sheepish smiles all around, the widest, perhaps, being on Grandpa's own tired face. Then boys began to be boys and to push and shove a little, just as it is reported that we Klein boys did once upon a time in that very living room. I remember being counseled more than once not to knock down Grandma and Grandpa's immaculately decorated Christmas tree, nor to disturb the countless bunnies and other more fragile, carefully placed knick-knacks.

We Klein grandchildren never fight anymore, of course. In adulthood, we've all turned out to be perfect angels. Smile, smile. Even in the midst of your tears, you can smile.

But then there are the words of the Preacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem, which Grandpa himself chose for this funeral, and which must therefore be touched upon. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher; vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Like with St. Paul, the well known opening phrase from the Book of Ecclesiastes needs to be read very carefully. Is Qoheleth, the Preacher, saying that all the memories that my siblings and I have of our grandfather, all the things that we did with him, all the things we made with him and treasure and hold dear, the things that cause us to smile even in the midst of our tears— are all these things vain, and empty? Well, no; of course they're not. But then how are we to understand Qoheleth and his vanity of vanities?

I hope that I'm not stealing my brother Jamie's fire if he decides to speak, but a few days ago he told me that the olfactory sense—that is, our sense of smell—is more closely linked to memory than the other senses, and that his strongest memory of Grandpa Crawford is the smell of fresh-cut wood.

That came as no surprise to me. I don't know how many hours my younger siblings and I spent down in Grandpa's basement workshop turning his scrapwood into swords and guns and other weapons. That's what boys make, but I think I remember Johanna and Gabrielle joining Stephen, Jamie, Oliver and me down there before I aged out of those activities. It may have been years ago, but I can still smell the sweet sawdust from working with the bandsaw under Grandpa's careful eye. Equally, I can smell the smokey-sweet scent of burning firewood from our many camping trips—Copper Falls, Rock Island at the very tip of Door County's peninsula, the Badlands of South Dakota and Yellowstone National Park together with Oliver before my senior year of high school. Others of my siblings ventured to the Grand Canyon or rafting on the Colorado River.

These memories were not, are not, and never will be, in vain, whether they're based on the olfactory sense alone or all five senses working in concert. That word vanity, or vain, at its root means empty. The point is, the memories would indeed be vain if all they were were experiences for the sake of experience that would pass away with the one who experienced them. But these are memories because they're filled full to the brim with our Grandfather, who, with Grandma, helped to make our childhood the adventure that it was.

The vanities of this world—the wooden swords and other toys created in Grandpa's workshop under his watchful eye, even the many paintings and sculptures which he so laboriously and carefully created and the countless photographs he took and meticulously catalogued, even the wonders of God's own creation like the geysers of Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon in all its majesty which we gazed upon for the first time in his company—are vanities because they will all pass away, rot, decay, crumble into dust. With Grandpa's death there will be no more grilled cheese sandwiches, no more bisquik pancakes on the griddle, no more camping trips. These things have passed away. Even Desmet's townhall, which looked so solid and permanent when Grandpa built it for us twenty years ago, is now showing its age.

But the memories Grandpa made with us in these places and doing these things are not empty because they are filled with Grandpa. They are not the principalities or creatures—creatures being an old fashioned way of saying created things—that St. Paul writes about in his Letter to the Romans: impermanent created things that have the potential to distract us from thinking about ultimate things, particularly the hereafter. These memories are instead firm links in a chain that binds to Grandpa, who has pierced the veil into the hereafter. They have the potential to inspire us with the hope that St. Paul writes about to the Thessalonians: that someday we will grab hold of that chain and, using St. Paul's language, be caught together with him into the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, to be ever with the Lord, and with all those whom we loved during our short earthly time with them.

Although I, for one, have learned from Grandpa about what it means to be a father and a husband, maybe even someday a grandfather, I'm not here to canonize him. But Grandpa was the Lord's faithful servant. In my last conversation with him on Sunday, he said that his biggest hope for the funeral was that the entire family would be gathered in church to pray together. And here we are: Methodists, Presbyterians, Catholics, all of us seekers, all of us praying together because Grandpa Crawford wanted it.

My favorite image of God comes from the poet Francis Thompson, for years an opium addict very far from being a perfect servant of the Lord. In one poem Thompson describes how he fled Lord, whom he calls the “Hound of Heaven,” 

 “down the nights and down the days;
...down the arches of the years;
...down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears.” 

