The Judge Report

In the Spring of 1965 our eighth grade religion class began to discuss the various virtues associated with the Sacrament of Matrimony. Sister Anne Eugene was nothing if not systematic, so I was able to look ahead, count the number of kids in the row in front of me, and determine thereby which virtue I would be called upon to define within the next few minutes.

And then I turned pale.

Chastity.

Oh my God. Are we even supposed to know about this stuff yet? I mean, thanks to Billy Naple I knew something about the various structures and functions of the sexes, as well as he had been able to learn it from a cigarette-smoking thug on Wall Street hill. Billy had switched over to the public junior high school where apparently sex was all anybody ever talked about.

“Robert, chastity.”

And now I stood up and turned from ghostly pale to a deep shade of red.

“Purity?” I mumbled.

“Yes, that’s good. Now, boys and girls, chastity may seem like a strange thing to be associated with married people, but in the context of marriage . . .”

Keep going, Sister. That’s it. You do all the talking and I’ll look like I’m listening thoughtfully and then when nobody notices I’ll quietly take my seat and the next thing you know Mary Petruccione will be busy discussing patience. That’s a nice virtue. Why couldn’t I get patience?

*********

Forty something years later, and now my friend Dawn Eden, who wasn’t even born at the time, brings up the same topic again in her wonderful new book, The Thrill of the Chaste, Finding Fulfillment While Keeping Your Clothes On. In the course of this practical guide (aimed primarily at young women, but with nuggets of wisdom available for all) on how to exercise and develop this mostly-forgotten virtue , Dawn manages to bare her whole sordid pre-chastity lifestyle and examine the very depths of her soul. She’s not afraid to call sin sin and she doesn’t remotely excuse her old behavior, though, in an odd sort of way she seems totally comfortable with it, in the sense that she knows she is forgiven, she is firmly resolved not to relapse, and can use her own bad example to accomplish good.

We corresponded a bit while the book was in its preparatory stages. A lot of the themes [NEVER use "a lot" in your writing, Robert!- Sister Monica Agnes] and several of the anecdotes opened out of town at her blog, The Dawn Patrol, where I’ve been a regular hanger-on for a couple of years. I advised her privately that there is a very fine line between giving testimony (a la the Mission scene in Guys and Dolls) and BRAGGING. I’ve heard many a sinner confess his sins publicly in a way that made me wonder whether there wasn’t just a hint of pride in accomplishment there. I rather think I have been guilty of that myself from time to time (I’m proud to say).

Dawn heeded my warning and walks the line beautifully and brilliantly. While this is primarily a deeply thoughtful, well-researched and theologically uplifting book, interwoven throughout is her personal story and especially her spiritual journey which is startling and extraordinary.

Most of us are able to get through life, I think, reasonably comfortable with our relationship with God and don’t bother asking too much of Him, and, for the most part He only seems to seek ordinary things from us. But every once in a while, He takes a real good sinner, clobbers them over the head, slaps them silly and says, “WAKE UP! I’ve got a job for you!” and that, I think, is where prophets come from.

And that is how He took an agnostic Jew from a broken home who lived as the culture demanded and slept where her cravings directed and turned her into an Apostle to the young directionless women of the new century. How is this possible?

First, He introduces her to His Son and despite all the cultural pressures to the contrary, she accepts Him with ease and from that point on she manages to adjust every aspect of her life into His Will. Just like that.

Then, He has His angels whisper in a few ears and rearranges her reasonably settled life in quirky new ways. Several months of unemployment (this is about where I wandered in) lead her to even deeper thoughts and richer writing, and unintimidated proclamations of right and wrong.

Joy and peace run between the lines on every page. So do hip, sassy, straight-forward, and no holds barred. She speaks a message that is clear, honest and secure in herself, and one that will resonate, I think, with anyone (i.e. nearly everyone) who has ever felt that pang of loneliness and emptiness that comes from sexual encounters that are aimed at self-gratification instead of spiritual, emotional and mutual enrichment.

And, as is to be expected from Dawn Eden, it’s a good read on any level.

