May 5, 2020

So this feast of clickbait silly is making the rounds again.  It announces we now know that Jesus really looked like this:

and not like this:

What Language Did Jesus Speak? - HISTORY

What it really means is “We are replacing an image of Jesus made to identify him with the Europeans who worshipped him and replacing it with an image made to please people who worship scientism but who do not understand science.”

Yes.  Jesus, being a Middle Eastern Jew, looked like a Middle Eastern Jew and not like the image created by European piety.  He also did not not look Chinese.

Chinese depiction of the Crucifixion of Christ. | Christian art ...

This pedestrian observation is true.  It is also not news to any Christian who knows the first thing about the Faith.  It belongs to that category of tiresome polemic I call the “It may interest you to know…” genre.

Here’s why this stuff makes me roll my eyes. Given data, CGI can accurately render a good artist/forensic scientist’s image of what somebody looked like. Give them a skull and a bit of DNA and they can tell you accurately what the person looked like, including hair color and eye color. It can’t predict for all scars and hairstyles, makeup, etc.. And ornamentation remains guesswork based on how much biography we know. So you can image George Washington pretty accurately.

But the stupidity of claiming you can now show what Jesus really looked like is overwhelming. First, there is the truly delightful headline, “Jesus’ Facial Features Follow That Of Skulls”. As a Christian, I do concede that Jesus, being human, has a skull and that his face followed the contours of it as faces tend to do. Again, this is not news. The article tells us that the guy doing the CGI “reconstruction” “also followed the descriptions of many people from Jesus’ time period discussed in the Bible. His team also x-rayed three skulls from the Semite during that time period.”

It is unclear what the first sentence means. Does it claim that scripture gives physical descriptions of people? Or that extrabiblical sources describe many biblical characters? Or that many people describe Jesus or other biblical characters?

In fact, Scripture rarely gives us physical descriptions of people.  We know Zacchaeus was short.  We know David was ruddy and handsome. Once or twice more we get physical details about somebody.  But that’s about it.  We have no idea what any of the apostles look like.  We do have a description of Paul written a century after his death that may or may not preserve a memory.  Certainly it influenced subsequent iconography.

“A man of middling size, and his hair was scanty, and his legs were a little crooked, and his knees were far apart; he had large eyes, and his eyebrows met, and his nose was somewhat long.”

File:Seattle - St. Paul's Episcopal - icon of St. Paul ...

And it comports with Paul’s own description of himself as not much to look at.  But we don’t really know much about the accuracy of this description except for one thing: if it is accurate it makes complete hash of the notion that all ancient Semites look alike.  Paul no more looks like Jesus than Jesus looks like Mary Magdalene.

In simple fact, not a single physical description of Jesus comes down to us from eyewitnesses.

Isaiah tells us, “he had no form or comeliness that we should look at him,
and no beauty that we should desire him.” (Is 53:2).  Ironically, this prophetic description, written seven centuries before Jesus’ birth, tells us more about his physical appearance than any eyewitness.  The gospels are devoid of interest in his face, with one significant exception: they tell us three times that the Risen Christ was not immediately recognized.

The ambiguity of this is not explained.  Is it that the risen Christ looks different than he did before his Resurrection?  Paul suggests this in his strange discussion of the nature of the resurrection body in 1 Cor 15:

But some one will ask, “How are the dead raised? With what kind of body do they come?” You foolish man! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body which is to be, but a bare kernel, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as he has chosen, and to each kind of seed its own body. For not all flesh is alike, but there is one kind for men, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. There are celestial bodies and there are terrestrial bodies; but the glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is another. There is one glory of the sun, and another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars; for star differs from star in glory.

So is it with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable, what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a physical body, it is raised a spiritual body. If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body. Thus it is written, “The first man Adam became a living soul”; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. But it is not the spiritual which is first but the physical, and then the spiritual. The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. As was the man of dust, so are those who are of the dust; and as is the man of heaven, so are those who are of heaven. Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven. I tell you this, brethren: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable.

Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. (1 Co 15:35–52).

Or is it that the disciples eyes were, as Luke says, “kept from recognizing him”? (Jimmy Akin has fun speculating on the possibility that the disciples were, by God’s providence, given a temporary case of prosopagnosia or face blindness.) We simply are not told.  And the overwhelming impression the New Testament leaves is that the writers are straining at the limits of language to try to articulate the experience of the encounter with the risen Christ.

The closest we get to physical description comes in Revelation, which tells us he appears to the seer as “a Son of man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest; his head and his hair were white as white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame of fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters; in his right hand he held seven stars, from his mouth issued a sharp two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining in full strength.” (Re 1:13–16).

Given the strangeness of the encounters with the risen Christ, I am not willing to deny that the seer is trying to express something his eyes beheld.  But at the same time, trying to derive any forensic data for a CGI reconstruction seems to me to be a fool’s errand.  What matters to the seer is what these details communicate about the glory of the risen Christ.  They are written to communicate spiritual truths about Jesus, not to provide data for a police sketch.

In the end, the one and only physical detail we know about Jesus from the New Testament are the marks of his Passion–which is all the gospels care about.

As to x-raying the skulls of three Semitic randos from the first century as some kind of forensic proof of what Jesus looked like, much less about the length of his beard? Gimme a break.

Similarly, the appeal to St. Paul’s views on hair length are massively culturally conditioned. Within the Jewish tradition, there are a multiplicity of approaches to hair length, most notably the concept of a Nazirite vow in which uncut hair is the mark of consecration to God. Just read the story of Samson if this is unclear to you. It is entirely possible that Jesus’ long hair can reflect this.

“Assuming he had long hair,” you rightly reply. But why assume it? Well, I’m one of those people who thinks the Shroud of Turin is genuine. Here’s why:

So I think that the early Church’s image of Jesus in iconography became fixed to look like that because that iconographic tradition was heavily influenced by the Shroud for a very good reason: it’s real and it preserved the real memory of what Jesus looked like. Early images of Jesus often show him as a beardless shepherd. They are, like scriptural descriptions, aiming to convey a spiritual truth about him: “I am the good shepherd.”

File:Good shepherd 02b.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

But as the Shroud’s influence spread due to its veneration in Constantinople, iconography increasingly falls in line with it and the depiction of Jesus become standardized to conform to the template it provides.  I think that’s because it provided that template because that’s what Jesus looked like, long hair and all.

The supposed Real Jesus of the more recent schools of thought is, at the end of the day, simply an artist making stuff up based on his own conjectures. Other artists have done so, of course.  But it takes the hubris of post-modernity to do it while claiming you are not doing it and just giving “Science”.  Such images provide no actual insight into what Jesus “really” looked like and are based on no evidence for the very good reason that there is no evidence–beyond the Shroud–of what Jesus looked like.  As with all Latest Real Jesuses, it reveals something about the supposed discoverer of the Latest Real Jesus and nothing about Jesus.

April 18, 2017

…and the Shroud of Turin:

September 10, 2012

So September 6, the Shea Fambly got on a plane bound for Chicago via Phoenix to witness the nuptials of the Beloved Cow and Miss Claire Kelly. It was me, Jan, Luke, Tasha, Lucy The Cuteness, Pete, and Sean. We took off at 11:20, made our connections, got into O’Hare on time, successfully made the high-speed hand-off of the car seat for the Cuteness from Claire’s mom Sarah, negotiated the airport transportation to Alamo Car Rental, got the cheapo upgrade to the Ginormous Suburban Assault Vehicle that could hold all of us and our luggage and plugged in the borrowed (and awesome) Garmin GPS system in order to find our way to Marytown up in Libertyville (about 40 mins north).  Lucy performed like a champ and didn’t melt down even though it took till about midnight to find our way to our rooms.  I suspect McDonald’s probably helped that (by the way, could there be a more disastrous marketing idea than “Chicken McWrap”?  The jokes just write themselves: “Chicken McWrap! Spread it on your McGarden!”  Sorry.  The product of a sleep-deprived Shea mind.  I’ll be better tomorrow.)