Throughout the poem, the Lord gradually takes vain, earthly things way from Thompson because

they prevented him from recognizing that the Lord is all that really matters. I'm thinking about how the Lord gradually took things from Grandpa as well: His failing health and his inability to travel frustrated him. Remarkably, the Lord never took away his artistic abilities. In my last visit, I marveled at the output of his last weeks and even days, at the painting he did for Grandma for their 64^th wedding anniversary a few weeks ago because he couldn't leave the house to buy her a card, at the beautiful painting displayed here in the sanctuary, which my mother finished for him under his careful watch.

And at the end of Thompson's poem, the Lord had taken from him all earthly things. But when all was seemingly lost for ever, all his abilities, all the things and the people he had loved in life, the Lord turned to him with these words: 

“All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come!”

For his part, Grandpa Crawford has risen and clasped the Lord's hand and gone home with Him. Pray God that each of us, linked by that sturdy chain of our memories of him and of everybody whom we love who has gone before us, may someday also be caught up into the clouds. Until then, smile. Even in the midst of your tears, smile.

The Church, the Death Penalty, and a Further Muddying of the Waters

"Pope Changes Catholic Teaching to Make Death Penalty 'Inadmissible'." So runs the headline of Time Magazine's article about the revision Pope Francis has ordered to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, no. 227. The Holy Father's new formulation reads as follows, in full:

Recourse to the death penalty on the part of legitimate authority, following a fair trial, was long considered an appropriate response to the gravity of certain crimes and an acceptable, albeit extreme, means of safeguarding the common good.

Today, however, there is an increasing awareness that the dignity of the person is not lost even after the commission of very serious crimes. In addition, a new understanding has emerged of the significance of penal sanctions imposed by the state. Lastly, more effective systems of detention have been developed, which ensure the due protection of citizens but, at the same time, do not definitively deprive the guilty of the possibility of redemption.

Consequently, the Church teaches, in the light of the Gospel, that “the death penalty is inadmissible because it is an attack on the inviolability and dignity of the person”,^[1] and she works with determination for its abolition worldwide.

_______________________

^[1] Francis, Address to Participants in the Meeting organized by the Pontifical Council for the Promotion of the New Evangelization, 11 October 2017: L’Osservatore Romano, 13 October 2017, 5.

So, what are my thoughts? Far be it from me to strive for dissent, or for the "cafeteria Catholicism" of picking and choosing teachings that I like. Far be it from me to deny the "inviolability and dignity of the person." Far be it from me, even, to deny that the death penalty is abhorrent and to be eliminated whenever possible.

Yet, how can the Holy Father state unilaterally that the death penalty is "inadmissible"? It may be that there are fewer and fewer cases where it is the only way to safeguard the common good. Let's even entertain the hypothetical that there are presently no cases where it is the only way to safeguard the common good. Even then, the blanket statement that the death penalty is inadmissible would hamstring people in possible future instances where it may again be the sole means to safeguard the common good.

On the one hand, I'm totally on board with the new formulation's application in wealthy, first-world countries like the United States. I can't imagine a single instance in our country where the death penalty is presently a morally legitimate option. But the Catechism is not written solely for the faithful in wealthy countries, but for the faithful worldwide, and for both our present generation and future ones. Ironically, the explanatory note of Cardinal Ladaria, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, that the Catechism's new formulation will "encourage the creation of conditions that do allow for the elimination of the death penalty" hints that there actually exist where the formulation does not yet apply! How is it exactly that the universal teaching of the Church does not apply universally? The problem here runs deeper than ham-handed headlines in secular publications.

What the new formulation and its grand unveiling has accomplished is further to cement in the minds of the faithful the falsehood that Church teaching can change. What was true for previous generations is apparently no longer true for ours. Which is hogwash and baloney. While it's true that circumstances change, and while I'd agree that the teachings in particular of Pope St. John Paul II have given us a deeper understanding of the dignity of all human persons, at least hypothetically there may be present and future instances where the death penalty is the sole means of safeguarding the common good.

Does all of this make me a dissenter? Pray God that it only makes me a dissenter from a poorly written formulation of the Church's perennial teaching. Catechism formulations come and go; some are clearer articulations, others not so much. But the Church's teaching is perennial; it does not, it cannot, change.

The Dogma Lives Loudly Within Me, Too

"I think whatever a religion is, it has its own dogma. The law is totally different. And I think in your case, professor, when you read your speeches, the conclusion one draws is that the dogma lives loudly within you, and that’s of concern."

Amy Coney Barrett. Image from nd.edu

That was the statement of California Senator Dianne Feinstein last year during the confirmation hearing for Amy Coney Barrett, a Trump nominee to the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals who was confirmed, and who is being floated as a potential successor to retiring Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy.

