Seven Years, Season of John

No French cuffs. But an unforgettable moment nonetheless. Ad multos annos, Holiness.

…Everyone knows that we read from the Bible according to a three-year cycle at Sunday Mass? Year A, Year B, Year C. And, for the most part, the gospel readings come from either Matthew, or Mark, or Luke—depending on which year of the cycle we are in.

Great system. We thoroughly read all three gospels. All three—Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

Wait. What? Of course. The gospel of the eagle.

St. John’s gospel gets its props every year during Lent and Easter.

This is the week of John 3. We were here back on the fourth Sunday of Lent also. During Lent we had weeks for John 5 and John 8. Next week is John 6. Then we roll into John 14, 15, 16, 17—which recount all the amazing things the Lord Jesus said at the Last Supper.

…One way or another, everyone who has ever walked the face of the earth has known God. Everyone has had a relationship with God—a relationship of some kind. God gives existence to all existing things. So: to exist is to have a relationship with Him, and to know about existing is to know God.

So we all know God. Except we don’t. God gives existence. But the way that God Himself exists? His infinite being? Totally beyond us.

Totally beyond all of us. Except one. One man knows God from the inside, knows Him like a fish knows water. Jesus.

All the gospels present this fact to us—the fact that the mind of Jesus truly knows God, that Jesus’ knowledge of God is utterly unique among all those ever born of a woman. All the gospels teach us this fact.

But we have St. John to thank for recording all the intimate and sublime ways in which the Lord Himself explained it. And we have the Easter season to luxuriate in reading it all.

No Sweaters

The Caps had a great season. Let’s not dwell on the playoff curse…

…Five years ago this month, the Lord gave us Pope Benedict XVI.

Habemus Papam!

I remember the moment with enormous fondness. When the new pope stepped out onto the St. Peter’s loggia, I wept with delight.

I was deliriously happy. I kissed the then-80-year-old parish secretary on the lips (may she rest in peace).

But my joy was not completely unalloyed.

There was a fly in the ointment. There was a sticky wicket. There was something just plain wrong.

One word: cuffs.

Compare the papal cuffs of April 19, 2005, with the same scene in 1978.

Moral of the story: Cardinals absolutely, positively must bring at least one pair of decent cufflinks to a conclave.