I could have said it too!

How many times we hear a statement, a remark and we think "Hey, I could have said it too!"

How many times we complain within our heart because all simple things have already been discovered? "Ah, if I would have lived two hundred years ago I would have surely invented dirigibles, safe catches, WC...they are so obvious, after all..."

 We have to say it clearly: these laws, these theorems, these scientific theories could have been discovered by anyone with a little common sense. Years and years before. They are blatant, practically obvious.

 But, it's odd, we whistle the same old tune Mozart actually composed and not the one he had not time to write down; and that catch phrase we hear it is humdrum, all right, but our mind fails to devise something better.

 We have to deal with it. It is not enough to experience something to understand it, to grasp it fully, to dominate it. It is needed that kind of head that drives you behind what you think you perfectly know. It is needed the work of a genius; then of someone that teaches the outcome of that work to us, so that the hidden and not-so-easy-to-see truth can reach us. Making us view the secret concealed in plain sight.

 Reality doesn't give herself away so easily. You must love her. See her with eyes that are not groovy, but have explorer’s gaze. You must give yourself first to her, all to her, so she will concede herself to you.

So we will start speaking that unspoken word, sing that song unsung. That will be repeated by those that will hear it, because they will find it true to they heart.

Wanting to be original

Oh, the original sin. Wanting to be like God. A thing for old women, priests, children's catechism; surely not self-sufficient adults, perfectly understanding, able to do by themselves; people that doesn't need someone that preaches. People that doesn't need anybody. That doesn't need. Anything. And anyone. Like God.

Good customs

I have taken from the pantry a package of biscuits, good ones.
I opened it some time ago, for the breakfast of one of my sons. They had not liked the flavour; and therefore the pastries had been carefully sealed and put away. Now, in spite of all precautions they become hard as steel, and can't be eat.
Every thing, also a good one, after some time goes stale. The only things that can survive the passing of the time are the alive ones, those who can adapt themselves, answer to the circumstances in new ways taking from experience.
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world."
Tennyson make his dying Arthur say.
The evil often arrives from the good intention. Every dictator, revolutionary, conqueror or crazy killer has started from his own good plan to impose to the rest of the world. Satan itself, deep down, had its good reasons in order to rebel to God.
Let's not permit our own good custom to become everything, to be everything. Making us, in its defense, moralists, ideologists, demons.
The biscuits? I have thrown them away.

What am I doing here, why all this toil?

He nudged him.
"What the heck, all this road to see this?"
Melchior smiled. "Be patient. Everything is small, before growing up."

An unexpected gift

The Word was made flesh. An unspeaking and unspoken Word. But a Word that you can touch, that you can meet. A word ends when his echo vanishes; the echo of this Word will sound for all centuries until the moment it will be spoken again. It made itself a baby, a boy, for us bad boys, for us the sad, the unforgiving, the ruleless boys. An unexpected gift, much more because we don't deserve it. We will never be able to deserve it.
We are just able to accept it.
So, what can we say?
Thanks, and merry Christmas.

Signs of infinity

"We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened."

Mark Twain

I know the equations that make the stars bright. I know what makes them burn, the nuclear marriages that warm their boiling hydrogen heart. I know also their distance, even if I do not succeed to imagine it, eternity of void.

But when I watch to them I do not see this. The stars are holes in the sky that leak out the light of the infinite.
Those stars that Dante has placed to seal its work: "It was from there that we emerged, to see-once more-the stars".
Those stars that Francis of Assisi has indicated as the most beautiful works of the Lord: “The spangled sky, and Clare”
Those stars that are the farthest point we can watch, just nearer than God itself.

If everything we do has not a connection with stars, from kissing someone to write on a blog, we will always crawl on low and foggy land, the lungs of our being with the breath of a flea.
The stars are questions screwed over our head to make us look up.

The last boundary

To GKC

I have travelled long and far, until the final boundary of the Universe. The galaxies speed away to my sides like flies in the summer afternoons, million worlds danced around me in wavering vortices. I escaped, through the black night of the cosmos and the red gold of nebulas. They said that I had stolen. True, according to their judgment. According to their reason. But between the infinites universes above us, I have thought, what means their affirmation that God himself is bound by reason? There will be a place where the reason is utterly unreasonable. And therefore I have taken this ship, and have left.
The motor grinders the light years without effort, towards that world that escapes from the law of the truth. And I have arrived here, to the last limbo, the lost borderland of the things. The forests are made of adamant with leaves of brilliants, that hurt who graze them. The blue moon a single elephantine sapphire that enlights the flaming horizon and the spangled sky, like the eye of a pale giant. Under me the land is smooth and milky, with veins of rainbow. On these plains of opal rise high cliffs cut out of pearl, the titanic gift of forgotten creatures .

