Coronet West 448 (the best spring break ever)

On March 6, 2008, I left the continental United States in an F/A-18D Hornet belonging to the Bats, a sister squadron to my own formerly based in Miramar. I say formerly because on that day they initiated a permanent move to Iwakuni, Japan. The Bats, VMFA(AW)-242, are leaving southern California forever to be the Marine Corps' forward-deployed Hornet squadron in Japan. As most of their pilots and WSOs were busy moving their families across the Pacific, the squadron needed some extra aircrew - called augments - to actually fly their aircraft. I was lucky to be chosen. Pictures from the trip, should you be interested, can be found here.

The plan was to fly the aircraft to Hawaii and spend two nights, then fly the aircraft to Guam and spend two nights, then fly to Iwakuni, whereupon I and the other augments would hop a commercial flight back to the United States. The reason for breaking up the trip into segments like that is due to the fact that a Hornet is not designed for long-distant flight, and a squadron of them requires the accompaniment of several tankers (all owned by the Air Force) in order to make it from the west coast to Hawaii, then to Guam, then to Japan. So there are a lot of moving parts. The reason we wait for two days everywhere we stop is so that if there are any problems, there is padding built into the schedule to get everyone caught up.

The mission, called Coronet West 448, kicked off on March 5 with a brief covering the first leg of our flight. We would take off from Miramar, meet the tanker and refuel airborne just south of the bay area, then continue on to Hawaii. These flights are precisely planned so that at every stage a fighter has enough fuel to make it to some runway. It is a little frightening to consider that you might conceivably find yourself over the Pacific Ocean without the required fuel to make it to land...there is a lot of water out there to get lost in. And there are many things that can go wrong: the tanker might not be able to extend the refueling apparatus; the tanker might not be able to pump fuel; the fighter might not be able to accept fuel; the fighter might develop some sort of systems failure; in fact any conceivable weather or mechanical failure might render aerial refueling impossible. I left the brief that day slightly apprehensive.

On March 6, everything looked set to go as planned except for one detail: one tanker would have to slide 24 hours, so only two thirds of the aircraft could leave that day. The other third would catch up the following afternoon. I was crewed up with a fairly new pilot, so our first attempt to accept fuel from the tanker was a little rocky (I won't even try to explain the tricky flying required to put the fuel probe of a Hornet into a small wobbling basket and hold it there while flying at 300 mph). Eventually we got the fuel we needed and after that the trip went much more smoothly. Six hours later, we were approaching the Hawaiian Islands from the north. We had an uneventful approach to MCAS Kaneohe Bay (on the north side of Oahu), if you don't count the breathtaking volcanic scenery of the island itself. I don't know if I have ever, even in photographs, seen more vertical mountains. The air station sits on a little flat peninsula which defines the west side of Kaneohe Bay, and seemingly just a few miles inland the land rises suddenly to fierce, jagged, green ridges. It was exotic and exciting. I felt Hawaii--and the rest of the trip--promised good things.

Though we landed in the afternoon, it took until evening to get to our hotel. Fortunately for us, we had government-rate rooms in the Outrigger Hotel on Waikiki beach, which turned out to be quite a luxurious place to stay. Unfortunately, it seems the entire island south of the ridges rising above Kaneohe bay consists of an ugly, congested, urban mishmash of Honolulu and its several suburbs. But Waikiki was beautiful, and my room had a view of the beach and the water. I got to see my first Hawaiian sunset that night. I met up with an old friend of mine from flight school who is stationed at Kaneohe Bay, and we grabbed some sushi while catching up a bit. Then, tired from the flight, I went back to the hotel and went to sleep.

My second day in Hawaii was all my own. We were scheduled to fly out the following morning, so there was nowhere (literally) I had to be. That suited me: I enjoyed a large, luxurious, and expensive breakfast at the hotel, sat on the beach for a while, then met up with my flight school friend for some sightseeing. First, though, we had lunch at a famous restaurant called "Duke's," named (as I discovered) for a famous Hawaiian who not only won several Olympic medals in swimming, but became the de facto ambassador of Hawaii, surfing, and the "Aloha" spirit around the world. All that sounds pretty cool, but my friend and I were disappointed by the restaurant itself. It was essentially a tourist trap, with mediocre food and high prices. I guess I shouldn't have expected better from a place like Waikiki. I had intended to see the Arizona Memorial and the USS Missouri, but due to our lunch and the traffic we didn't make it to those sights until after 3:00 PM, which is when they closed. So we contented ourselves with a tour of the WWII submarine USS Bowfin, meticulously maintained as it must have looked to the sailors who crewed it, and headed back to drive around the east side of Oahu.

My friend had told me that it was pretty east of Honolulu (and suburbs), but nevertheless I was unprepared for the scenery. On the east and northeast side of Oahu there are no beaches that compare with Waikiki, but there is very little development and the land is rugged. The road snakes along the side of steep slopes that seem to run all the way down to the ocean floor, and small islands project out of the water like giant stakes. It felt wild and exotic--it recalled the sense of awe and excitement I first experienced when landing among the fantastically vertical cliffs surrounding Kaneohe Bay returned after being submerged temporarily by tawdry tourist attractions. We capped the evening with dinner at a bar/restaurant obviously filled with (and enjoyed by) locals; it was loud, tasty, and fun. Afterwards my friend dropped me off at my hotel.

The following morning we met early and drove back over the island to Kaneohe Bay. We received another tanker brief that was much like the first, only it applied to our planned eight-hour trip to Guam this time. It was very hot on the flight line as we manned up and started our aircraft, but the take-off was uneventful and we were treated to a large left turn which allowed us one last pass over Oahu on our way east. We then formed up on the tanker and headed out over the ocean.

About five hours into the flight one of our aircraft reported some mechanical issues. For about half an hour we tried to help them along, but new problems kept developing and eventually the aircrew decided to they would take the aircraft to the closest divert field. As it happened, the flight lead ordered my jet to accompany them (we always fly in pairs for safety). So we headed over to Wake Island, a tiny little atoll in the middle of nowhere, but conveniently right along our intended flight path. Wake, when I first saw it, took my breath away. It is like a jewel in the midst of the vast blue Pacific, which extends as far as the eye can see in every direction. Wake consists of three islands that form a crooked "V" with a still, turquoise lagoon inside. As we circled to line up on the runway, its colors were very bright under the tropical sun, and it looked like the stereotypical "desert island."

The runway on Wake Island occupies nearly the entire southern arm of the "V," with base operations and parking spots on the south side. Once we had taxied, shut down the jet, and climbed out, I was struck immediately by how bright, hot, and flat it all was. On one side was the pale lagoon, shimmering in the sun; on the other the deep blue choppy ocean, bounded by a gentle break and brilliantly white coral sand. The contractors and Air Force personnel who keep the island running met us at our jet with white pick-up trucks, helped us unload our gear, and drove us around to the north side of the "V" where the living area is. Surprisingly, there was everything necessary for a reasonable quality of life: barracks, chow hall, gym, store, and bar. We quickly fell into the routine of the island.

Because the only source of food was the chow hall, and it was only open three times a day (for only an hour each time), life on Wake was pretty much dictated by its schedule. Besides that, however, we were free to do as we wished. There were pick-up trucks to get around the island (we were told, "if it has a key in it you can take it"), kayaks for exploring the lagoon (which you could also swim in), an old WWII (think Saving Private Ryan) landing craft they used for deep-sea fishing, tennis courts, trails to run on, and--best of all--ruined fortifications explore and artifacts to find from the Japanese occupation of 1941-1945. We led a wild and aimless life the four days we stayed there. On the first night I took a kayak and tackled the reef that shelters the lagoon (and wiped out several times due to the four-foot break), then joined my comrades at the bar, which is of note in and of itself. Every squadron that has come through Wake on the way east or west since WWII (it seems) has left a plaque, a decorated ceiling tile, or some kind of paraphernalia. The place was a veritable museum. After some solid drinking there (which we would repeat almost every night), we grabbed a pick-up truck and went tearing along the coral roads of the island, stopping every once in a while to gaze at the uncountable stars that shone in the unpolluted skies above. And from this first day life didn't change much.