Anyway, we made our way to Marytown, and thanks to the help of a generous bunch of Franciscans, had rooms to stay in and meals to eat once we got here.  This was no doubt assisted by their love of Cow and Claire, who seem to be universally popular throughout the Chicago area.  In fact, the next morning, when we went to the Field Museum, all I had to do was say, “I’m Cow’s dad” and they let us all in for free and allowed Lucy to climb freely on Sue the T. Rex.

Actually, that last part is fiction.  Still sleep-deprived.

However, the part about the museum is true. We went there on Friday morning and spent the day checking out the awesome dinosaur exhibit and the equally awesome Charles Knight paintings. Then we made our way back to Marytown, dressed respectably, and went to the rehearsal, where I was relieved to discover that fathers of the groom have virtually no actual responsibility besides walking in first with my beautiful wife on my arm to distract people from the fact that the groom’s father is kind of a doofus. I memorized my part quickly, watched the groomsmen and ladied in waiting do their choreography and then we headed for the Kellys (Bob and Sarah, Claire’s extremely wonderful parents) and he rehearsal dinner. It was a big, backyard barbecue with pavilion tents to keep the threatening storm off. The food was wonderful and the family more wonderful still. We Sheas and Kellys cottoned to each other licketysplit. Bob is the original Bob the Builder and the best thing he and Sarah have built is this boisterous family of Catholic kids who all love and care for each other (and bonk into each other in joyous kidly ways). Claire is their oldest and they love Cow as much as we love Claire. So the party was a hoot with beer freely flowing and a lot of laughter. After hours of merriment and a considerable amount of drink drunk by the company (not me, of course: designated driver), it was time for us to pack it in. We made it back to Marytown, happy and about as tired as I’ve ever been.

Next day, I got up early and decided to walk off the glucose from the cookies the night before. So I walked up to Mundelein Seminary (practically a stone’s throw from Marytown) and meandered the campus, savoring the deer in the morning light, listening to the bell toll the quarter hours, and looking out over the lake in the middle of the campus, all accompanied by a rosary (I generally say it on walks as it sort of clears my head of the hurly burly and gets me refocused on reality). Eventually, it was heading on toward breakfast and the last sprint toward fulfilling all the logistics, so I headed back to Marytown. A quick breakfast and then I became Cab Driver to the Nations, speeding Jan to the Kellys, Tasha to the Church for music prep (she sang a gorgeous “Ave Maria”); back to get Jan and take her to the reception hall, back to get Tasha, then Tasha decided to stay, then on to Cow’s hotel to deliver his shirt, then back to Marytown to get Luke, Lucy, Pete and Sean (and a shower and monkey suit), then on to the Church.

The whole joyous crowd was there (including a considerable contigent of Washingtonians who constituted the groomsmen). It was like a little foretaste of Heaven–reunions with people you love, transfigured and in a new land, everyone dressed in their finest, lot of little kids running around, everyone beautiful and so happy. I gave Cow my dadastolic blessing (a smooch on both cheeks and a bear hug) and did something similar for Claire. Then it all began.

It was a glorious Mass in a very small Church (St. Patrick’s in Lake Forest). Fr. Anthony Maria of Marytown officiated. He’s known the bride and groom for several years now, a droll Filipino with a taste for banana ketchup (!), a deep faith in Jesus, and a sense of humor that cracks me up. Also, his mind works different from the rest of us, so I like that. He mentioned in the homily the enormous odds against them ever existing (“you might have been a lava rock, a carrot, or a giraffe”) and the equally enormous odds against them ever meeting and pointed out what a gift of Providence their marriage is. Both hilarious and profound. Right during the vows, Lucy attempted to climb off my lap onto Jan’s and managed to slip and clock herself on the pew, resulting in howls. Much quiet bustle attempting to alleviate her pain. Despite all that, the vows were said and the beautiful couple settled in for the rest of the Mass and made their first communion as husband and wife. Finally, the Mass was ended and the couple, looking as happy and radiant as it is possible to look walked out into a new world, made new by the fact that they are now in it together.