A Notre Dame law professor and the mother of seven, the 46 year-old Barrett also happens to be a devout Catholic. That was the origin of Feinstein's concerns, for how could Barrett serve the court impartially when her decision-making process is so strongly influenced by her religious beliefs? Indeed, it was the concern of Protestants in the 19th century as waves of Irish and Italian immigrants flooded through Ellis Island. How could they ever be good Americans? Even a century after the "Know-Nothings" were tarring and feathering Catholic priests and burning their churches, many were still asking how John F. Kennedy could be president when he was beholden to the pope.

The irony is that this stems from a misreading of a 1988 essay. In it Barrett and her co-author, John Garvey, now the president of the Catholic University of America, speculate about how Catholic judges can deal with capital cases, given the Church's opposition to the death penalty. Their conclusion is far from saying Catholic judges must commute sentences if they're opposed in conscience to the death penalty. Rather, Barrett and Garvey conclude that judges can recuse themselves when their personal convictions are at odds with the law of the land.

The concerns of Feinstein and others of our time and of the Know-Nothings of the 19th century are centered on the so-called Separation of Church and State. They say that an activist judge may foist his--or her--religious convictions on our pluralistic American populace. We are not all Catholics, and we are not all guided by Catholic beliefs or principles. Therefore it would be a problem if the dogma does indeed "live loudly" in Barrett.

Of course there is no evidence that I'm aware of that Barrett is an activist who would legislate from the bench, and in fact a careful reading of her essay shows precisely the opposite. But the bigger irony that I'm contemplating on this Independence Day is that the Founding Fathers separated Church from State in order to keep the State from interfering with churches, not the other way around.

As regards justices, or senators, or other government officials in our sordid age, would that the dogma lived more loudly in all of them. Government officials are not robots programmed to fulfill the wishes of the populace mechanically. Rather, they are (or ought to be) men and women of conviction, especially judges, whose job it is to interpret and apply the law to real human situations. Their convictions--religious, philosophical, whatever--should influence their reading of our founding documents and the law of the land. That's how we avoid a Dred Scott decision, for example, which was based on the false premise that blacks were not persons and were therefore not entitled to claim citizenship.

Dred Scott was logically argued--and so was Roe v. Wade, for that matter--but only a person of strong moral conviction can discern the underlying falsehoods. This is the criterion for public office that nobody seems to be talking about. And why not? Why are not calling loudly for public officials in whom dogma lives loudly? Why are we doing precisely the opposite?

As regards Barrett, I haven't read enough about her or the other potential nominees to form a strong opinion. I'll probably wait until Trump announces his short list before I bother. But on this 4th of July, I praise God for the gifts of life and liberty, and for the right to raise children in whom the dogma lives as loudly as it does in me.

Cardinal McCarrick and the Catholic Church's Continued Dark Night

I still remember the whirlwind of my mid-summer arrival after I was sent to study in Rome back in 2004. Another seminarian and I had flown there early for an Italian immersion program in preparation for fall classes. Exiting Fiumicino, we made it to the Pontifical North American College in time for the large mid-day meal that the Italians call pranzo. Unaware that the college's dress code is quite relaxed during the summer, I remember that we changed into cassocks before finding our way to the large, formal refectory. We were a little red-faced, I think, to be the only ones dressed like that!

We ended up sitting down to dinner with a diminutive, elderly man who was wearing the tab collar and a faded black suitcoat of a priest. He was friendly and engaging, asking us where we were from and where we would be studying Italian. Only halfway through the meal did I get it through my travel-fogged brain that we were speaking with Cardinal Theodore McCarrick, at that time the powerful and highly influential archbishop of Washington, D.C.

Cardinal McCarrick greeting Admiral Fallon after a Sept. 11 Memorial Mass. Image from Wikipedia Commons.

This is the same Cardinal McCarrick, now 87 years-old and living in a nursing home, who last week was removed from public ministry by the Vatican due to credible accusations that he had sexually abused a teen-aged boy more than 50 years ago. Word is also coming out that journalists have been sitting on a story since the early 2000s about the cardinal's sexual exploitation of seminarians. Journalist Rod Dreher writes that he couldn't get any priests to risk their priesthood by speaking out at the time. He also notes that the story almost went to press in The New York Times magazine in 2012 but was shelved for some mysterious reason at the last minute. Now folks are asking why the press kept quiet, especially after the Archdiocese of Newark disclosed late this week that there had been three allegations against the cardinal there and in the Diocese of Metuchen, and that two of them had led to settlements.

What does all of this mean to me? Well, for starters, I'm still processing things. One thing I'm trying to square is the scandalous account from Dreher and the friendly, engaging priest-figure I met back then. A few years later, after having left the seminary, I attended Mass at the University of Notre Dame, and Cardinal McCarrick happened to be the celebrant and homilist. He gave a powerful homily. I told him so when I shook his hand afterward. He smiled warmly but of course didn't recognize me.