One break, however, came during the second day. One of the Thai workers had told us he'd take us fishing, and we were pretty excited. We weren't prepared for the lean Thai helper who meticulously sharpened a well-used and wicked-looking blade for what seemed like hours while we waited, nor for the Saving-Private-Ryan landing craft that chugged up to the pier to pick us up (complete with a drop-gate in the prow in case we needed to assault an island. The fishing procedures seemed laughably simple: attach a hook and lure to a sturdy parachute cord, tie the other end to something very sturdy (like a stanchion), throw out the line, and don heavy-duty rubber gloves. I admit initial skepticism. But when the first line went taut with such suddenness that a fine spray of salt water coated us, I was suddenly in the middle of it, pulling in the parachute cord with all my might. Hand over hand, the line cutting almost through the glove, fighting against the fifty-plus pound fish on the other end. It had to be fast, too, because we quickly learned that taking our time meant a shark hit our fish. Soon we were catching Ono, large fish from fifty to seventy pounds, at a rate of one every few minutes. It was astounding. They would come aboard very much alive and very mean-looking, thrashing their silver tails and snapping away with some very carnivorous jaws. To kill them, we hooked them with a harpoon as soon as they were out of the water, pinned them to the deck, and beat their heads with an aluminum baseball bat until they stopped twitching. Seized with a wild and violent glee, we took turns spearing the fish then clubbing them unconscious, whooping with delight, spattering ourselves with gore, and reveling in the wild light we saw reflected in our eyes. It was tremendously exciting. The crystalline blue sea, the endless clear horizon, the dark smudge of Wake Island in the distance, and the almost-unbearably bright white tropical sunlight were very relaxing until that line would sing and vibrate, and suddenly there would be a flurry of exertion, men straining against the cord and lining up with harpoon and bat. Blood and sweat would fly, and we cheered each other as we tossed yet one more monster into our rapidly-filling cooler. One such event, however, found us hauling in a much smaller fish, and as one of us wound up to deliver the satisfying death blow to the head, he was surprised to find the Thai driver in his way. Protecting the struggling fish with his body, he endeavored to communicate that smashing this fish would poison the meat. As we all sheepishly backed away, our senior member laughed, gestured at the bat, and told the Thai, "sorry, but that's all we know," and it was true. Our admittedly one-sided struggle with the fish had turned into a wild quest for dominance which we entered each time with whole heart. In that case, it was a good thing we were stopped, too--the fish we'd caught was yellowtail, not ono, and would yield a tasty meal later on. It went into the cooler like all the rest, which was huge and had a disturbing tendency to quiver and rattle around as the life continued to leave the bodies of our prey. As it filled up, we began to head back to the little harbor, noticing suddenly that we were tired, festooned with blood and brains, and eager to enjoy a well-earned meal of tuna and ono.

But more work was to come. We struggled once docked to haul the heavy fish up to the butchering tables, where the disturbing lean Thai with an exceptionally sharp knife expertly and effortlessly gutted the fish. At one point, though, he paused: taking a little piece of raw meat on that frightening blade, he approached our senior member, bowed, and offered it to him. There was a moment of utter silence amid the carcasses, blood, and sunshine as we all realized the opportunity at hand: we were about to eat the freshest, tastiest sashimi I have ever eaten. And after we'd all eaten the raw flesh of our foes, we headed back to the barracks to clean up in high and somewhat awed spirits. The utter abundance and ferocity of the ocean lingered in the back of my mind as I emerged, showered, again into the tropical dusk. But the fresh fish was delicious...as was the large sashimi plate the Thais had prepared for us.

I spent most of my afternoons on Wake exploring the historical sites or reading quietly in my suite. It seemed like paradise, but sadly even paradise grows cold. After four nights, I was ready to leave - not yet bored, but aware that I would be if I stayed any longer. Fortunately, the jets were fixed. We took off into a splendid turbulent tropical sunrise. At this point most of us were feeling it was time to start heading home. So though Guam promised more beautiful beaches, luxurious tourist accommodations, and a nightlife, we were already looking forward to Japan. Unfortunately for my jet and one other, that wasn't to be. No sooner had arrived at our hotel, our flight lead got a call from the maintainers saying that one of our jets was seriously broken. So, taking counsel, our lead decided that my jet would (again!) stay with the broken aircraft and accompany it to Japan when it was fixed.

After the initial bitterness of being left behind again, the four of us who remained on the island tried to make the best of things. The hotel boasted a nice pool complex, several bars and restaurants, a great weight room, and we had a car to explore the island with. Our days were even lazier than they had been on Wake, and we struggled to fill the hours of five full days with working out, sitting by the pool, and reading. One afternoon we went to a picnic on the base-owned private beach; several times we drove to base solely to check the internet. For the most part we were unhappy, because the area of the island wherein we stayed was an expensive tourist trap, and the area we drove through on our way to base was a depressing succession of dumpy strip malls. However, on our last day, three of us drove around the island to sight-see, and my eyes were opened.

Guam is shaped like an elongated bean roughly oriented north/south, with a dogleg opening to the west. The south part of the island is very rural and hilly, dotted with pretty little villages, and covered with lush tropical vegetation. I was amazed to see both that every cemetery we passed was immaculate and glorious with flowers, and that every church looked new and well-cared for. That, coupled with the heavy tropical scenery and the always-visible, always-beautiful ocean left in my mind a strong impression of a simple, happy, careless life. Here, away from the tourism of Hawaii, away from the sunwashed bleakness of Wake, away the dirty northern part of Guam, here was finally the "Island Life." The whole region was uncrowded, uncluttered, and polite. We trundled along narrow, curvy two-lane roads surrounded by fantastic vistas of mountains and water. Midway through the trip we arrived a Umatac Bay, the site of an ancient native village and Magellan's landing on Guam in 1521. The placid, clear bay lapped at the foot of a simple church and some small houses and stores; it was overlooked by a benign Spanish fort and surrounded by dramatic and beautiful headlands. It was an area so pristine it left me with a great sense of peace. And though I desired very much to go home, after seeing that I was sorry to leave Guam.

Our flight to Japan the next morning was uneventful. We landed finally at Iwakuni, eight days late, and were greeted with beers. After unpacking the jets and re-packing our stuff for commercial travel, we retired to the inn on base without any desire to linger or celebrate our arrival. We just wanted to go home. The next morning we arose early to catch a taxi to the train station, a train to Hiroshima, a bus from Hiroshima to the Hiroshima Airport, a plane from Hiroshima to Tokyo's commuter airport, another bus to Tokyo's international airport, then a red-eye from Toyko to Los Angeles. After an uncomfortable nine-hour flight, we went through customs in the United States and fortunately hopped aboard the very next flight to San Diego. Amazingly, through all these connections we never went wrong. I guess we finally made up for the "bad" luck of the trip over that left us stranded on Wake and Guam.

One of the reasons I joined the military was for the opportunity to travel, and for the first time in my career that wish was granted. It recalled to me the romance of both the age of explorers and the Second World War to set off across the huge expanses of the Pacific to look for--and land on--such tiny pieces of land. For two weeks I got to see a part of the world I was neither knew nor cared about, but in the end I am grateful that I did. It turned out to be my greatest adventure so far.

"The Law" versus "Faith and Love"

For Catholics, the season of Lent is a time of prayer, fasting, and penance. We do this in order to walk with Jesus during his 40 days of temptation, to immerse ourselves in the mystery of human suffering and to recognize it's redemptive nature, the culmination of which happens during the Easter Triduum, where Jesus is crucified and rises from the dead. Many Catholics facilitate their observance of Lent by signing up to receive email updates from priests and spiritual organizations. A friend of mine receives such reflections, and recently sent me one that affected him deeply. In it, the priest writes, "Jesus takes away the sin of the world by dramatically exposing what is the real sin of the world (ignorant attacking and killing, not purity codes)."

I think this Lenten reflection wisely identifies the essence of Jesus' moral law simply as "doing good no matter what." Remember, Jesus taught "love your God with all your heart, all your being, all your strength, and all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself" (Luke 10:27). It's worth noting that love of God comes before love of others, but that (at least in regards to "doing good") loving others as ourselves means loving others the same indulgent, absorbed, forgiving way in which we habitually love ourselves. If we are healthy, we aren't usually eager to punish ourselves for our little transgressions, and neither do we seek revenge or exercise spite against ourselves. According to Jesus, that means we aren't to do that to others either - essentially, as the Lenten reflection states, we must not engage in "ignorant attacking and killing."