After that, it was the reception–a major blowout with great food, a lot of wine and beer, some wonderful toasts, and the presence of fifty bazillion family and friends who all enjoyed each other’s company. The bride and groom shared a first dance that was beautiful to watch, followed by the bride and her dad (which I always find moving). Even left-footed me tried my hand a bit.

Eventually, Lucy hit the wall and needed to go home, so we reluctantly packed it in and headed back to Marytown, leaving Luke behind to hang with his brother for a while longer and catch a ride with somebody else. When we got back, I basically pitched forward onto the bed and died.

Next morning, Jan and I were up bright and early to take some of the wedding party to O’Hare. They met us outside the Embassy in Deerfield, looking green around the gills and the ride to the airport was… strangely silent. I tried to brighten things up by suggesting exercise, Sousa Marches, or show tunes, but mostly got grunts. Kids: don’t drink too much. This has been a public service announcement.

After we dropped those poor souls at the airport we headed back to Marytown. Mass was at 9, so I crashed again, only to be wakened about 8:45 by my son urgently insisting that Mass already in progress. We rushed downstairs and into the sanctuary–only to find that what my son took for Mass was in fact the Morning Office. So we had fifteen minutes to combubulate ourselves and then Mass began. It was beautiful (as Mass always is to me) and the sanctuary at Marytown was lovely as ever.

I was struck by this reading:

Thus says the LORD:
Say to those whose hearts are frightened:
Be strong, fear not!
Here is your God,
he comes with vindication;
with divine recompense
he comes to save you.
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened,
the ears of the deaf be cleared;
then will the lame leap like a stag,
then the tongue of the mute will sing.
Streams will burst forth in the desert,
and rivers in the steppe.
The burning sands will become pools,
and the thirsty ground, springs of water.

Still thinking about that. Especially the “fear not” part.

Then it was down the hall to a quick breakfast. After that, the fambly packed their stuff out to the car, I offered a few hyper-controlling words of advice to my competent and patient wife who needed none my hyper-controlling advice, but who bears with me when I am stressed about my family traveling thousands of miles. We all hugged and kissed and blessed one another, and before I knew it, they were driving away, leaving me here at Marytown for the next few days till I speak on Wednesday and return on Thursday, a happy man with a beautiful new daughter.

Now I’m just hanging out at Marytown, writing from here, plowing through work and mail and back to the quiet writerly life. The grounds are lovely here, so I will probably go take a walk soon and maybe even indulge myself in a nap. Then it’s back to work and the talk on Wednesday. (Hilarious side note: I’m talking about the phenomenon of private revelation in a talk called “There’s a Weirdness in God’s Mercy” on 9/12. That talk is, in part, to help prepare for an exhibit on the Shroud of Turin that will start the next day. The reader board out front of Marytown announces both. But to the incautious eye, it appears to say “MARK SHEA SHROUD EXHIBIT”.

I’m tempted to start my talk by thanking the audience for spending my last few hours of life with me.

Anyway, glory to God for Cow and Claire and all my love to them and the rest of this big crazy family he’s given us. That includes you readers, by the way. Thanks for reading my stuff all these years and for being such a good, thoughtful, prayerful bunch! God is good!

