Mortmain + Ascension Homily

First, I have to apologize.

Back in February, I told you an untruth. I claimed that the covered bridge in Philippi, West Virginia, crosses the Buckhannon River.

In fact, the Buckhannon flows into the Tygart Valley upriver from Philippi. The bridge crosses the Tygart Valley River.

Union troops marched across the bridge 150 years ago today. The ‘first land battle’ of the Civil War ensued…

…From the Sister-Death File:

“Mortmain.” Know what it is? This is a legal term for the way in which a community of vowed religious owns property. (The term can also apply to corporations or charities.)

Vowed religious individuals are already civilly dead. The passage of time does not bring the usual legal events in ownership of their property, like wills and estate taxes. The mort main, the ‘dead hand,’ grasps the property forever…

…Not sure when Ascension Day occurs?

Me, neither.

But here is a sermon:

Continue reading “Mortmain + Ascension Homily”

Some Catching Up to Do



If you are like me, you might find yourself in such a state that you need to check yourself into a mountain hermitage and take up manual labor.

Thankfully, in such cases, the good Lord has a lot more than $6 million at His disposal.

…I wanted to let you know that the covered bridge over the Buckhannon River at Philippi, West Virginia, is one of the coolest things on earth.

Also, in honor of Hosni Mubarak, here are a couple of deposed-king speeches written by William Shakespeare:

What must the King do now? Must he submit?
The King shall do it. Must he be deposed?
The King shall be contented. Must he lose
The name of king? I’ God’s name, let it go.
I’ll give my jewels for a set of beads,
My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,
My gay apparel for an almsman’s gown,
My figured goblets for a dish of wood,
My scepter for a palmer’s walking-staff,
My subjects for a pair of carvèd saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave,
A little, little grave, an obscure grave;
Or I’ll be buried in the King’s highway,
Some way of common trade, where subjects’ feet
May hourly trample on their sovereign’s head;
For on my heart they tread now whilst I live,
And, buried once, why not upon my head? (Richard II)

For what is in this world but grief and woe?
O God! methinks it were a happy life,
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run,
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times:
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate;
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean: (=give birth)
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece:
So minutes, hours, days, months, and years,
Pass’d over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroider’d canopy
To kings that fear their subjects’ treachery?
O, yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude, the shepherd’s homely curds,
His cold thin drink out of his leather bottle.
His wonted sleep under a fresh tree’s shade,
All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,
Is far beyond a prince’s delicates,
His viands sparkling in a golden cup,
His body couched in a curious bed,
When care, mistrust, and treason waits on him. (Henry VI)

…Did anyone catch John Travolta outside the Waldorf Astoria when we were talking about the Roosevelt Tunnel last fall? Well, it seems he has decided to get back on the train.