How could I have been so oblivious to all of this? Obviously I'm not talking mainly about McCarrick, whom I hardly knew. I'm rather thinking of the the whole priest sex abuse scandal and the whole "gay network" that the journalism of Dreher and others continues to expose. I was in Rome, of course, just after the height of the sex abuse revelations. Boston's Cardinal Bernard Law had already been exiled to Santa Maria Maggiore. He actually instituted my seminary class into the lectorate in 2005. I remember that year that there was also an apostolic visitation of the North American College, and that an American archbishop was sent to interview each of us seminarians separately. I won't mention his name in case it is under some kind of seal, but I do remember telling the archbishop that I hadn't seen a thing. I told him that my real concern was the potential for alcoholism among some men who were soon to be ordained. It seemed to me that many seminarians drank heavily on a regular basis, perhaps as a cure for the loneliness that resulted from celibacy or, for those of us studying in Rome, the distance from the familiar things of home.

Again, how could I have been so oblivious? Well, I'm thankful that I was, because frankly I don't know if my faith at the time could have withstood knowing more than I did. I treasure my time in Rome, and I cherish the friendships I made with many of my classmates, some of whom are today faithful priests serving throughout the United States and others of whom, like myself, left the seminary to pursue the calling of marriage and family life.

And what of my faith today? I would say that I am serene in my faith. I have learned not to put my faith in princes, for "they are but men, they have no power to save" (Psalm 145:3). That goes for Princes of the Church like Cardinal McCarrick as well. So I will pray for the cardinal in his own dark night, that the truth may set him, and the entire Church, free from this terrible scandal. And I thank God for all the priests and bishops who continue humbly to serve Christ and His Church, both those who are holy and those who, like me, are best described as works in progress. Semper reformans, semper reformanda.

Sacristan's Corner-- On veils and and seeing 'through a glass, darkly'

Here I've combined the fourth and fifth of the bulletin blurbs I've been writing, since both are on the topic of veils, the last focusing on the veiling of the statues for Passiontide. 

You probably remember that the Veil of the Temple was torn in two at the very moment of Jesus' death. But maybe you wonder what this mysterious veil was. Its origins are in the Book of Exodus, where the Lord instructed that the Holy of Holies containing the Ark of the Covenant and God's Mercy Seat be shielded from people's eyes. 

Veils, in other words, were important for the Jews to separate what is sacred from what is of the world. For the same reason, the tradition of veiling holy things has entered into Christian practice. 

The General Instruction of the Roman Missal says that it is “very fitting,” for example, that the chalice be covered with a veil. You may have also noticed that there is now a veil over the tabernacle, which is our own true Holy of Holies, and that there is even a veil over the ciborium which the priest takes from the tabernacle before distributing Holy Communion. 

In short, these veils are beautiful reminders from our Catholic tradition that we ourselves are constantly striving to become less of the world, so that one day we may pass through the veil of this world into God's direct, unveiled presence in life everlasting. As St. Paul beautifully puts it, we see the Lord in the midst of the struggles of this life “through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known” (1 Corinthians 13:12). 

Today you've probably noticed that all the statues and crosses are now also veiled. These last two weeks of Lent are traditionally known as “Passiontide” because during the 5th week of Lent the Preface of the Lord's Passion is used and then, on Palm Sunday, the Passion account is read. 

Passiontide marks an intensification of our Lenten prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. In Medieval Germany a large purple cloth known as the hungertuch, or “hunger cloth,” would be stretched across the entire sanctuary throughout Lent to Good Friday, a dramatic precursor to our current practice of veiling the statues. The idea is that we should hunger for the comforting visuals—the familiar statues, images, and artwork that ordinarily aid our prayer and contemplation. 

We will get them back, of course. First the Crucifix will be unveiled for our veneration on Good Friday. Then all the Passiontide veils will come off at the Easter Vigil, for the Risen Lord “satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness” (Psalm 107:9).

Blurb 1 (The Crotalus), Blurb 2 (Benedictine Arrangement), Blurb 3 (Benedictine Arrangement, Part 2)

We are all set for Passiontide at St. Peter's, Middle Ridge, Wis.

Sacristan's Corner-- Benedictine Arrangement, Part 2

The third in a series of bulletin blurbs I'm writing...

Last week I wrote about the “Benedictine” arrangement and specifically about the altar crucifix. But you've probably also noticed the six candles placed on the altar for weekend Masses. Why six? Simply because this is the traditional number of candles for Sundays and high holy days. 