May 10, 2012

today their big banner headline is “GRIPPING NEW BOOK DETAILS ALLEGED APPARITIONS AND PROPHECIES OF PAGAN BOY IN DEEP AFRICA”

Ahem. If I were to put up a headline that urged my readers “PAY ATTENTION TO HOROSCOPES” or “CONSULT WITCH DOCTORS” or “PAGAN PROPHETS SHOW US THE WAY” you would be understandably nonplussed. In fact, the Church discourages us from seeking out pagan prophets because they are, you know, pagan. (Not that God cannot reveal himself to a pagan, of course. But when he does so it is to refer the pagan to Jesus Christ in his Church–NOT TO SEND BELIEVERS IN JESUS CHRIST RUNNING AFTER PAGAN PROPHETS.) But, Spirit Daily being Spirit Daily, the emphasis is not so much on the common sense teaching of the magisterial Church as it is on a sort of indiscriminate hankering for the spooky, the signs and wonders of whatever dubious provenance, and the murky shadowy area of what I call “X Files spirituality”. Is some of this stuff legit? I reckon so. They are indiscriminate enough that we get everything from approved apparitions to the Shroud of Turin (which I think is the genuine article), to increasingly dodgy stuff about statues with dripping legs, to conspiracy theories about anti-Catholicism sinking the Titanic, to fearmongering about Christian yoga, to paranoia about Munch’s “The Scream” and its relation to “prophecy” to “the new world order” to near death experiences. It tends to be all about stuff from the shadowy borders of human experience, not stuff from the sunlit uplands of common sense, natural law, and the central deposit of Faith.

What they intuit is something that really is and always has been a part of the Catholic tradition: the charismatic and mystical insight that we live in a world governed by a God who does some pretty strange things sometimes. (I’ve got a couple of lulu stories myself.) It’s not bad to acknowledge that, particularly in an age where both hyper-rationalists *and* some species of Catholic are deeply hostile to the mystical element of the faith. But there is a right and a wrong way to be open to the mystical and there is something unhealthy about cultivating a habit of running after this stuff as the central part of your spiritual diet while exercising what is often an astonishingly bad sense of discernment. God calls us to grow up into mature Christians who are formed by the ordinary common life, worship and teaching of Christ in his Church. When your *primary* diet of spiritual things comes not from the ordinary magisterial teaching of the Church, the liturgy, the virtues, and the works of mercy, but from the latest rumor about what some dodgy apparition like Medjugorje says (and Spirit Daily is *huge* on Medjugorje and other dodgy unapproved “apparitions”) or what some alleged apparition to some alleged “pagan prophet” in “deep Africa’ says, you are treading on very thin ice. What often happens in such cases is that the “seer” or the apparition or the “sign” winds up taking the place of the Church’s teaching, with typically pernicious results.

Before I was Catholic, I thought Catholics believed that Mary was another god. After I became Catholic, I discovered that some Catholics (the sort who look to sites like Spirit Daily for their *main* formation in the faith) think Mary (or various *claimed* Marys in dubious apparitions) is another Pope. They run here and there looking for better revelation than the boring ordinary stuff the Church gives, hoping to have the inside track on the hidden history of our time and often deeply disappointed or, worse, deeply suspicious of the Church when she does not fall in line with what “Mary” or the latest prophet or seer is supposedly telling the Church to do. They prefer their Folk Hero to the Church. That is poison. Avoid it like the plague. And do not, for the love of God, entrust yourself to what some “pagan prophet” somewhere has to say.

April 3, 2012

This is a particularly inventive piece of desperation, since it relies on saying the Shroud of Turin is genuine, while claiming the Resurrection was a hallucination:

“Theory: While Cambridge academic Thomas de Wesselow believes the shroud is real, he claims the image of Christ fooled the apostles into believing he had risen from the dead”

Mkay. Mr. de Wesselow explains:

‘Back then images had a psychological presence, they were seen as part of a separate plain of existence, as having a life of their own.’

Ah! “Back then”. You know, back when people were 2000 years dumber than today.

So when an negative image of the crucified Jesus miraculously appeared on a piece of cloth in which he had been buried, they mistook that image for the Risen Jesus. After that, apparently, the Mass Hysteria juggernaut took over and they just thought they had grabbed Jesus’ feet, talked with him on the Emmaus Road, seen him eat fish, not recognized him on three occasions, and poked their finger in his wounds.