Yet I don't know if I am comfortable with the reflection's apparent rejection of "purity codes." Jesus certainly didn't teach a specific code Himself - in fact, He sometimes seemed quite cavalier about the Mosaic Law. However, He did rebuke the woman caught in adultery (John 8:3-11), He did chase the money-changers out of the temple (John 2:13-16), and He did praise the faith and virtue of the centurion with the sick servant (Luke 7:1-10). I think perhaps a "purity code" or "moral law" was unnecessary for Jesus because of his Divinity. Though not exempt from temptation, Jesus as God could see it for what it was and reject it. For the rest of us flawed humans, our natural (or original) sin clouds our vision, leading us to suppress our right conscience and fall into sin. A "moral law" of rules helps keep us away from that - one may not understand why a small lie is a sin, for example, but if one follows the "moral law" - the teaching of the Church - one will nevertheless avoid sin.

It is also true that "ignorant attacking and killing" are not the only sources of sin. Many of the most damaging sins (violence against self, or the sins of pride, for example) are levied primarily against the sinner, and only indirectly affect others around him or her, however dire than indirect effect might be. "[I]gnorant attacking and killing" does not seem to include sins of lust or greed, either, when those sins are committed between consenting partners. Yet these acts conform to St. Augustine's ancient definition of sin: the separation of oneself from God. Jesus certainly countered "ignorant attacking and killing" with his love, and provided the archetypal example of "turning the other cheek," but let us not forget that in his confrontation-less acceptance of death, he was aligning His human will perfectly with God's plan. That is, of course, the first and most important part of Jesus' "moral law:" "you shall love your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your soul." But since humanity has committed the same sins of violence, self-hatred, pride, greed, and lust for all of its tragic existence, a codified "moral law" promulgated by the Church prohibiting things like adultery and suicide can help humans better identify and avoid subtler instances and acts of sin than the obvious crime of "ignorant attacking and killing."

One objection I have heard regarding "moral laws" is that they can become a crutch, which is to say that some people become more focused on strict observance of the "moral law" than they do on loving God, being generous or kind, or growing in faith. In fact, often an excessive focus on following some "moral law" can actually inhibit all other aspects of Christian faith. I think this is a good criticism, and it highlights the necessity of the first part of Jesus' moral law: "love your God with all your heart, all your mind, and all your soul." To follow Jesus is an adventure, because it requires us to take risks (for example, to reject an unholy friend or speak out against an unholy but popular cause), it requires us to be bold (for example, to be kind or caring to someone we find repugnant), it even requires us to deny ourselves (for example, to work on the weekend). All of these things are an anodyne to the sterile practice of following the "law" to the exclusion of anything else. I think many Jews' refusal to do this was a source of Jesus' sometime frustration with them in the New Testament.

I think a "purity code" or "moral law" is important. It should be in the back of our mind, especially when we are confused about the right thing to do in the big and small decisions that confront us every day. Yet such a law or code is not of first importance: scripture makes quite clear that the most important aspect of Christian faith the act of loving God "with all [our] heart, all [our] being, all [our] strength, and all [our] mind." He even provided concrete examples: "Then the King shall say unto them on his right hand, come...and inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me" (Matthew 25:34-36). Moreover, as the Lenten reflection states, Jesus Himself provided the perfect example of this love, this most important part of faith through His own sacrifice - and it was an example and sacrifice that only Jesus could perform: we were starved for the Word of God; strangers from His face; sick with and imprisoned by sin; and He came to us. Even as he praised the righteous for doing, He did for us Himself, even though it led unto the grave.

It is well to use the season of Lent to refocus our spiritual attention from simply "following the law" to a more engaged, dynamic exercise of faith. In doing so, however, let's not be so foolish as to forget that law - often the journey of faith begins in darkness, with only that law to guide us. As we grow to understand more, the law begins to seem unnecessary, since what it commands becomes more natural and desirable to us. Yet no spiritual journey is a straight, simple ascent. We often fall from the righteous path by simple mistakes and small sins, and must work yet harder to reorient our steps toward God. In these situations, when the love of God and our spiritual understanding seem lacking or insufficient, we have the scourge of the rules to guide us back to the right path.

The value of majesty and awe in Catholic liturgy

Earlier this year, a friend of mine asked to me to sponsor her initiation into the Catholic Church. My job is chiefly emotional support, as her instruction is conducted by the priests and catechists at our church, but I also am responsible both for representing the church to her by answering any questions she has (or directing her to someone who can) and for representing her to the church at her baptism, confirmation, and first Eucharist at this year's Easter Vigil Mass. I recently wrote her an email regarding the essence of Catholic faith and how we, as Catholics, are to worship in response to some concerns we shared about the way Catholicism is often presented, both in liturgy and in extra-liturgical activities. It is a good distillation of my thought over the past month, and so I offer it to you here, edited slightly for this blog:

Dear Amber,

I promised you the quote from Bishop Salvatore (of San Diego) regarding the restoration of the Tridentine Mass, and it follows at the bottom of this email [I have linked it here]. Though you and I have discussed the nature of worship at St. Brigid's a lot over the past months, I thought I would put some of my thoughts and perspective down on paper for you. Afterwards, you can read the Bishop's more reasoned and eloquent insistence on the value of Catholic tradition than what I told you last night.

The first truth about Christianity that the author C.S. Lewis brings up in his book Mere Christianity is that the universal fact about humans is that we don't do what we ought to do, and we are aware of it. Each day, each of us commit countless acts that we understand to be wrong, from simply missing breakfast to cutting another car off in traffic to carrying on an extramarital affair. This begs the question of whether the knowledge that we act wrongly at times implies that we are therefore aware of a universal "right," a moral law. I think the answer is an emphatic yes - we do know what is right internally, even if we can't necessarily articulate it to ourselves in thought or in word. And if there does exist a moral law, then we are bound to try to find out what it is and to live by it.

Another "first truth" Christianity teaches is that our world is created. Though a debate rages amongst the learned regarding the proof, or lack thereof, of this truth, I find that the incredible efficiency of organisms and the wonderful range of metaphysical (which is to say, supernatural or "beyond our experience of nature") events that happen to us--like love, for example--indicates that there is something truly glorious about the world that cannot have simply evolved by accident. It is much more reasonable to suppose that some wonderful entity created it to a purpose of delight and beauty. Yet consider that alongside our tendency not to do what we ought, and you reach the conclusion that we somehow are aware of the divine nature of ourselves and our existence but unable to participate fully. Somehow, we have decided to reject it--and we continue to do so through the sins we commit day.

The most important truth of Christianity, however, is that God, who loves us as His unique and glorious creation, wanted so much to heal the rift between us and Him that he "emptied himself" (Philippians 2:7)--which is to say, humiliated himself--to become one of us, "one like us in all things but sin" (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 467), then allowed himself to the perfect sacrifice to heal our original sin which separated Him from us, His creation. This is related in the stories of the Bible, which is literally the revealed word of God, and is the foundation of the Catholic faith and all Christianity. Jesus is indeed "the way, the truth, and the life" (John 14:6)--He gave us himself and His bride, the Church, to bridge the gap between our human iniquity and our human divinity. Hence the ancient title of the pope: Pontifex Maximus, which means "Great Bridge-Builder". The great role of the church is first to make the true presence of God available to us through the sacraments of baptism, eucharist, penance, confirmation, marriage, holy orders, and last rites; second, to foster a the parish and dioceses as the Body of Christ, a community of the faithful. Through the sacraments we better receive the grace necessary to lead a divine and holy life; the community of faith exhorts us to exert ourselves to do our part to reject our sin and "enter by the narrow gate" (Matthew 7:13), provides education and ministry, and offers emotional support to its members in times of trial.