Actually, seven candles are used when a bishop presides! In churches like St. James in La Crosse, where the original high altar is again being used, three candles are placed on one side of the tabernacle and three on the other side. 

Here at St. Peter's, our own altar crucifix, a gift from Msgr. Hundt, is from the chapel of the nuns who taught at the parish many years ago. I'm told that the candlesticks are from St. Peter's own high altar. 

What a beautiful sense of continuity there is, therefore, in returning these candlesticks to use. After all, the forebears of so many here at St. Peter's built this church. 

Now they could walk into church and recognize the altar arrangement that they knew, and that their own parents and grandparents and great-grandparents knew, and that even the early Christians knew in their own celebrations of Holy Mass by candlelight in the catacombs.

Blurb 1 (The Crotalus), Blurb 2 (Benedictine Arrangement)

Our Benedictine altar arrangement at St. Peter's Parish, Middle Ridge, Wis., during the Christmas season.

Sacristan's Corner-- The Benedictine Arrangement

The second in a series of bulletin blurbs I'm writing... 

Some are wondering, what's up with the cross and candles on the altar? It's called the “Benedictine” arrangement because it was inspired by Pope Benedict XVI, who suggested it in The Spirit of the Liturgy, published a few years before he became pope. 

Benedict wrote about how, after the Second Vatican Council, priests in many parishes began facing the congregation during the Eucharistic prayer in order to foster a greater sense of community. Fostering community is a laudable goal, Benedict wrote, but “moving the altar cross to the side to give an uninterrupted view of the priest is something I regard as one of the truly absurd phenomena of recent decades. Is the cross disruptive during Mass? Is the priest more important than Our Lord?” 

The idea is that the altar cross, with the corpus facing the priest, permits the priest to gaze upon the Crucified Christ during the Eucharistic prayer, just as the large crucifix suspended above the tabernacle permits of the congregation. After all, that's exactly what the Mass is: the unbloodly renewal of Our Lord's sacrifice on the cross. 

When Benedict became pope in 2005, he implemented the “Benedictine” arrangement for all of his liturgies, and Pope Francis has continued this practice since becoming pope in 2013. Also in the last decade, large cathedral parishes and little country parishes alike all throughout the world have followed the example of Pope Benedict and Pope Francis—including, most recently, St. Peter's Parish, Middle Ridge!

Blurb 1 (The Crotalus)

Our Benedictine altar arrangement during the Christmas season.

Sacristan's Corner-- The Crotalus

Over at our little country parish, where I reign gloriously as sacristan, I've been making some small, incremental liturgical changes à la "reform of the reform." While I haven't encountered resistance, exactly, folks generally like things the way they're used to them, and so it's been suggested to me that  I write brief weekly bulletin blurbs to explain things. So here's my first little blurb--about the crotalus. Enjoy!

Clack, clack, clack. Maybe you noticed the strange sound that has replaced the bells. That's the crotalus, which shares its name with a genus of snakes who make a clacking, or rattling, with their tails when frightened. The scientific name of the rattlesnake is crotalus cerastes! 

The use of the crotalus at Lenten Masses dates back more than a thousand years. Some old churches in Spain and Latin America actually have a giant crotalus in the bell tower, since even the church bells can't be rung during the Triduum. 

So, why use the crotalus during Lent? Similarly, why deprive ourselves of good things, like desserts and meat, during Lent? Perhaps the answer is found in the song “Again We Keep This Solemn Fast” where one verse reads, “Our speech, our laughter, every sense,/ learn peace through holy penitence.” 

We yearn for the beauty of the bells just as we yearn for the things we've given up. The bells will ring again briefly on Holy Thursday during the Gloria, and then, after the sacred silence of the Triduum, they'll return to their place of honor at the Easter Vigil. 

Until then, their absence is a reminder, together the sanctuary bereft of flowers and the omnipresent, somber color of violet, that we're preparing for something far more beautiful than bells or any other worldly thing: the joy of the Lord's Resurrection.

Those who have wives should act as not having them and other Pauline paradoxes

A phrase from Mass today really struck me: St. Paul's counsel that those "using the world" do so as "not using it fully." Maybe it's having seriously considered clerical celibacy and the detached, itinerant lifestyle of a diocesan priest that has always given me a degree of discomfort with this balancing act. The question is: How much is too much? Obviously I've settled in comfortably despite my discomfort: I have 40 acres in God's country to call my own, a wife who loves me, and children who love me and depend on me for everything. So, for all my discomfiture, I'm a man of the world, with daily labor that I thoroughly enjoy. I have practical concerns that occupy my time and energy, and interests in agriculture and animal husbandry, in political ideals, in practical entertainment and all the little enjoyments of life.