Natural enough mistake. Happens all the time to 500 people and a Pharisee bent on persecuting Christians. Who *wouldn’t* think a piece of cloth is a living glorified Man God who can appear and disappear at will? I can’t even begin to count how many times mass hysteria has caused this in history (because the number of times is 0 and “mass hysteria” is only trotted out as the “explanation” for the resurrection–and by nutjobs who claim that no planes hit the WTC)

Me: I have this notion that if you are going to accept the authenticity of the Shroud (which I do) you should probably consider the possibility that the image is there BECAUSE JESUS ROSE FROM THE DEAD. Accepting that, you then have an explanation both for the Shroud and for the stories of eyewitnesses who could swear that they met Jesus, not a piece of cloth.

HT: Jon Sorenson.

March 30, 2010

…is visiting Italy with her fambly on a pilgrimage to see the Shroud of Turin. She’s blogging about it here.

And, yeah, I still think it’s genuine.

November 23, 2009

written on the Shroud of Turin. Color me skeptical (even though I still think the Shroud is probably authentic).

October 6, 2009

I think I should offer a brief apology for my snippy response to the reader who wanted my thoughts on the Shroud of Turin. I get a lot of trolling email from people and I too easily assumed his was more of same. Upon reflection, I don’t think I should have and have amended the post to remove the snippiness toward him.

Okay, now I can go to AK with a clear conscience.

Excelsior!

June 3, 2009

Yesterday, you got to weather the crisis of my temporary halt in Follower Acquisition, discuss the Shroud of Turin, discover what Consequentialism is all about, get on the cutting edge of a conversation about circumcision, and ward off invisible chocolate robots while chatting about slippery slope arguments. Today, you get to enjoy Meta-Ethical Subjectivist Comedy Gold, as well as peruse other fun stuff that washed up in my mail box. And, of course, there’s the convivial atmosphere of the comments boxes where you can argue about Frank Schaeffer, quibble over Latin, compare notes on Mystery Science Theater 3000 and (who knows?) meet the man or woman of your dreams!

I ask you: Where else can you get quite what you get here? So if you want more of it, click on the PayPal button to the right and help CAEI stay on the air and our kids stay clothed, housed, and fed. You can either make a straight donation or, if you like to get something for your money, you can buy my books and tapes (autographed even!). (By the way, thanks to all the folk who have expressed such interest in Mary, Mother of the Son!)And if you’d rather not do the PayPal thang, feel free to email me and ask for my snailmail address. I’ll happily take a check instead.

Oh! And don’t forget! I am ready, willing and able to come speak for your parish, conference or group. If you are asking yourself the all-important question “Yes, but does he suck?” I can confidently tell you that a number of my combox folk have heard me speak and will happily provide you with good references. Several of them have even asked me back–and not for the purpose of pelting me with sticks and mud!

April 13, 2018

Awoke to drenching, soaking, torrential, endless, pouring rain on Friday April 6.  Started writing the second entry of this account. Didn’t get far because Jan, bless her heart, had made us this awesome sausage and egg concoction wrapped in an inner layer of flour tortilla and an outer layer of THE MOST MAJESTIC REDWOOD FOREST ON THE PLANET. 

It was delicious and, per our custom, I washed up.  Then we took advantage of the 75 cent showers and washed ourselves up (first quarter=blast of cold water that turns warm long enough to lather and soap up, second quarter=equals mostly rinsing off, third quarter = final rinse off).  By the time we were done we were both remarkably presentable. I even combed my hair for the occasion.

Then we headed for a backroad lookout that viewed the Pacific and, most wonderfully, for the Avenue of the Giants (pausing to shoot elk–with our camera).

Steinbeck visited the place and spoke of the awe and silence of the place.  I thought of the Temple of Solomon, which was decorated in such a way as to recall Eden (because the Genesis account sees all creation in terms of Temple liturgy, which is why the sun and moon are “lights”, why the clay image of the God is placed in the temple of creation last, and why the Man and Woman are given the task of “tending the Garden” using the same language used to describe the work of the Levitical priests in the Temple.  In scripture, the Temple is a microcosm of the Cosmos and the Earth is a macrocosmic Temple.