That is the importance of the Universal Catholic Church, biblically instituted by Christ with Peter as it's first pope. And it is entrusted with dispensing and regulating the sacraments, which (it should be said) come from God and not us--so therefore it is not our place to "customize" them according to our preference. Hence the importance and strict canon law regarding marriage and the Eucharist, as well as the ability to grant indulgences (which is literally what happens when you receive the sacrament of penance). Hence also I feel that when things become as sentimental and cloying, as excessively emotional and supportive as they have been at St. Brigid's, there is a real danger that us, the people of God, will lose the essential awe and reverence that is fitting to us when we stand in the presence of God Himself in the sacramental liturgies. Emotional support is, after all, one of the less important ministries of the Body of Christ, especially if some kind of exhortation is more appropriate. That is why I get so frustrated with a sentimental approach to worship.

I think that a "support-group culture" grants people a sense of entitlement - it encourages them to demand acceptance "as they are." This is a mistake: in no wise should small character flaws and small physical or material indulgences become tacitly accepted. Fr. Steve's homily this morning on the temptations of Christ helped inspire me on the subject, because he explained that we are mistaken to think that we as God's children can expect to be "provided for" in a conventional sense; rather, to be a child of God (at least, to be a Catholic) is a challenge: a challenge to accept that we cannot expect to have what we want and we cannot expect to be free of suffering in this human life. To follow Christ is to follow in his temptations and sufferings: "If anyone wishes to come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23). In fact, as committed children of God we can expect rather more suffering and privation than the rest of the world, since we are theoretically more equipped to deal with it. Our Church and faith life should recognize this in every ministry, and should encourage a loving and redemptive acceptance of suffering instead of trying to anesthetize it with a sentimental, community-oriented embrace. Certainly we should welcome everybody with compassion for their trials, but in love we should exhort and admonish them to be better people: to face their sins and flaws and help them, with the grace of God, to be more holy. I think the entire Church would be more receptive of this challenge to be holy if the sacraments were celebrated with reverence and majesty.

The final promise of a holy life, Amber, is to live in paradise as a child of God. It is a paradise the holy person reaches honestly, having paid their dues on earth by simple acts of love: love of God, love of others through God, and a loving acceptance of our assigned and merited suffering and toil--"cursed [is] the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life...In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art and unto dust shalt thou return" (John 3:17). A very great pope taught us that "Love without sacrifice is mere sentimentality." This is our condition--humilitated by our sins before God, entirely reliant on his grace and sacrifice for our restoration to the paradise that Adam lost. And yet, he promises that if we follow Christ--whose path is articulated and maintained by the Church--we shall be rewarded with our ancient grace. I find this to be much more hopeful than the mere material happiness in the form of success, a husband, or simple earthly contentment that seems to be the focus of sentimental Christianity.

Below [here]you will find the better argument for majesty and tradition in Catholic celebration. Enjoy. I look forward to discussing more with you both as you continue your journey toward full communion with God as a Catholic, and after your acceptance at Easter,

Matthew Klobucher

Reflections on the holidays and on college football

It has been a long hiatus. Like everyone else in the United States, except apparently the football bloggers, I was caught up with end-of-the-year tasks, holiday travel, and (let us not forget) the holidays themselves.

Speaking of the holidays, I will say that I am getting a little tired of all the righteous indignation I hear about the "over-commercialization" and the political correctness of the holidays. It makes me angry, sure, to hear sacred hymns re-written as sales jingles, or to see the holidays represented as incomplete without a new car or a piece of jewelry, but I have long since resigned myself to the fact that entities with a product to sell will do anything they can to sell it. There is very little respect left for traditions or ethics. I am a pretty serious Catholic, and I am accustomed to celebrate Christmas and Easter (and several other holy days) in my own way. Furthermore, Christmas is about "peace on earth, goodwill to men" (cf. Luke 2:14), and I don't see how forcibly stated criticisms are in keeping with that statement. Let everyone else celebrate their non-religious, pagan Yule holiday. I'm just glad that it still includes a spirit of generosity and benevolence.

I celebrated one of the best Christmases I can remember, for those interested. Last year my sister, now a nun, was unable to come home; this year her attendendance made all our holiday cheer glow a little brighter. It was a busy time--mass on Christmas eve, family over for Christmas, travel to see family the day after Christmas, an a pre-New Year's party on the 28th. As there wasn't much time for anything except socializing with loved ones, my memories of Christmas 2007 will be filled with people instead of errands, things, food, and so on. And, for the first time I can remember, we had snow on Christmas day.

I spent much of my free time these last three weeks watching and agonizing over college football. For the first time in my life I entered a bowl-pick'em with my co-workers, and I was surprised to find that I did all right. But I cannot say that anything about this bowl season was fun or entertaining. I confess I am rather fond of the ranking/bowl system, if only because a playoff doesn't necessarily guarantee the two best teams play (a mediocre team with a couple of good games could advance to the title game, and a great team could stumble once and be completely out), and the playoff system marginalizes the regular season. I know, I know--anything but a playoff is subjective and therefore unfair. True. I concede that. However, I recognize that the ranking system attempts to put the best team up as the champion, regardless of (perhaps) a stumble along the way. Also, I enjoy the regular season--you often see two high-ranked teams face each other September, in a game that will have serious bowl repercussions. Also, upsets mean a lot more when they knock a team out of contention.

I know these are weak arguments. For a playoff system to be even remotely just it would have to include high-ranked teams even though they may not be their conference champions. And rankings mean that the regular season matters. For my alma mater, Notre Dame, to be even considered for a spot in the playoffs, it would have to earn a high ranking, presumably by beating quality teams consistently during the regular season. And so I also concede that a limited play-off system of eight or 16 teams is not only workable, but also not detrimental to the character of college football. Like every other college football fan, I have a plan in mind.

Between the last weekend in August and the last weekend in November there are 14 weekends, enough for a 12-game schedule with two bye weeks. The first weekend in December would be devoted to conference championship games, the second weekend would be off (for finals and such), and the third weekend would start the playoff. Sixteen teams would be included. They would play over the next four weekends, extending into the second weekend of January. It is a slightly longer season, sure...but that means more money for the college football networks, the conferences, and the schools who participate. And we get to watch more football. It's really win-win.

How to choose the 16 teams, though? a simple answer would be to take the six BCS conference champions and the ten highest-ranked teams who are not BCS conference champions. Though we saw some good football from non-BCS conference teams over the last several years, perhaps leading some to suggest that the playoff include the 12 conference champions, I think that by and large the top 3 teams of a BCS conference such as the SEC, the Pac 10, or the Big 10 are generally better than even the champion of a non BCS conference. I therefore reject that proposition (we don't want our playoff games to be meaningless blowouts). I personally don't like conferences at all, and would rather simply have the top sixteen ranked teams play, but since TV and bowl contracts are tied to conferences these days, I don't see how it's avoidable to pay them some lip service (despite the fact that a top-16 slate in any year is likely to include members from all six BCS conferences). In any case, non-BCS teams and non conference champions would be equally fighting for a high ranking and a chance to make the playoffs. Hence big match-ups during the regular season would still be important, and teams who schedule inferior opponents (like Ohio State's 2007 season) could still be punished in favor of teams who play a harder schedule (like USC this year).

But what shall we call these fifteen playoff games? nobody cares, probably except the marketers of the current BCS bowls. Yet the beauty of this system is that the Sugar Bowl, the Rose Bowl, the Fiesta Bowl, and the Orange bowl could split the round of four, consisting of two games on the first weekend in January, and the round of eight, consisting of four games on the last weekend in December, between them, allowing at least the Rose bowl to be scheduled on New Years' day, which falls between the last weekend in December and the first weekend in January--and they can also then keep their precious Rose parade. And, if the Rose bowl would suffer itself to be always part of the round of eight teams, it would be extremely likely that the organizers could schedule a Pac 10/Big 10 match-up (this could even hold true for some of the other bowls). The other two games in the round of eight could be occupied by other worthy bowl games, such as the Cotton bowl or the Gator bowl. The round of sixteen (eight games) could be filled by other, lesser, bowls, and the National Championship game would be just that, with no fancy name required. The marketers would get their piece of the pie, the bowl games would be sufficiently important in the grand scheme of things--they would certainly be big games!--and we would all get to see a team crowned national champion in a reasonably non-subjective way. I say "reasonably," because the ranking system is subjective, though taking (theoretically) the top 16 teams would largely equalize the subjectivity.

