At the Twilight's Last Gleaming: The Fate of Religion in America
. . . It's time for a revolution, and it should be a revolution of real faith in a modern world that values it not. It isn't going to be easy. But before we all sign up for remedial CCD classes, the bad news was offset just a bit by the reality that the United States as a whole flunked the test, and Catholics came out just three percentage points behind the national score of 50% - a solid "F." Other Christian denominations fared just slightly better than Catholics - but still flunked. Jews and Mormons both passed, though just barely, with scores slightly under the atheists. Weighing everything, my own conclusion is that the problem with religion in America isn't religion - it's America. Catholics should remember the value of being counter-cultural. . . .
These Stone Walls: More Loose Ends and Dangling Participles
. . . Somehow, at some point when I wasn’t looking, These Stone Walls became noticed, and it seemed to happen suddenly. In the last few weeks, some friends who keep track of such things have told me something astonishing. TSW is showing up on the first page in a number of Google searches. As a prisoner with zero access to the Internet, I can be forgiven for not having noticed. Google didn’t even exist when I was sent to prison, and the Internet was in its virtual toddlerhood. . . .
When Priests Are Falsely Accused Part 3: The High Cost of Innocence
. . . It's ironic that this same priest is often angry with me because he doesn't think I am angry enough. I assure you, he's wrong on that score. But being angry and feeling let down does not excuse me from doing the right thing. It does not excuse me from fidelity to the Gospel, fidelity to the Church, and fidelity to my own sense of right and wrong. At the end of the day, I am still wrongly imprisoned, but I have the freedom to choose the person I'm going to be while wrongly imprisoned. When I began this three-part post three weeks ago, I set out to write the nature and scope of the injustices that took place in my diocese. Now that it comes down to it, I can't. It feels too much like vengeance. There is far too much at stake for me to settle for something so unfaithful as vengeance. . . .
Does Stephen Hawking Sacrifice God on the Altar of Science?
. . . I do not count Stephen Hawking among them. Contrary to what the news media is lifting out of his latest book - and out of context - Stephen Hawking does not denounce God, nor does he claim to have proven that God does not exist. The exact quote that so many in the media now read into from his WSJ article cited above, and from his book is this: "The discovery recently of extreme fine tuning of so many laws of nature could lead some back to the idea that the grand design is the work of some grand Designer. Yet the latest advances in cosmology explain why the laws of the universe seem tailor-made for humans, without the need for a benevolent creator." . . .
Mirror of Justice, Mother of God, Mystical Rose: Our Lady of Sorrows
. . . I have never written of any of this before now. Those months awaiting trial became so stressful and depressing that I began to give up. I stopped accepting treatment for epilepsy, and ended up hospitalized at Albuquerque Presbyterian Hospital for a week. After a traumatic night, my good friend and co-worker Father Clyde Landry, came to see me. He brought from my room at the center a portable short wave radio to listen to. Later that night, I plugged in my earpiece and turned on the radio. It was close to midnight, and I was not even aware it was the Feast of the Visitation, May 31. I also didn't know my radio was on the short-wave band. Father Clyde must have moved the band by accident. I raised the antennae and played with the tuner, then stopped. I had stumbled upon EWTN's short wave broadcast from Birmingham, Alabama. As I lay there in the dark in that hospital room, I heard the Salve Regina intoned and chanted in my ear. . . .
Come, Sail Away! Pornchai Moontri and the Art of Model Shipbuilding
. . . The art of woodcarving and model shipbuilding were honed in Pornchai during his years in a Maine prison. Pornchai was 18 years old when sent to prison with a sentence of 45 years. The first five were a blur of despair, violence, and trouble for Pornchai. Then he met Mike Tribou, a fellow prisoner and carpenter who offered to teach Pornchai his skills with woodworking. Mike is out of prison now, with a new family and a new life, but he and Pornchai remain friends. I am proud to say that Mike is also a TSW reader. . . .
New on These Stone Walls: Loose Ends and Dangling Participles
. . . Another reader wrote that she liked "Saints and Sacrifices," but pointed out that it was my third post in 12 weeks about Adolf Hitler, and I'm "beginning to sound a bit like the History Channel." OUCH! There's a strange irony in that. There's no character in history that I loathe more than Hitler. The irony is that as my trial ended in 1994, the prosecutor compared me to Adolf Hitler in his closing remarks to the jury.It was the sort of inflammatory statement that usually isn't allowed in court, but it was allowed in that court. The jury looked visibly alarmed, and I can only imagine how I looked to them. As with the rest of that trial, the Hitler comparison like Hitler himself - had nothing to do with the truth or with justice. . . .
The Year Behind These Stone Walls
. . . Then I walked through three locked gates outside, passed a guarded check-point, then across the long, walled prison yard, up three flights of metal grate stairs, through three more locked doors, then another guarded check-point, then finally down the long infirmary corridor to the staff member's office. In the dream, I felt my heart beating faster, unsure whether it was anticipation of finally seeing TSW or the long trek getting there. When I walked into the office, the computer was on. "Sit down right here,” the woman said. I sat down and watched her carefully type http://thesestonewalls.com. I was smiling as the screen blinked into action. Then I saw in large print across the screen: "Page Cannot Be Displayed." I woke up just then feeling terribly disappointed. . . .