In short, there is as little of the ethereal to my everyday life as there is to that of the next person. And so, St. Paul's words rightly make me uncomfortable whenever I hear them, and they have me asking yet again today: How much is too much?

There is a great deal of truth to the argument that things are inherently good, and that we come to know God through our proper, measured embrace of them. Food, drink, and a comfortable chair all, in the pleasure they give after a hard day's work, provide a foretaste of the enjoyments of heaven and an opportunity to give thanks to the God who is the source of all good things. More seriously, I've made a real investment of myself in terms of my daily labor and my commitment to the ideals of organic farming and the noble cause of small-scale, sustainable agriculture. So we also come closer to God through our commitment to justice, to truth, and to the common good. In each example, there is a balance: There is such a thing as too much food and drink detracting from one's health, too much labor detracting from one's family life, etc.

But let me also broach the most radical example St. Paul brings up: that "those having wives act as not having them." Is St. Paul saying that there is also such a thing as too much commitment to one's family, to one's wife and children? A cynic might say that this is just Paul being Paul, the life-long celibate who just a little earlier had advised that a man only resort to marriage if he can't control his passions (cf. 1 Cor 7:9). Easy for Paul-the-bachelor to say, but what of a married man such as myself? And what of St. Paul himself elsewhere, who inspires me with his challenging words that husbands ought to love their wives as Christ loves the Church (Eph 5:25)? After all, Christ turned the water into wine at Cana, blessing marriage and making it holy, a sacrament. Through the unshakable embrace of one's spouse, for better or for worse, in the indissoluble bond of holy matrimony, one is supposed to be drawn closer to Christ. One is united to God, in other words, by a determined, single-minded embrace of  the worldly, very human, very real bond of marriage. So, what of those who have wives acting as if they don't? How can these matters be squared? Can there really be too much?

I was led to consider Abraham's willingness to sacrifice Isaac. I imagine that there was little in the world that Abraham was more invested in or loved more dearly than his son. Actually, that's how God refers to Isaac when he commands Abraham to sacrifice him: "Take your son Isaac, your only one, whom you love..." (Gen 22:2). It was through caring for Isaac, providing for his basic needs, giving him an example to follow, and raising him into a God-fearing man that Abraham himself came to know God better. Fatherhood was his vocation, and yet, when God asked him to sacrifice his own son, Abraham willingly and unhesitatingly raised hand to perform the deed.

Obviously there are New Testament ramifications in this Genesis passage to God the Father, who so loved the world that he sent his beloved, only-begotten Son into the world to die on the cross. But I found myself asking what I would do if I were Abraham, if I had to choose between God and the gifts he has given me. Ultimately that's what this is all about: Are you so invested in the world that you would be unwilling to give it all up if circumstances demanded? I'm reminded of the single-mindedness St. Louis de Montfort's motto, Deiu seul, God alone. How much is too much? How much can one love the things of this world before giving it all up would cause us to hesitate or to experience pangs of regret?

It's not that radical a question if you look back at history. It's interesting, for example, to look at the history of England under Oliver Cromwell, where most Catholics were broken through the exorbitant taxes levied against them for non-attendance at the official Protestant parishes. What if I was threatened with the loss of my own farm unless I rejected my faith? My stolid answer, of course, is that I'd accept the loss of all my material possessions rather than reject my faith. Some days I think I'd even be strong enough to die a martyr, like the early Christians who were torn apart by lions in the arena rather than carry out sacrifice to the pagan gods. That said, I can identify with the annoying child-protagonist of Flannery O'Connor's short story, "The Temple of the Holy Ghost," who "thought she could be a martyr if they killed her quick."

But the real examples are cleverer than that. What if my wife or one of my children were to be shot and killed unless I trampled on Consecrated Hosts spilled from the tabernacle? What if all I had to do was spit on the Bible, or proclaim aloud just once that I don't believe in God, in order to save them? The problem is that we don't want to put the people we love in the same category as other worldly things. This, I think, is why St. Paul counsels against marriage. It's not that one can't love Christ through marriage and family; rather, it's that, despite the travails, suffering, and imperfections of our human relationships, there is nothing else in the world that more closely resembles the loving embrace of God. Therefore, there is also nothing that would be harder to give up.

So, I remain as discomfited by St. Paul and his very true, very relevant counsel as ever. There is something of a paradox here. Because God is transcendent, totally other, the imperfect love we experience in our human relationships is the only way we can come to understand and experience his love for us. So we need to embrace and love fully, not in part. We need to believe, and to love, and to sacrifice without reserve, for those who are ours in order to understand and come to know the unreserved, unconditional love of the God whose we are. Yet somehow we must also come to recognize that the things we love here on earth, even the ones we love most here are earth, are but fleeting shadows, foretastes of the love that is to come.