It's a pipe dream, I'm sure. But it would at least prevent much of the grumbling and discontent at this most recent college season. You can also check out similar opinions from the Wizard of Odds and Larry Brown.

Agnus Dei

I recently began reading The Lamb's Supper by Scott Hahn, an excellent and revealing exploration of the true and mystical significance of the Catholic Mass. He argues that the Book of Revelation in the Bible is an explanation and retelling of a Mass as well as a vision of the end of the world. In fact, he believes that these two events are deeply interconnected--even, to some degree, the same thing. Should you be curious as to why the Apocalypse and the Mass are mystically the same event, I recommend the book. Mr Hahn is much smarter than I, and much more articulate about his point than I could be in this blog. But I'll reference some salient points to indicate one area in which modern American celebrations of the Mass fail to properly reverence all that the Sacred Liturgy means.

The author begins by briefly recounting his own conversion to Catholicism, which occurred during the observation of a Mass. When he heard the congregation recite the Agnus Dei and then heard the priest respond during the Elevation, "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world...," he realized that the format and the language of the mass itself is drawn directly from scripture, particularly the Book of Revelation. A protestant Biblical scholar at the time, he knew that the Gospel of John and John's subsequent apocalyptic vision--recorded in Revelation--particularly refer to Jesus by the title of "Lamb of God," and though Mr Hahn had previously condemned the Mass as a blasphemy, a "ritual that purported to 'resacrifice Jesus Christ,'" this scriptural fidelity caused him to reconsider.

But why the lamb of God? Tradition teaches that most Jews of Jesus' time, taking their cue from prophets who wrote that the coming Messiah would restore the "Kingdom of God," believed that the Christ would be a new David, a new Saul. The "New Israel" would be again a land of milk and honey, strong in its boundaries and renowned for its glory, as it was in Saul's day when the Queen of Sheba made her pilgrimage there (1 Kings 10). Such Jews were understandably upset when the so-called Christ, who claimed to be the Messiah and the Son of God, died ignomiously on a cross, leaving nothing but some cryptic sayings about rising from the dead and a gaggle of frightened followers. Yet Christian theology teaches rightly that the "New Jerusalem" isn't a stronger earthly kingdom were God's chosen people can be free from oppression, but rather an analogous spiritual kingdom where there is freedom from sin and corruption.

Think for a minute what a powerful point this is. The Bible begins the tale of humanity with a story that tells of man's fall from grace into sin. And that same sin is the root and origin of all misery. The sin of Cain caused him to be driven from his home; the sins of the Israelites in the desert of the Exodus caused the vast majority of them to be slaughtered; the sins of David caused him the great personal anguish recorded in the Psalms; the further sins of the Israelites caused the Babylonian captivity and a long passion of foreign oppression. Don't forget that the act of oppression is a sin in and of itself; it is the sin of the oppressor. The whole sordid history of the world, which saw the glory and decay of the Roman Empire, the Islamic Empire, the bloody democratic and nationalistic revolutions, Fascism, and today terrorism, is attributable to somebody's sin. Jesus' life, death, and resurrection frees us from the shackles of--though not the effects of--sin.

Therefore the true mark of Jesus' messianic effect is his role as sacrifice. Mr Hahn identifies this and cites it as the culmination and fulfillment of a long Jewish tradition of sacrifices. Throughout the Old Testament, Jews sacrificed to God as a core element of their worship. Able sacrificed a lamb to God, Abraham nearly sacrificed his son, Melchizedek offered bread and wine. Mr Hahn points out that the Hebrews are not alone in this, either: many other religions have ascribed a similar importance to sacrifice. "Man's primal need to worship God has always expressed itself in sacrifice: worship that is simultaneously an act of praise, atonement, self-giving, covenant and thanksgiving (in Greek, eucharistia)... So when Jesus spoke of his life as a sacrifice, He tapped into a current running deep...in every human soul" (26). To a Christian, it should be painfully obvious that the urge to sacrifice to God results from a deep human need to "make things right" with Him on a radical level: to praise God for creating and sustaining us; to lovingly give of ourselves back to Him in gratitude; to atone both for our great transgression in first turning away from him and for our daily specific transgressions.

Yet all our personal sacrifices cannot truly "make things right" with God. The opening story of the Bible makes it clear that by rejecting God's love and providence in the Garden of Eden, we have permanently stained ourselves with that sin. Practically, that original sin is visible in our specific sins, often committed despite our great efforts to be good and holy people. And so we recognize the need for a better sacrifice. This is not a new concept. Mr Hahn points out that during the original passover, the instructions specified a valuable lamb--one of certain age, one without physical defects. After all, the meaning of the sacrifice would be little if we sacrificed something worthless. For our sins and failings, though, only the sacrifice of Jesus good enough: the God-man, unstained by sin; completely undeserving of sin's reward, death. To properly praise God, to properly thank Him, and--perhaps most importantly--to properly atone for our transgressions, and thus be freed from the weight of our sin, we must (like the Jews during passover) offer a more perfect lamb. Only the Lamb of God Himself will do.

Jesus is, more than anything else, the Lamb of God. His role as the perfect sacrifice is the one thing that enables our communion with God and allows us to hope for eternal life. This sacrifice is what we Catholics re-enact at every Mass, reverently offering up again the perfect sacrifice for the praise of God and the forgiveness of our sins. Since while we bear the flesh of Adam and Eve on our bones we are tainted by their sin, our sacrifice must be constant--hence the need to reconstitute Jesus' sacrifice constantly. Our constant participation in the Mass (the Church recommends we attend every day, if we can) is extremely important. For God stands outside of time, and therefore to Him every moment in the world happens simultaneously, not in a single instant but over all eternity. That is why as humans we are never stagnant regarding God: we are either becoming closer to Him or further away with each action and thought we commit. The past does not factor into our current relationship with God except insofar as we can draw encouragement or discouragement from it; the future is the province of wishful thinking. The present, as C.S. Lewis observed, "is all lit up with Eternal rays." Thus the sacrifice on the altar at Mass is mystically, literally the same sacrifice that occurred on the hill of Calvary, and our worship is concurrent (and in community with) with the worship of the holy ones in the heavenly Jerusalem of John's vision in Revelations. At the Mass, our world literally touches heaven.

Christ, of course, was more than a sacrifice. Before his death, he was a leader, a healer, and a teacher. Now that he has risen, He is Lord and King of all creation. He is our brother and He is our friend. He is our sustenance, our "food for the journey." He has many titles appropriate to those roles: King of Kings, Prince of Peace, Bread of Life. Yet His most important role is always and forever that of the Lamb, is the sacrifice that finally reconciled us, God's chosen and beloved people, with God. The Mass celebrates above all this sacrifice and reconciliation. That is why, at the moment of the sacrifice, as we stand in the presence of God Himself and the whole of the Church triumphant, we chant or sing the Agnus Dei, repeating the words "Lamb of God" three times. To replace that title with a lesser one, like "Bread of Life," is to fail in reverence. Likewise, to make the tone of the Mass express more happiness at how much God loves us, or how great God is, than solemn and heartfelt awe at the magnitude of our offered sacrifice, is to fail in reverence. After all, Mass isn't something we Catholics do ourselves, nor is it something to which we can apply "artistic license." God does it for us; God invites us into his heavenly kingdom for that period of time. And our only guideline for how to act comes from John's vision in Revelation, which is resolved into the traditional rubrics of the Sacred Liturgy.

I'll conclude by saying that "reverence" does not exclude laughter or happiness. I think a deep joy mingles both with awe and with a deep sorrow regarding our sinful state when we are truly reverent. The external effect when we stand before God in church is, appropriately, one of solemnity; it then appropriately transitions to laughter, affection, compassion, spontaneous praise, and personalized, heartfelt prayer when we return to this physical world. The grace that attends our serious and awe-inspiring experience of God's presence leaves us prepared and able to be the joyous free lovers and servants of God--which is, after all, exactly what we were created to be.

