I unplugged for a while today. The stream of news – and the spin – got to me, simply put.
The spinners have woven their devious clew to help them through the labyrinth while avoiding the minotaur in the maze: homosexuality.
One prominent cleric wonk spun it all as a problem of… wait for it… clericalism. Alas, I also think the Pope’s writers did the same. They are spinning, spinning, spinning the story away from the absolutely key and central component of the self-perpetuating, powerful homosexual subculture in the Church and back toward “the children”. We have failed to protect and we must protect “the little ones”.
Respectfully to some, and less perhaps to some others, I say, “No.”
It’s not about “the children”. It is also about “the children… the little ones”.
Have we already forgotten L’Affaire McCarrick? He is the embodiment of the story, because he started to work on real children, but he also did his vile number on young men and grown men. MOSTLY. From a position of clerical authority, to be sure. Yes, it was clerical in that he was a cleric of increasing authority. BUT… this is a homosexuality problem. It isn’t only about children.
So, I was pretty steamed this morning. I wrote a post and shelved it. I circled around and around and around it. Lacking the mental and spiritual energy to deal with the fallout that was sure to follow, I left it in the cooler.
Hence, I unplugged. This is me, still trying to unplug!
I nixed the cellular service on my phone and went out with my friends into the gray and rainy Windy City.
When I travel and meet friends, clerical and lay, in this place or that, I often get a chance to enjoy the best of a city’s repast. It can be pretty varied. Yesterday evening, for example, there was this.
I assure you that that’s food waaaay back there. It was really good, too, for about 20 seconds.
The highly varied courses were meticulously assembled by people in pristine togs wielding tiny brushes, tanks of super-cooled liquified gases, torches, flasks and special tweezers.
But life is full of backs and forths, ups and downs, emptyings and fillings. Things balance out. By way of contrast, today for lunch it was a classic Chicago beef sandwich at, where else?…
… MR. BEEF!
I don’t need to assure you that that is food!
Hot peppers and sweet peppers with crispy celery. They take the whole thing and submerge it with great hand-filling stainless steel tongs in the roiling vat of juice in which the thin slices and bun were morphed into saturated immortality… or is that immorality?
The former culinary delight arrived on an immaculately curved porcelain tile of impossible white adorned with a surgical, alchemical smear. The cerebellum positively glowed with the potential, the beauty, the flare. You certainly wanted more, but it fleetly vanished into other constructs, each as different from the previous as angels are from each other.
The later gastronomic thrill flopped squishily down in expertly folded waxed paper, which, in its contact with the warm fat laden nectar and secret concoctions, glistened downward into spreading pools of oily peppers, shards of meat and juice. The reptilian brain stem howled with joy, demanding, “MORE!”
The first thing you must attend to at Mr. Beef, just as when you are attempting to write a comment on this blog or send me an email, are The Rules. They are detailed and helpful.
I may have to modify my Rules here.
After my brain stem won a round, and the second sandwich was consumed, off we went to nourish the cerebellum again at the Art Institute of Chicago. There is a great exhibit of John Singer Sargent going that merits your time.
Perhaps it is my present mood, but here is a detail from the Beheading of John the Baptist by 15th c. Sienese painter Giovanni di Paolo.
John, here, leaned out the window so that his head could be taken off, guillotine like.
Also, John was a priest, of a priestly cast. His priestly blood revealed the lie of corrupt Herod and the corrupt clergy who supported him in his illicit sexual arrangement.
Salome wasn’t a femme fatale. Scripture calls her in Greek a korasion, “little girl”. An updated version would bend her gender into a boy.
I needed a day to weigh and ponder. I might need another day.
An unplugged cleric, reading, by Martinus Rorbye (+1848)