The figurine is beautiful to stop the heart, also if made by alien hands. I have taken it. And now I lie here, my muscles knot by unknown forces, while strange brown creatures come towards me. Their biology I cannot understand, neither their writing. But now I know for sure that reason and justice of conduct hold in their grip also the farthest and lonely star; and, even if do not know their strange-shaped alphabet, I succeed to interpret the notice-board in front of me as if it was written in my native language. It says: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’

Vos fugam capietis

Thinking that we cannot be saint we try to be good. Since we dont'succeed, we please ourselves of being moralist.

Rusted brains

No man loses his time in writing or speaking unless he thinks that he is right and the others are wrong. This means to be dogmatic; because a dogma is a belief we have, to which it is necessary to believe. Our entire life is a run to build certainty, sure answers. If this is not our target, then our brain is rusty.

Read, please, what Chesterton wrote almost 80 years ago (the proof that modern thinkers have same ideas as their great-grandfathers):

A great silent collapse, an enormous unspoken disappointment, has in our time fallen on our Northern civilization. All previous ages have sweated and been crucified in an attempt to realize what is really the right life, what was really the good man. A definite part of the modern world has come beyond question to the conclusion that there is no answer to these questions, that the most that we can do is to set up a few notice-boards at places of obvious danger, to warn men, for instance, against drinking themselves to death, or ignoring the mere existence of their neighbours. (...)

Every one of the popular modern phrases and ideals is a dodge in order to shirk the problem of what is good. We are fond of talking about "liberty"; that, as we talk of it, is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good. We are fond of talking about "progress"; that is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good. We are fond of talking about "education"; that is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good. The modern man says, "Let us leave all these arbitrary standards and embrace liberty." This is, logically rendered, "Let us not decide what is good, but let it be considered good not to decide it." He says, "Away with your old moral formulae; I am for progress." This, logically stated, means, "Let us not settle what is good; but let us settle whether we are getting more of it." He says, "Neither in religion nor morality, my friend, lie the hopes of the race, but in education." This, clearly expressed, means, "We cannot decide what is good, but let us give it to our children."

Truth, in its time, becomes undeniable against all words and ideologies, because reality itself is pasted with truth. It is a pity that in the meantime rust can do so great damage.

Phylacteries

The Pharisees, like their descendants today, hang to their head pieces of paper containing passages of the Scripture, inside boxes called phylacteries.
But a phylactery is just a piece of paper nailed before our eyes, to the wall, the wall of our hearts; it changes nothing. Fine words are useless, just like my countless phylacteries. Only living words can change us, penetrate into the wall, crumble it, become part of our lives.

Eluana, and the words

I lack Words.

When the right is left down, when chance of the freedom is denied in name of freedom, when the hope is denied in name of the hope;

when who is called unworthy is killed for his own worthiness, when man does not call man what man is, when cruelty is called mercy;

when the man is made by the law and is unravelled by the same law, when is defined civilization what denies the base of civilization itself, when man believe to be the master of life because causes death, then in order to define all this

I lack words. Because when words fail to be true, fail to be reality then how can I use them?

Therefore I will be silent, and pray.

Obama, Congo and to save mankind

Do we (they) believe, really believe, that Osama's election will be the salvation, the redemption for all?

The silent massacre in the Congo, that goes ahead from more than a decade but of which we hear about only now (and it always remains the doubt this is done purposefully) shows that man is not able to eliminate the lack of justice. Every man (me, you), because every man (me, you) have in his heart this very lack of justice.

It will not be Obama to save the mankind, and the world, also if he would, also if he had the chance. Because everyone of us is not able to save even itself, either if we should be called Obama, with the name of an inhabitant of the heart of Africa or of the heart of this Europe filled with foolish pride and vain hope.

We (me, you) can hope to save our own painful humanity, our own painful smallness, and therefore the world, only accepting to be saved. Only praying to be saved.

Probably

From the site: The Atheist Bus Campaign launches today (...). With your support, we hope to raise £5,500 to run 30 buses across the capital (London) for four weeks with the slogan: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life.

The campaign above has been very successful, so I wish to start one on my own. It will be in the same way a call to reason, and the slogan will be:

"You have no disease, probably. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."

Though the savings in clinical and diagnostics, diets and medicines!
Send the money directly to me.