Nip / Tuck

Though I rarely get to watch TV these days, there are shows I enjoy. Scrubs, for example, I find amusing, witty, and poignant. I should say rather I found it that way (past tense), because it seems like lately the show has been recycling old jokes and trying too hard to make them funny, mostly by reducing the characters from sympathetic, endearingly flawed people to mere caricatures. You might say this represents the inevitable and standard bow to the lowest common denominator. I also watch The Office, largely because it makes lowbrow humor the subject of highbrow, satiric humor, and presents in its characters archetypes rather than caricatures. Another show I enjoy is Ugly Betty. Artistically, this show has big fish to fry: it combines a satiric portrayal of high-fashion society with situationally comedic family humor; it also delves wisely and uncomfortably into the pain wrought by selfishness within friendships and families. Such shows both provide a comedic escape from drudgery while also--to varying degrees--presenting worthwhile themes and stories.

What, then, can I possibly find attractive about Nip / Tuck? This show is probably best known for occasional nudity, shocking references to sex, and a cruel veneration of sexual beauty. It offers very little that's light-hearted or funny. Yet between the lines of its biting and sometimes malicious script I detect a bitter satire.

No doubt there are viewers who find Nip / Tuck titillating. I certainly don't, because the tone of the story is grimly self-aware. The characters endlessly hurt each other in their desperate quest to be alluring and to conquer others. Moreover, the characters endlessly struggle, realistically, with the pain their lifestyle wreaks on them. A wasteland of broken relationships and cookie-cutter ideal beauty, Nip / Tuck pulls no punches revealing the true ugliness of our collective and selfish vanity.

You see, the writers of Nip / Tuck have identified the deadliest poison of our society: a radical, fundamental hedonism, founded in the (mistaken) belief that technology can make pleasure so readily available that there is no need to feel anything else. Their characters, superficially, meet our social ideal of manhood: they are sort of modern American Everymen, hypocritically seducing woman after woman between fits of trying to make more lasting relationships work, and concerned about money only insofar as it can elevate them above their peers. Nip / Tuck also shows its protagonists stumbling upon redemption, as when one of the doctors is asked to perform surgery on a nun. Challenged by her piousness and total contempt for his charm and his lifestyle, he hesitantly approaches her after the surgery is complete in order both to thank her for a small gift she gave him, and to ask her to help him pray a little. Of course, nothing comes of it in the end--the episode of the nun ends with that particular episode. Next week he is the same cocky, cruel, hedonistic man that he was before. But in those small incidences of clarity, when the characters vaguely realize that there is something truer and more satisfying beyond endless pleasure-seeking, I find an accurate portrayal of how socially we've nearly cauterized anything really good, anything approaching moral rectitude or an assertion of the actual dignity of man as an individual instead of a mere instrument or receptacle of sensation.

I am sure many people watch Nip / Tuck in order to worship, as it were, at the altar of modern hedonism. I am sure that the depraved and disgusting sexual episodes in the show are not only inspired by actual practices, but inspire imitation for people bored with more "conventional" relationships. And I am sure much of the show's critical acclaim and staying power has to do with "shock value." It does, however, also expose the great lie about our commercial culture--that the result of worshipping pleasure is to numb our senses to it. The show harshly illustrates the terrible emptiness of our "ideal" American life, often in ways that hit close to home, and (at least in my case) ends any temptation I have to participate it its characters' values in the slightest. The latter effect is more than enough reason to watch.

To Autumn (courtesy of John Keats)

Autumn is without question my favorite season. The suddenly chilly air, the clear night skies and warm sunlit days, the changing leaves and the bare trees that follow, the impending holidays and the sense of school starting again...all of these things contribute to a mingled sense of excitement and melancholy. For most of you, this post will seem late, since Autumn has largely passed by late November, but it comes late and weak to Southern California. Fortunately, a poet has captured it in words. I offer it to you today.

TO AUTUMN

by John Keats.

1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

On the restoration of the Tridentine Mass

Recently the Holy Father Benedict XVI issued a motu proprio authorizing parishes and churches to celebrate the Tridentine Mass from the 1962 Roman Missal. In a way, it was a controversial decision, since the most visible change wrought by the Second Vatican Council in the Catholic Church was the change to a vernacular, popular Mass, celebrated. In fact, this change was rejected by a group of French clergy led by Bishop Marcel Lefevre--called the "Society of Pius X"--who in defiance of the Council teaching continued to celebrate the Tridentine rite and openly criticized the sweeping changes made to Catholic faith by Pope Paul VI. Eventually the Society's members were excommunicated for their refusal to obey the dictates of the Holy See.

In an age and society where we prize independence above nearly everything else, shackling the Mass to dead language and strict routine may seem medieval and stodgy. For us, a Mass without participation from the congregation in the music and conduct of the liturgy seems to exclude our very presence in the Sacrament. But Bishop Salvatore Cordileone, the auxiliary Bishop of the diocese of San Diego, wrote the following letter on how restoring the Tridentine Mass can have a positive effect on our faith:

"I think this is the most important point of the entire motu proprio (authorizing the Tridentine mass ritual). I think in some places the quality of liturgy has so degenerated that some people do not understand what Catholic worship is supposed to look like any more. Too often it is so horizontal and community-focused that the sense of the transcendent disappears; an expectation has been created that the liturgy, and the celebrant especially, should be entertaining. I believe that a greater presence and use of the extraordinary form (the Tridentine ritual) will help us recover our authentic tradition within the ordinary form. This would obviously mean a greater use of Latin and Gregorian chant, but it would include other aspects as well--for example, not deviating from the letter and spirit of the rubrics, a restoration of sacred music in general and sacred art and architecture, a greater emphasis on the transcendent, an awareness that the liturgy does not belong to the local community to do with as they will, but is too sacred and far beyond them to 'personalize' it. I would even go so far as to hope that it will help recover reverent behavior and dress on the part of parishioners!... Most importantly, we need to recover a love and appreciation of our Catholic heritage, and the implementation of the motu proprio will, I believe, be one important means for achieving this. However, at the same time, this does not exclude a legitimate diversity, and even inculturation, with the use of the ordinary form...

"There are elements of the development in the ordinary form that can enrich the celebration of the extraordinary form. I am thinking especially of the call of the Second Vatican Council for the lay faithful to learn the Gregorian chants in Latin, and sing them at Mass. I think it would be a big mistake to simply 'go back' to exactly the way things were done before. If we are going to recover and reappreciate our authentic tradition, it means that those who prefer the extraordinary form should be learn (and therefore be taught) the responses in Latin (so they are not said just by the acolyte--this is the old 'dialogue Mass'), and they should learn to sing the parts of the mass in Gregorian chant (while still allowing for some more technically demanding pieces to be done by the choir alone)."

Retreat

The weekend of November 3rd was a busy one. My new squadron celebrated the Marine Corps' birthday on Friday night, which turned out to be a lot of fun. The celebration almost always takes the form of a Ball, except when Marines are out in the field. Then it is usually celebrated over an MRE (or whatever chow is available). But however we observe it, it is a big deal - tradition dictates that we follow a specific procedure: first we read the original birthday message from General Lejeune (the 13th Commandant) first, then we read the most recent message, then we cut a cake--the first piece of which is given to the oldest Marine present, who takes a bite and passes it to the youngest Marine present to symbolize the continuance of tradition. That little ceremony is the basis for all Marine Corps' birthday celebrations. The Green Knights made it quite formal, with a sword honor guard for the cake and the guest of honor, followed by a pretty good dinner and dancing. The latter was mostly for those Marines who brought dates, so I mostly hung out with my former classmates and new comrades. Everyone got pretty convivial, but I stayed as sober as possible, for I had to drive out of town the next morning.

During the same weekend as the Ball, St. Brigid's young adult community held it's annual retreat at Whispering Winds Catholic Retreat center in Julian. If you followed the wildfire saga here in San Diego, you know that Julian was hit pretty hard. It sits up in the mountains east of the city (elevation some 5,000 feet), and that is where all the fires start when the Santa Ana winds blow. Fortunately, though, the campus was unscathed, and the utilities were restored mere days before we were to arrive.