That’s easy to grasp walking in the Redwoods.  Jan and I walked, hand in hand, tiny children, borned yesterday destined to perish in a moment or two, among living ents that have been here for 2000 years: trees that were centuries old when Jesus was born, adolescents when Augustine wrote his Confessions, maturing during the Crusades, laughing with joy at the weather when the Sistine Chapel was being painted, hooming and homming about young Master Muir when he tramped through here a century and dreamt of making sure that at least some of this treasure was save from the men with minds of metal and wheels  who now dominate both the state and the corporate mechanisms of our country and dream of feeding it all to the furnace to feed their greed.

It feels like a cathedral in there.  The builders of great sacred places are attempting to capture what God created when he created such places—the vastness, the silence, the fog shrouding the treetops of these tallest trees in the world.  I thought of the clouds of incense and the smoke of sacrifice drifting between the columns in the Temple court when Jesus visits the Temple in Zeffirelli’s Jesus of Nazareth.  The floor of the forest was covered in oxalis (aka sorrel) and various small flowers Jan carefully documented with her camera.

Every once in a while one or another of the sorrel leaves would dance as a raindrop fell on it from a branch hundreds of feet above.

Jan and I walked in silence or in quiet conversation about the place.  Such places teach you what phrases like the “fear of the Lord” really mean.  It’s not cringing.  It’s a delighted smallness in the Presence of overwhelming majesty, goodness, and beauty.  Human boasting in such place and in such a Presence is hushed with pleasure and a desire to focus outward and attend to the miracle of silence and growth and lives so old that you simply feel like an infant before them.

After an hour or so in the woods, we made our way back to the car and headed off, making a brief jaunt down a side road that took us to a view of the Pacific where the thing we thought was a grey whale turned out to be a rock.  Then it was off to Marin County (with an attempt to visit the impregnable Humboldt Wildlife Reserve—no entrance visible—and a stop in Eureka at a laundromat to attempt to dry our clothes—no washing, no drying). Jan took the wheel for the drive and I konked out for a while, coming to now and then to note the countryside that was now thoroughly Californian—orchards, vineyards, low rolling hills—and a rushing, muddy, and wild river that paralleled our course as it overflowed its banks in the endless, driving rain.

Eventually we pulled into the home of our friends Ricardo and Anna Lisa Lemos about 7 PM.  She is a reader of mine and graciously and generously extended an invitation to crash at her house, which sounded more and more wonderful as the rain continued.  She assured us it was the worst rain she’d seen in 8 years.  They were incredibly gracious, welcoming, and generous.  All of a sudden, we went from bedraggled travelers to guests in Rivendell, with wine and hors d’ouevres and comfy furniture and sunny conversation, followed by a magnificent meal at D’Angelo’s downtown, then a swift ride home again and a lovely bed of white.  Heavenly.

However, the next morning, Saturday, I got up sick as a dog with some kind of gastro-intestinal yuk.  As it happened, they had planned to basically just gift us their house since they were headed south to a family gathering and vacation for the next week.  We had been reluctant to accept such an offer initially, but it turned out to be Divine Providence once the gut flu walloped me because it was all I could do to get from bed to toilet (a frequent excursion all that day).  So Saturday passed with me largely unconscious, Jan doing whatever it was she did (read mostly, and sleep too) and the hours fly past till at length she came in and told me it was 11 PM (I dimly remember some soup in there too).  So, worn out from a day of sleeping, I went back to sleep and awoke the next morning feeling a million times better and, for the first time, witnessed a proper sunny, California morning in Marin County.

We texted our profuse thanks to the astonishingly generous Lemos family (now repeated here for all the world to know and praise their Christian goodness) and put our freshly charged goods (giant heavy Marine battery for CPAP, computer, Kindle, phone, and camera) in the car, which groaned under the weight of all those freshly harvested electrons.  Then we washed up from our early breakfast, stripped the bed, washed and dried the linens, and were off.