The last equation

"We got it! We got the proof! We made it!"
There were handshakes, hugs, cheers. Someone had tears in his eyes. Doctor Lapietra was euphoric. He seized the shoulders of Jeremy, his assistant.
"Do You realize what we have made? Do You realize?" he said.
He realized for sure. It was the completion of years of work. Better, it was the completion of countless thousand years of men's work, since the beginning of time.
The model has been completed. Up to the last law. The last equation has been discovered. Man now knows exactly how the Universe was made, from the giant galaxy to the smaller subatomic particle.
His assistant didn't seem so glad.
"Jeremy, what happens?" asked Lapietra "We have found it, that bloody equation. Now all is in its place."
Jeremy's voice was dull, like dead. "Sure. Now we know how everything is made. So we are unemployed."
Lapietra frowned. "What do you mean?"
Jeremy made a vague gesture with his hand. "Now we understand everything. We will have to write down documentation, to publish our findings, demonstrate them at meetings and conferences. Then? We are researchers, and there is nothing more to research. All has been found. We are useless. Our is a dead profession, just like biologists and farriers."
The scientist shook his head. "Don't be so dramatic! We are the highest point of history. Just think how world will change..."
The assistent stopped him. "It is from thousand years that man think to know how the world goes on. Now we are certain about it. But everyone else was already certain. The keeper at door down there don't know about our equation and will never understand it, but has lived and will live in the same way now that we have found it. My grand-grandmother believed in a thing called "universal gravitation", didn't knew about Bosgway's field, and died happy. My children will study that we have made this finding, but apart from this how will change them to know that somewhere there is someone that knows the way Universe behaves?
Lapietra opened the mouth to reply, then shut it. In the end, there was nothing else to say. It was all already said.
The scientist was thoughtful while stepping on the transferrer. He entered into his home. His wife was programming the autochef and didn't even rose her head. "Hello, dear. Everything fine at work?"
Lapietra wished to say "We found the last brick in understanding the Universe", but somehow wasn't able to speak the words.
He said instead "Yes, dear. And you?"
But his wife was already lost in what she was doing. At last she started the autochef. "Good, dear", she told. "We'll have soup this evening."
The scientist said nothing, but within him sighed. He didn't like soup.

Angelus

The Lord asks. You can turn your head away. Or You can say yes.
If You accept, a wounded and awakened heart will be given to You, along with a plentiful life beyond every thought and every wish.
You. Me, also. Now.

Into the darkness

Tommy stopped on the threshold. A dim light poured out from the half-closed door. It was not enough to illuminate the black corridor ahead. The darkness seemed to eat it all, and the floor disappeared in an obscure nothingness just inches beyond his feet.
Don't be afraid, mum always said. Don't be afraid: there are no monsters in the dark, the light lacks but everything else is just the same. Don't be afraid.
But the darkness was just ahead of him, untouchable, and Tommy wasn't able to make a single step. She might be right, sure. No monsters.
But how can he know?
In the darkness there can be anything. A trapdoor. A killer. A vampire. And things far worse. Things that cannot be named, those things that jump and crawl into every night from the beginning of the world.
Children know this. Children are not like the grown-up boys, eager to launch themselves into the uncertain and the unknown. Children are fragile, and they know it very well. Children are afraid.
And Tommy hesitated on the threshold, and only the knowledge that he must go on and reach the end of the corridor, that it was what they expected from him, kept him from running away.
He froze, and withheld his breath. Was it a noise? There was a noise, ahead? Something in the darkness?
I have been bad, he thought. If I would have been a good boy now I wouldn't be so afraid.
The noise, or the feeling of a noise, again.
He sharpened his eyes, but the long corridor was a pit of blackness. Nothing could be seen in it, and unspeakable horrors were lurking in its deeps.
He wanted to run away. He wanted to escape. He wanted to have been a good boy, or to be one of those mighty heroes of the fantasy tales.
But he was not one of them, and his legs were now heavier than concrete, struck in the floor. Just like sinking in the mud of a putrid swamp.
A noise, again.
No mistake.
Something was coming.
Again. Louder.
Coming this way.
Big. Something big.
Steps.
Steps are coming this way.
Heavy, forceful.
Steps are coming nearer.
They are near.
Very near.
Too much near.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to say "I am a good boy", also if it was a lie.
He wanted to cry mercy.
He wanted to cry forgiveness.
But his mouth was dry, spitless.
His legs like deadwood.
And, suddenly, something big, huge, enormous came out of the darkness and stopped in front of him.
His heart stopped.
Then he rose his head and saw, in the dim light just outside the threshold, his father's face.
Smiling at him.
And stretching his forceful, huge hand towards him.
Tommy felt the knot inside him melt away. No matter if he hasn't been a good boy. No matter if horrors lurked in the darkness. He was now with his father, and with him he can go anywhere.
He took the hand that was given to him, and stepped out along that corridor that now seemed not so dark.

The surgeon sighed. The pen worked badly and the writing was blotted. "Okay, let's see. Hour of death...8:35 PM. What was his name?
"Thomas" said the nurse, looking at the still face of the old man. It was white and tense in what could be a last spasm, or perhaps a smile.