The retreat itself started on Friday night, so everyone except me drove up that afternoon, participated in some icebreaker-type events, made "affirmation bags" where other people could leave them written messages of encouragement or faith, and turned in. Saturday morning they heard the first of several talks aimed at young adults--the one I missed concerned the ideas contained in Theology of the Body--and had some reflection time followed by lunch. That's when I arrived.

I got there in an enthusiastic mood. The road up to Julian winds through narrow canyons and over knife-edge ridged in a glory of tight turns and sudden views. My car got quite the workout; I must have taken 10,000 miles off my tires. There is something wild and relaxing about the mountain scenery, the clear sunlight, the laboring machine, and the solitude. A kind of reflection occurs at such times, unconscious and unintended, the chief effect of which is to focus one more on the immediate present and less on external and extraneous worries. It was providential: I arrived in Julian freed from the burdens of everyday life and ready for the retreat.

By now I know a fair number of the young adults at St. Brigid's, and it felt in a sense like 'going home' to meet with them, since they make up my core friends here in San Diego. But there were also many new people to meet. Fortunately the retreat schedule offered "free time" in the early afternoon where people could go to confession if they wanted, and also participate in any number of social or religious activities. One guy organized a football game; another a hike. I chose to make my confession and then participate in the Rosary walk. This may seem like a silly thing to do, since it involves praying a notoriously "rote" prayer in a group, but for me it brought back sweet memories of my pilgrimages to Medjugorje, where the Rosary and it's focus on the life of Jesus was second only to the Mass, and nearly always prayed/celebrated as a community. I find there is an additional measure of accountability and support to prayers prayed as a community--often they are therefore more valuable than the same prayers prayed alone, where any number of worries or whims can distract one from the prayer itself. Furthermore, the rosary itself only occupied a short amount of the "free time," so I also got to play in a touch football game. Like the drive up, there was something clarifying about spending that time outside in the sunlight, amid the smell of pines and the thin mountain air. The advantage of the football game over the drive, though, was that I got to share it with others.

Later that afternoon we heard a talk on vocation, and how vocation isn't necessarily a job, a call to religious life, or a call to marriage; rather it is a responsibility to do God's will in all the small acts of our lives. As I write this I am shocked to see how obvious it appears, baldly contained in one small sentence. But like many people I am victim to the temptation of focusing only on the big things in my life: my career as a Marine and an Aviator, my important relationships, my spiritual life. I find it easy to overlook what God's will might be for me when I do a specific thing, like go to a church function, or drive to work, or undertake a job around the squadron. But the speaker, Fr. Steve Callahan, explained that making our entire lives a prayer depends on the holiness we exhibit in all our actions, not just the big decisions. This lecture was the first of several events at the retreat which thus far have subtly began to change my life.

After dinner we headed down to the chapel for adoration and confession. Though the team had priests offering the sacrament during the free time, this evening event was much larger in scale. The intent, I think, was to gently remind us that there is an immense acceptance of grace found in the act of adoration and the receipt of the sacrament. Both were once cherished elements of Catholic faith that, sadly, have fallen off recently (especially among young people). Though I am a rather conservative Catholic myself--and therefore quite open to such practices--it was good to hear again the dogmas and teachings that provide Catholics an intelligent and challenging framework of worship. Before the confessionals opened up, a priest explained the value of what we were doing, and led us in an examination of conscience. Because I had gone to confession earlier that afternoon, I prayed silently for a while and left the chapel to pray another rosary with a close friend of mine under the chilly stars.

What a night it was! In an earlier post I talked about suddenly discovering stars, and the impact of that experience was no less in Julian. Ringed by mountains, unsullied by street-lights, headlights, and window lights, the stars above us that night shone forth in pre-industrial splendor. The Milky Way and the familiar constellations stood out clearly among thousands of stars I had all but forgotten. The crisp still air seemed to sharpen my senses and evoke a sense of exhilaration. I spent little time examining the panorama above, but its presence seemed to infuse the conversations that evening with a zest and wit and laughter I seldom experience, even among my closest friends.

During one such conversation a fellow retreatant told me that because he hadn't found an "affirmation bag" for me--since I didn't arrive until Saturday, I wasn't around during the time given for their creation--he made one for me. It may seem a small thing, but for me that represented the ultimate act of kindness. Having something kind to say, and guessing that others might as well, this friend out of charity decorated a paper bag so that I could receive notes and small gifts. I was humbled. I took about an hour and a half that evening to sit and write notes to all the people at St. Brigid's who meant something to me, and it was a cathartic experience. I have found kindness, hospitality, challenges to be a better person, support, and companionship among this community, and it felt right and satisfying to thank each and every person for what they gave me. When I first heard of the concept of an "affirmation bag," I cringed inwardly. Here, I thought, was an excuse to write yearbook-style, banal notes that (like yearbook notes) would sound the same for everybody: "so nice to meet you, hope we see more of each other, you're so cool." But as I wrote to my friends I found I had something unique to say to each of them. I realized then that, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was part of a cohesive group of friends, where I could appreciate them individually and collectively, not just as my personal friend but as friends of each other too. I have much to be grateful for.

The next morning started with Sunday Mass, breakfast, and the pack up. An easy camaraderie had formed among us that made the worship and the meal a simple and penetrating joy. In its closing the effect of the retreat is hard to put into words. Long had I known the right spiritual steps to take in my life, regarding both my personal prayer life and my interactions with others. But long had I put off taking those steps, due perhaps to fear that I would find spiritual dryness, or to my own selfish clinging to a comfortable routine, or even simply to a kind of spiritual apathy. But since I've returned I've discovered a subtle inspiration born of gratitude and humility. Perhaps that is the manifestation of accepted grace, brought on by the constant prayer at Whispering Winds. I write this more deeply grateful for all that St. Brigid's community has given me; I am humbled by the good and virtuous company of my friends. I have received a great gift.

Cross-countries, moving, and wildfires

The past several weeks have been very busy - so busy, in fact, that I have not seen the last four Notre Dame games, which for those of you who know me well is quite rare. I'm not quite complaining, either. I split my time between my job at the squadron, often spending twelve or so hours a day there, and the St. Brigid's young adult group. And being so busy is certainly having a positive effect on me, though it can be superficially frustrating at times (such as when I want to watch my favorite TV shows).

On the flying side, there was a two-week period where I went on three cross-countries: the first to Phoenix, the second to Las Vegas, and the third to Yuma, AZ (though that one was more of necessity than by choice). The whole idea of a cross country is to take a weekend with a jet to get training done. The positive from the squadron's point of view is that training flights take place on non-working days, freeing up more sorties during the week, and cross countries allow flights to get done without maintenance support. The positive from the aircrew point of view is that we get to travel on the weekend to places like Phoenix or Vegas. And it is fun to fly around unfamiliar places - the sense of detachment and appreciation that comes from looking on new cities and the countryside from the air is always exhilarating.

The Phoenix trip occurred during the week, because Miramar Airfield shut down that particular Wednesday for the upcoming weekend airshow (October 12-14). That day we flew over as a two-ship, or section, from San Diego in two legs, stopping each time to dogfight each other. Those kinds of flights are my favorite: high-G, intense, competetive, and just plain fun. We made it to Phoenix without incident, checked into our hotel for the night, and went out for a quiet evening of college football over steaks (I was pleased to see Navy beat Pitt in overtime) and turned in early. The next morning, we got up, drove to the airport for two more flights; the first being another dogfight, the second being an air-to-ground roll in practice flight (an explanation of which can be found in this post). That night--Thursday--we went out with the ASU kids in Tempe, spending our evening at a bar ironically called "The Library." It was decorated with bookshelves (and real books!), but it served strong drinks and boasted the entertainment of an 80s Metal cover band called Metal Head--which meant we rocked out to Def Leppard and Van Halen tunes for the rest of the night. It was a little surreal to be back in the college atmosphere, but it was one of the better nights I have experienced since the nightlife of Pensacola.

We recovered Friday morning over a full breakfast spread, kindly (and anonymously) purchased for us by a patron of the hotel who noticed us in our uniforms. That was the first time I have ever been treated specially for serving in the military, and it was humbling--I realized personally that while wearing the uniform I am the steward of others' respect and hope. I was also very grateful, and thus motivated I joined my comrades for our two flights back to San Diego. On these legs we fought each other again, and landed Friday afternoon exhausted but satieted with high-performance flying--just in time for the weekend.