Roman Polanski, Father Marcial Maciel, and the Eye of the Beholder
. . . Since his 1977 conviction for child sexual assault, Roman Polanski has won three Academy Award nominations and a 2002 Oscar for Best Director. Meanwhile in our own backyard, Catholics are now pitted against Catholics. Bishops are bullied into shunning their priests. Cardinals are sniping at each other in public, and the mere taint of association may cost one of the highest ranking Catholic Church officials his reputation and career. There is something wrong with this picture. And there is one ominous figure who is taking it all in from his place in the shadows, having the laugh of his long, dark life. . .
Hot Town: Summer in the Slammer
. . . The summer of 1969 had other worries and trials as well. Because of a tragedy in my family - which I will write about one of these days - I had to find a full time job at sixteen. I had one that I thought was secure. It was in a machine shop, but I was laid off just as that summer began. I took the only job that I could find, and it turned out to be the worst job of my life. . . .
A TSW Summer Re-run
. . . “A Corner of the Veil” is about the death of my mother, Sophie Kavanagh MacRae, during my imprisonment. Tomorrow, July 15, is her birthday so this post in her honor is my choice for a summer re-run. I would much appreciate a prayer for her as well. . . .
Create in Me a New Heart, O Lord, and a Steadfast Spirit Renew Within Me
. . . I learned that a donor heart had been found for Christopher. As I write this he is in the middle of an eight to ten hour heart transplant surgery at Pittsburgh Children’s Hospital. The days and weeks to follow will be of critical importance for this young man. Your prayers are also of critical importance. Please pray for Christopher Warwick, for his new heart, for the heart’s donor, and for the Warwick family. . . .
As The Year of the Priest Ends, Are Civil Liberties for Priests Intact?
. . . Some people actually get angry with me when they hear of my 2002 statement to my Bishop. Some feel that I was foolish to make such an overture. "What if he took you up on it?" My response is simple. I was accused falsely, and in the context of being a Roman Catholic priest. If I was not a priest, I would not have been accused. To pretend that somehow the claims against me are not related to the context of my priesthood is false. This is something that most Church officials long recognized. but many have put aside the rights of priests in open disregard of Church law. . . .
These Stone Walls: Spring Cleaning and Loose Ends
. . . Are men in general like that? I sure hope not, though lots of prisoners are. Add to the mix a bit of prison paranoia and they make for a challenging population. A twenty-six year old came to my cell door last week with a worried look on his face. He had been to sick call that morning with a sore throat, nagging cough, runny nose, and headache. He seemed perplexed that he wasn't hospitalized immediately. Instead, he said, they gave him some Tylenol and cough syrup and told him to wash his hands a lot. . . I told him it sounds like he has a common cold, and washing his hands helps keep it from spreading to everyone else. He looked at me as though I was delusional, and walked away alarmed that I would share the medical staff's utter ignorance of the severity of his condition. He's still alive, but I've never seen him wash his hands. I washed mine twice while typing this post! . . .
In the Year of the Priest, the Tale of a Prisoner
. . . It's hard to describe the brokenness of the person sitting a few feet away staring intently, lost in a mindless TV show. Most of you do not have a category in which to understand the aftermath of such a shattered life. Skooter, his head shaved, his right arm covered in prison tattoos, looks as menacing as a wounded person possibly can. Skooter said I am the first person he has ever told of his past. I believe him. He wasn't able to tell most of it even to me. Instead, he spent all night writing, and gave his story to me in the morning. He titled it, "The Life of Skooter." It's not an easy story to tell. . . .
Jack Bauer Lost The Unit on Caprica
. . . I wrote that life in prison revolves around television. The prison commissary sells a small twelve-inch flat screen TV, and the profits from prisoners' weekly purchases go toward a recreation fund that pays for basic cable. So prisoner access to television costs taxpayers nothing, and is an essential link to the outside world. In fact, TV in prison actually saves a lot of money. Most prisons would have to double their staffs if not for TV. There are only four television shows that I never miss. You already know what they are if you looked closely at the title of this post. The problem is, it's summer, and they're all gone now. "24" and "LOST" have come to an end and are gone for good. I will never again get to see Jack Bauer accomplish his most mind-boggling feat - driving anywhere he wants to go in Los Angeles or New York in less than a minute. . . .
Pentecost in the Year of the Priest: Spirit of Truth, Wisdom, and Understanding
. . . Up to that point, I had no idea of a blog's potential. They didn't exist when I came to prison nearly sixteen years ago. I read about them, and heard them mentioned on the news, but I had no idea how blogs worked. I remember sitting in my cell last May, knowing that I made a commitment with a deadline, but I had no idea what to write. I thought of my first night in prison, of that maddening, foot stomping chant that went on for hours. So I wrote . . .
A Prisoner, A Professor, A Prelate, Two Priests, and a Poet!
. . . In the corner of my cell where I type sitting on an empty bucket, my head is just six inches from the barred cell window. The window doesn't open - a fact that I deeply resent - but there is a little security grate with a knob that opens a small section of the grate for a little - very little - air. As I sat here early yesterday morning thinking of a title, I heard something unusual through the open grate. It was a song, and it came from a red-breasted robin perched atop the spirals of razor wire on the twenty-foot wall that has been my view of the outside world for sixteen years. I watched the robin for a long time, and listened as he sang. It instantly made me think of . . .