Of life and death; or, first lessons from a still young kidding season

Kidding season is now in full swing here on the farm. We bred the goats last summer for mid-winter babies. Although this leaves the birthing process to the coldest months of the year, in a few years when our herd is bigger this timing will yield young goats ready for commercial sales around the time of the Easter holiday, when goat meat is at its highest demand.



At present, though, everything is small and still an experiment. We have only five Boer and Kiko meat goat mothers-to-be, in addition to two bred mothers from our registered Nigerian dwarf goat herd. We had a few more promising does that we brought with us from North Carolina, but we struggled with parasite issues on the new pasture the first summer here in Wisconsin and lost a few very promising does--but that's a subject for another post.

For now, my post revolves around kidding season, which is now fully underway. It began with one of the dwarf goats last weekend. Little Milcah, a second freshener, went into labor Saturday evening as the temperature dipped a few degrees below zero fahrenheit. As much as we've read of successful kidding in sub-zero weather, honestly, Rosemary and I were--and are--quite apprehensive about births in the extreme cold. On the internet, one can read advice about making sure to dry the ears fully so that they don't get frostbitten, and of difficult cases in Canada, for example, where at twenty or thirty below there is even the possibility that wet hooves can freeze. In our own limited experience, I think that once in North Carolina we had a kidding in the upper thirties (above zero, that is!).

Suffice it to say, we were ready with a hair dryer and plenty of rags. We had warm molasses water for Milcah to drink during and after labor, and sure enough the first kidding went off without a hitch. Around 10 p.m., she gave birth to a beautiful, healthy buckling. His coloring is perfect, and the blue eyes he inherited from his father are a desirable trait that, together with other promising qualities, have us asking whether he might be a future herd sire. In fact, we may retain him ourselves since a few of our other dwarf goats are entirely unrelated to the high quality Sinai Thunder lines this little buckling possesses from both his sire and his dam.

Okay, enough inside baseball talk. But it was gratifying to watch vigorous new life make such a confident entrance into the world in such harsh conditions this weekend. Milcah birthed unassisted, with Rosemary interposing only to rub the little buckling off and run the hair dryer up and down his sides to eliminate any moisture and ensure that he didn't become chilled. My job was mainly flipping the breaker back on as a single electrical outlet struggled to support the load of multiple heated water buckets, a worklight, and, now, a hair dryer. Okay, I did take over a little later on, helping the buckling latch on to his mother and get some colostrum, ensuring that his belly would be full and warm on that first cold winter night outside the womb. But Rosemary really is amazing with the birthing process. She's had plenty of practice these last few years, even a few particularly difficult births back in North Carolina.

Speaking of difficult births, yesterday brought more mixed results. Since she was up to nurse Cornelius anyway, at around 4 a.m. Rosemary made a trip down to the barn to check on the goats. Sure enough, Mango, one of our first freshener Boer goats, was in early labor. This was concerning, as she had not yet developed an udder at all and was probably the goat we least expected to go next. Rosemary gave me a call, and I came down to the barn and took over, keeping watch until, finally, I had to leave for La Crosse, where I am teaching classes at Providence Academy part time this semester. Thank God for being closer to family--Rose's mother was able to come over right away to watch the boys.

Alas, I was off to the big city dressed in suit-and-tie, and it turns out that I left Rosemary to deal with a difficult situation here on the farm. Mango, it seems, must have been hit in the side by another goat sometime recently. Her single doeling had died in utero, and Rosemary had to pull it out. Although I won't go into extreme detail about how hard a task this is, you can probably guess that it's not a great deal of fun. For obvious reasons, it is also emotionally draining. Suffice it to say, yesterday was a long day in the Klein household. The doeling was beautifully formed, with traditional Boer markings. Even today, Mango is hearing the other babies and calling out for her own baby. She may also have a retained placenta, and we're working creatively with herbal remedies as we look to stave off infection without resorting to the use of antibiotics. Farming is not always so fun.

The lesson from all of this, I suppose, is the lesson of Job:

"We accept good things from God; and should we not accept evil?"

I've always struggled a little with Job's comment, though. It's not that evil comes directly from God, that he wishes ill for us, or for our livestock for that matter. But the adversities of life certainly do encourage us to cling more closely and gratefully to what we have. Part of what makes life so precious is the knowledge of how fleeting it is, and how tenuous is our grasp on it.