That weekend was one of labor for me, as I moved from my La Jolla residence to a San Diego apartment. I moved chiefly because my lease in La Jolla was up, and my previous room-mate had a friend living downtown that he wanted to move in with. As it turns out, the move is a positive one: I am renting a bigger appartment with a closer friend for a lower price. My new room-mate, Brooks, had his girlfriend, brother, and sister-in-law help us move everything across town, and I had some friends from St. Brigid's Young Adult group assist, and overall it was pretty fun. As when the anonymous hotel patron bought me breakfast, I was humbled by the friendship and charity present I found in my friends, who gave up their Saturday to help me move my belongings (in the rain, no less).

The next weekend saw the Las Vegas trip, which was a little different from our jaunt to Phoenix. My part in the plan was to get LAT qualified. LAT is a military acronym meaning Low Altitude Tactics (I think), and next to dogfighting is the most fun I think you can have in a fighter jet. It involves raging around scarce hundreds of feet above the ground, diving through valleys and pulling hard over ridges. And like dogfighting, it is hard work-- we pull a lot of Gs in LAT because it is important to keep the aircraft's speed up, in case we have to quickly climb away from the ground--and high speeds mean high Gs when you turn. It is also very warm, because the air coming into the cockpit is ground temperature and does little to mitigate the heat of the sun coming through the thick canopy. Each flight is roughly like an hour-long workout. We flew two sorties that day, stopping in between at Edwards Air Force Base (and landing behind an F-22, which was kind of cool). Flying into Vegas itself was extremely busy, since we have to compete with all the commercial carriers and the corporate jets for airspace and tarmac. Yet despite the intensity of the approach, I couldn't help notice in awe the gigantic multicolored desert cliffs that surround the city, cast into sharp dramatic relief by the setting sun. I always get a sense of awe flying over the high desert--it seems to be all jagged ridges and blasted lakebeds like a foretaste of the apocalypse. Nearly as impressive is the massive metropolis springing out of bare desert, tucked into a deep valley and bordered by a giant still lake. It looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.

Vegas is kind of a destination for military aviators. The airports there are reasonably kind to us, the city itself is reasonably close to the restricted airspace where we do our training, and Vegas itself offers a lot of entertainment. That Friday night we were staying in the Stratosphere hotel, and decided that we would "stay local" - eat dinner there and go afterwards to the Stratosphere nightclub. Before that, however, I was subjected to a "hasty callsign review," where amongst much drinking "Vigo" was rejected and I was awarded the moniker "ECMO-2." An ECMO is the backseater in an EA-6B prowler, and is responsible for jamming enemy radar signals. As such, ECMOs are reputed to be nerds. Evidently I give off the same impression. After that was over, we went to the nightclub where I happily sang along to all the 80s music they played until I couldn't stand up any more and went to bed.

The next morning I didn't have to fly, so I was free to recover and sightsee as I pleased. It was actually a very depressing day. The temperature was cool--which I wasn't prepared for--and I was fighting off the nauseating after-effect of the previous evening. I was struck by how quickly and disconcertingly grand impressive casino facades and sumptuous casino lobbies gave way to the tawdry glitter and cheap furnishings of the casino floors themselves. I was vaguely disgusted by the expensive design shops built next to banks of industrial vending machines and airport-style shops hawking magazines, ice cream, candy, and soft drinks. The entire city seems designed to be overwhelming and beautiful on the outside, but crushing on the inside. I was shocked and saddened to see elderly men and women gambling and drinking alone at slot machines, and easily frustrated young men with bored pretty young women aimlessly shopping and gambling at quiet, bitter blackjack tables. If Vegas is supposed to be a center of entertainment and fun, so why are so many of it's pilgrims unhappy? I spent nearly the whole day lonely and depressed.

Then I went to Mass. The Cathedral for the diocese of Las Vegas sits almost directly on the Strip, just north of the Wynn casino. It is a dramatic, geometric building that looks to have been built in the late '50s. The facade had a mural showing three men paying homage to a Christ in apotheosis, accompanied by the exhortations "Prayer...Penance...Peace." Inside, the retablo behind the altar consisted of another, pure art-deco mural showing what I assume to be the resurrection--a noble, powerful, youthful, clean-shaven Jesus (identifiable only by the holes in hands, feet, and side) sprang up from the tabernacle in a burst of vaguely atomic light, surrounded by similarly virile angels, spreading his hands toward the ceiling. It was unlike any religous art I had ever seen. However, the trappings on the altar themselves were beautifully carved and expensive-looking, and the church itself was remarkably clean and well-maintained. It occurred to me later that the diocese of Las Vegas was probably quite wealthy. Despite the jarring decorations, the mass itself was orthodox and heartfelt, and preached to a full congregation. It felt good to shut out the huge palaces on the Strip and retreat for an hour into familiar church hymns and rituals. The depression and the sadness of my day melted away, and I exited the church in a more cheerful frame of mind.

Stepping out the church door, I was greeted by a gritty blast of cool dry desert wind. The palm trees were bowing toward the horizontal and sheets of dust raged howling up the Strip. Well-dressed gamblers and partygoers, hunched against the assault of sand and air, scurried along to get cabs or get inside. I slitted my eyes and strode as best I could down to the Flamingo, two miles to the south, where I was staying for the night. I passed the silent, wind-lashed fountain outside the Bellagio and inwardly rejoiced at this desert windstorm that had thankfully shut down the painful, frenetic pace of the city. Returning to my hotel, I ate a nice, quiet dinner with my room-mate, declined my comrades' offer to go to the Playboy Club, and retired early.

The following morning we simply ferried the jets home from Vegas in one trip. We did a low-level (more LAT), which was fun, and I got to see some of the fires in their very early states as we flew in from the east, but on the whole it was simply good to be back in the solid reality of my own routine and apartment. After two cross countries following so shortly after each other, I looked forward to a week to settle back in, get back in a routine, and not have to live out of a suitcase. But providence had other plans. That week the fires struck San Diego county. Monday morning the pilots in the squadron flew the jets to Arizona (to get them out of the danger zone) while the WSOs--like me--stayed back to run the squadron. There was much to do. My job turned out standing Tower ODO, as the officer in charge of running the airfield itself. It is largely a supervisory role and it isn't too difficult. Mostly I just make sure that the crews who operate the actual control tower, the refueling equipment, and the fire trucks are all doing their job in accordance with the airfield schedule. That day I had to start the field preparing for the eventual arrival of the President, along with his assorted limosines and helicopters, all of which were flown in Tuesday night by Air Force transport aircraft. It was exciting to be a part of that kind of planning, and part of the firefighting effort--even if all I did was supervise the support of real firefighters.

The following day the squadron was shut down, so I sort of had the day off. The day after that, Wednesday, the jets flew back in and I was asked to fly to Yuma as part of a training detachment. Even when fires threaten our home town, training must go on. Those of us who went were lived in areas not threatened by fires. The trip itself was supposed to be a quick one: fly over Wednesday night, complete the training flights Thursday morning, be back that afternoon. But all of our jets broke. And they broke hard. We spent Thursday trying to fix them, reluctantly stayed Thursday night again in Yuma, and found out Friday that the maintenance would take probably several days, so we rented a car and drove three hours back to San Diego. Though the trip ended up a frustrating experience in many ways, I was surprised and humbled by how well my fellow aircrew and the maintenance guys handled it. You learn a lot about the quality of your comrades when you watch them deal with adversity. Those guys I was stuck with complained a lot, but not in a negative way. They did it to be funny, and they do it in spite of working very hard to fix what is wrong. They didn't whine or give up. As a result, the trip turned out to be kind of fun. I was reminded again that I am in the company of true professionals.

The events of the last three weeks or so have left me with a wealth of experience. I am not sure how it all fits together. Phoenix, Vegas, Mass in Vegas, moving, wildfires, getting stuck in Yuma--I am fortunate to have enjoyed and learned so much. As a new guy to the squadron, I get the more thankless tasks and the rougher hours, but it seems there is a bright side.

Still, I hope I can go at least a couple of weeks without a cross country.