It was beautiful in Mill Valley and since Mass was not till 10:15 we decided to stock up on supplies at the local grocery store which was, natch, a Whole Foods (this was Marin County after all).  I got some ice, milk, and eggs and Jan needed some Tylenol.  So I went to the guy stocking the shelves in the Essential Oils/Herbal Body Soul Spirit/Eat Pray Love aisle and asked if he had some.  He regarded me with horror for just an instant and then composed himself and barked, “No sir, I do not.  That’s at the Rite Aid next door.”

Feeling as though I had farted in Church, I went next door and got the evil artificial chemicals the soul of Paltrow doth hate and went back to the car.  Sunblocked with more evil chemicals, we headed to Mass at the lovely Our Lady of Mt. Carmel parish and then made for the Muir Woods, which turned out to be absolutely cram-packed.  If Caesar and his gang of genetically modified super-apes get there, they will have to get in a very long line to get in.

So we headed for Muir Beach (our very last contact with the Pacific till we get home) and walked in the sand barefoot and waded in the water (it was a very baptismal day, what with two babies being baptized at Mass.

Then we poked about in a Sabbathy Sunday manner, took pictures of plants and critters and each other, and generally rested on this day of rest.  After a tailgate lunch, we headed east.

California, contrary to popular belief, is really big.  And somehow it is wider than it is long.  It’s like the TARDIS of states.  We drove across some bridge that is not the Golden Gate (but we could see it from our bridge) and then out across the Castro Valley and lots of other beautiful valleys full of immense fields, orchards and vineyards.  On and on we went pretty much all day till we finally reached Yosemite.

We got there in the early evening.  The gate was open but it was after hours, so we just rode in, cheated of our chance to use Jan’s Awesome EternaPass to All National Parks.  We had no idea where we were going but we took the only road we could find (Yosemite is more or less a huge cul de sac, as we discovered). We passed a field where, in May 1903, Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir camped and took counsel to make Yosemite a National Park.

Thank God for that man.  To think that his party has been overrun by the swine and hyenas of today’s Trumpian Freak Show is to break the heart.  They would turn the whole parks system in Mordor in a heartbeat if they thought they could strip mine it for a buck.

Anyway, presently Jan gasped and said “Look at that huge waterfall!”

I, of course, had missed it (the roads are twisty and parallel the ferocious and terrifying Merced River,

so I was focused).

She urged me to head right at the upcoming intersection and we quickly found the way to Bridal Veil Fall, glowing in the westering sun.  We got out of the car and met an Aussie and his wife (he had been there two years ago and vowed to bring her to see it).

The hike up to the Falls is short, only a few hundred yards.

Wow!

They are, like everything in Yosemite, stunningly beautiful.  Pictures don’t do it justice. We climbed up to the lookout point below the Falls and got soaked with the spray, but we wisely had put on rain coats.  The river below the spill way was spilling over on to the lookout and there were signs everywhere warning not to be stupid and climb around on the slick rock if you valued your life.

You just stand there in awe, drinking it in.

Soon, the light was failing and we had taken our pictures, so we headed back to the car.  By Providence, I got mixed up and wound up driving the wrong way, which took us to something called the Tunnel View (named for a tunnel near the west end.  This give you a commanding view of the whole valley from Bridal Veil to El Capitan to the Cathedral Rocks and down to Half Dome.

It’s like God rolled up his sleeves and said, “Let’s think Big!”

We stayed until the light was fading and then headed down to Half Dome Village to seek camping space.

There was none.  But there were spaces in Upper Pine Village, which we could not find in the dark.  So we went to the Visitor Center and they told us where to go.  So we went there and all the available space was gone. So we asked the camp host and he told us there was nothing in Yosemite that night, but there was Indian Flats just outside the park and near the Cedar Valley Lodge.

So we made for that and found a spot around midnight or so, Dog tired.

More later!


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