Just another lesson from life on the farm, where the mysterious intertwining of life and death isn't hidden behind the facade of euphemisms and antiseptic hospital rooms. What made yesterday worth it, even for Rosemary, who had to deal with the worst of it, was that another Boer first-freshener, Curry, went into labor shortly after Mango and easily delivered a beautiful, vigorous doeling. She's chocolate brown like her father, with a cute white star on her forehead. Curry and her daughter are doing well, and kidding season continues apace. Thank God for that, and thank God for the higher temps that the coming week's forecast promises.

"Thus the Lord blessed the latter days of Job more than his earlier ones. For he had fourteen thousand sheep, six thousand camels, a thousand yoke of oxen, and a thousand she-asses. And he had seven sons and three daughters, of whom he called the first Jemima, the second Cassia, and the third Ceren-happuch. In all the land no other women were as beautiful as the daughters of Job; and their father gave them an inheritance among their brethren. After this, Job lived a hundred and forty years; and he saw his children, his grandchildren, and even his great-grandchildren. Then Job died, old and full of years."

'Raw water' and other all-natural absurdities

Apparently 'raw water' is the newest craze in California. Really, this is "hard" news, not a spoof from the Onion. Two-and-one-half gallon glass bottles of untreated spring water are now selling in Silicon Valley grocery stores for as much as $70. The claim from Live Water, the company selling 'raw water,' is that "blasting water with ozone changes its molecular structure."

Any knowledge of chemistry at all reveals that two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom bonded together are water, and that if the molecular structure of water were to change, then whatever the new molecules were, they would no longer be water. So the question is, how can such a ludicrous claim go unchallenged in one of the smartest cities in the nation? How is it that smart people are taken in by these sorts of 'all-natural' absurdities?

The question is pressing to me because, to some degree, I look upon absurdities like 'raw' water from within the wider healthy foods movement. My wife and I are proponents of healthy, minimally processed foods. Commercially, we are a certified organic farmers, and in our personal life we are homesteaders who raise as much of our own food as possible. We've done plenty of research into the effects of pesticides and herbicides. We drink our own raw goat milk to take advantage of naturally occurring enzymes and vitamins that are eliminated by pasteurization. We ferment our own kiefer, kombucha, and sauerkraut to increase our intake of probiotics that benefit digestion and gut health.

To emphasize, these sorts of things have plenty of scientific basis and are not absurd in the least. The abandonment of traditional fermented foods and the ultra-processing of dairy, fruits, and vegetables has been accompanied by a rapidly growing public health crisis. There is consensus that the massive amount of added sugar and sodium in processed and prepared foods is directly linked to the rise in obesity, reproductive health issues, and certain types of cancers. Science doesn't say that everything one eats must be organic, or all-natural, or GMO-free, but science indisputably says that the human body is affected by herbicides and pesticides, that excessive sugar or sodium is harmful to our health, and that raw or minimally processed foods contain more vitamins and minerals than their cooked counterparts.

The problem, I think, has a few parts. First of all, for all the technology at our fingertips, we live in an age of ignorance. We buy our food from the grocery store knowing very little about it. We don't know where it came from or how it was grown. We think bacteria is bad, something to be eliminated at all costs. We adhere to expiration dates because they are printed on the package, with no knowledge of how actually to preserve or store foods. Then something goes wrong with the system-- there is an e coli outbreak tied to California-grown lettuce, there is a listeria outbreak tied to frozen peas originating from an Oregon processing plant, or, apropos to the 'raw' water craze, there is lead contamination in the tap water in Flint, Mich.

Then folks get scared. Although they don't know where their food comes from, they understandably want to do something to protect themselves. Absent any real knowledge about the food they consume, they put their trust in the labels-- all-natural, hormone-free, GMO-free- pasture-raised, organic. No, organic is not a 'sacred cow,' not even to me, an organic farmer. But at least it signifies a strict set of standards, unlike "all-natural," which is not regulated at all and means whatever the food processor decides it means. In any case, based on ignorance and half-baked theories, folks think they are protecting themselves by reaching for 'healthy' labels, and we are left with absurdities like gluten-free tomatoes, GMO-free salt, and, now, 'raw' water.

The kernel of truth, of course, is that 'raw' is good-- Raw foods indisputably contain vitamins and minerals that are leached out through cooking. But does that mean that 'raw,' by extension, is good just because it is 'raw'? Obviously not-- We cook our meat to kill bacteria, and, for the same manifest reasons, we filter or otherwise treat the water that is sold in stores or that makes its way to our homes by way of a city water sytsem. There are cases that can be made against fluoride, chlorine, and other treatments commonly used for city tap water, but come on, you folks out there on the West Coast, use your brains. 'Raw' water is manifestly absurd unless you are tapping your own, regularly tested, rural home well. But it's an even greater absurdity, I think, that this even needs to be said.