Original text here

Worshipping sun

I wasn't surprised by the news that Oxford will substitute Christmas with Winter Light Fest. It is a move that historically has been used by famous people: just to say one name, Aurelian, the Roman emperor. Yes: the pagan festival of the 'Birth of the Unconquered Sun' instituted by the Roman Emperor Aurelian on December 25 in the year 274 was almost certainly an attempt to create a pagan alternative to a date that was already of some significance to Roman Christians. Thus the 'pagan origins of Christmas' is a myth without historical substance.

It's the usual upside-down.  The Christians are accused to steal the holidays of other religions when often is the other way round. Christmas is celebrated on 25th December because that day is nine moths after the 25th March, traditional date of Cruxifiction for early christians. A Judaic tradition was that the prophets of Israel died on the same dates as their birth or conception. If Jesus died on 25th March then it was also the date of Annunciation. This the source of the calculation, sustained anyway also by some archeological evidence.
While is certain that Christmas was already celebrated at the beginning of III century, there aren't proofs that Sun's festival was ever held in Rome before that time. The two roman temples to the sun held feasts in different months. Early christendom didn't care about Isis, Mithra, Apollon, Jove or other sun deities. In the christian way the sun is just God's creation, made for man's sake, it isn't a revengeful god to be prayed. And if Christ can be seen as the Sun of Justice, redemption for all humanity, this is just a symbol, nothing more.

About the same thing can be told about Halloween, that is the Eve of All Saints. The feast in honor of all the saints in heaven was moved to November 1 by Pope Gregory III (d. 741), the dedication day of All Saints Chapel in St. Peter's at Rome. Later, in the 840s, Pope Gregory IV commanded that All Saints be observed everywhere. This wasn't evidently made to obscure a remote celtic feast.

What remains is the ignorance and the grudge against Christianity (that is their own civilization and tradition) shown by that english sun worshippers.

Let's hope that they will not resort to human sacrifices, at least for now.  

Original post here

The Rejected

"And all is at one,
in keeping us secret,
half out of shame perhaps,
half out of inexpressible hope"
Rilke, Duino Elegies

The things we say, the position we assume towards others, can cost. They can bring upon us catholics the hilariousness of colleagues, perhaps the hostility of the boss; sometimes even physical violence. We can say, however, that we're not badly off, it is easier here than in other parts of the world. We risk very little: only our face. In the middle east, in places where christians had already been living for generations when Mohammed was a child, today violence makes christians flee if only they can. Elsewhere things are even worse. In certain parts of India if people get to know that you are a christian, you are cast out. Thrown out of the caste system, you are no longer part of the community; you are rejected, no longer considered a man. There is no direct violence; but your water and gas supplies are shut off, they will not sell you food or even speak to you. And you had better pray not to fall ill.

Two thousand years of christianity have changed mankind a little. We can no longer ignore those who die of hunger next to us. Children's suffering tears us, tears move us. 

But it is not like this everywhere. Just move a little, leave christendom, and you will see supreme disinterest for others, for those we christians call "our neighbour", reappear. For all others, all over the world, the christian is the different one, the stranger, just as for the christian all others are his neighbour, his brother.

Taking care of the other is not obvious; nor is it obvious that a community look after those who cannot take care of themselves on their own, even when they are not part of the community itself. The orphanage, the hospital, the elder care centre are not obvious. Did you notice that in films about far countries and even in japanese cartoons this sort of building almost always has a cross, and is often run by religious? Without that cross those buildings would not exist. 
Little by little, the truth, the better humanity rising from christian history caused the spring of a new conscience never existed before. Also the believers in different faiths, also the non believer must agree tha this kind of life is better, fuller, worthier; and will follow the same way. But with what purpose, what ideal surge?

Without Christ one cannot understand why bother to take care of the weak, the insignificant, those who don't count. An orphan who dies of hunger, where there are no christians, quickly becomes a body to bury. Or worse.

Christians are a nuisance for this reason too, because they don't accept that humanity be destroyed, used by the one in power and discarded once useless. For this reason too they are driven away everywhere, as the Pope recently denounced. Strangers in their own countries, always exiled, silenced. Yet never subdued, always ready to witness a joy present even in the midst of suffering, a joy stronger than persecution. Always ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks them for a reason for their hope.

Here I am

Oh, hello Earthlings. Berlicche here. Perhaps You know me by my other name - I have many - that's Screwtape. Screwtape the devil.
Some time ago a little problem with letters from me to my nephew Wormwood caused some commotion in your world and in hell alike.
So, my boss decided that I must take a vacation, and here I am.

Pay attention! You may disagree with me, but what I have written is never to be undervalued. I have no time to throw away writing false or unimportant things. Just as You have no time to throw away in reading garbage of that sort. What You will read can be very important to Your life.

So, ignore me at your own risk. Otherwise, read me. I will be evil, bastard, amusing. 
I will be myself.