When I first saw Scott Ott’s moving satirical video, Zawahiri Christmas Greeting, I emailed Dawn and asked her if it was really any more ridiculous than her own life story.

The Power of God, what we sometimes call Grace, can do some pretty amazing things.

**********

A brief aside: Dawn repeatedly points out her personal faith that God will choose her mate if she is to have one. Is she sincere? I’ll say.

First she lets us know the combination of features which appeal to her: witty, charming, intelligent, well-read, virtuous, etc. AND THEN proceeds to explain to all the single women of America where to find such men!

Like, hey Dawn, KNOCK KNOCK, how many of those guys do you think are out there, and you’re giving them away to the next sweet young thing who buys your book?

That’s FAITH.

The Judge likes a guy who says what he means and means what he says.

WALLACE: Do you want to overturn Roe vs. Wade?

THOMPSON: I think Roe vs. Wade was bad law and bad medical science. And the way to address that is through good judges. I don’t think the court ought to wake up one day and make new social policy for the country. It’s contrary to what it’s been the past 200 years.

We have a process in this country to do that. Judges shouldn’t be doing that. That’s what happened in that case. I think it was wrong.

Uncle Sy was born at home on December 4, 1922. His birth certificate says December 5th, but that’s the day they got around to registering it, I guess. Things were not quite so formal and legalistic back then.

There were ultimately 13 children born to Bronislaw and Anna Raczkowski Foltman and Sy was on the down side of the group, so potential names had already gotten scarce. So, it was potluck based on the feast day of the Saint of his baptismal day, December 31.

“So that’s how I got named Sylvester and I’ve hated it all my life,” he told me once.

Just out of curiosity, I pulled out my pre-Vatican II volume of feast days of the Church and thumbed through it.

“You know,” I said, “You should consider yourself lucky. If you’d been baptized the next day your name would be Circumcision.”

Some years ago, soon after the bishop closed St. Joseph’s church and merged the congregation with St. Michael’s and Our Lady of Mount Carmel under a single new pastor, groups of disgruntled parishioners from St Joe’s and St. Mike’s began quietly showing up at St. Mary’s on a regular basis.

“You know,” I said to stalwart fellow Irish-Catholic Joe Purtell, “we need to let these people know they’re welcome here and that our church is their church. I’ve got a great idea.”

“What’s that?” the perennial basket-passer asked.

“We’ll rename St. Mary’s after you. We’ll call it ‘St. Joseph Michael Purtell.’”

*********

Even then, Joe would have been the first to tell you that he’d be an unlikely candidate for santo subito. He was born into the rough and tumble world of old-style democratic politics in Troy, NY. His father died when he was eight years old, at which time his mother placed him at the head of the table, informing him that he was now the man in the family. They scraped their way through the Great Depression. He saw death enough for a hundred lifetimes at Anzio.

A butcher by trade, he supplemented his income at the A&P with purloined cuts of meat to feed his rapidly-growing family and then would run to confession. Somehow they survived, because Joe was nothing if not a survivor.

The family peaked at seven kids. For a while. That’s when Theresa had her last pregnancy. Twins.

**********

In the late 60’s a “Christian Family Movement” began here in Amsterdam, and groups of Catholic adults would meet in each other’s homes to discuss how they could utilize the message of Christ to strengthen their families and communities. At one of these gatherings Joe Purtell heard the call from God to run for Alderman of the Eighth Ward.

The ward included a pretty solidly Republican “Mustang DIstrict” where many of the residents were Scots-Irish Ulster Protestants of the deeply entrenched variety. The Irish-Catholic Erin go Bragh Democrat candidate did not receive the warmest of receptions, but he earned their respect with his tenacity. He confronted their prejudices with an in-your-face attitude and found himself elected, and re-elected and re-elected and re-elected. Then they threw him out for good.

My local political career began as a Young Republican thorn in Joe Purtell’s side. The administration he served reeked of corruption in the old-fashioned political way. Joe later admitted to systematic kick-backs from contractors (5% was the going rate). If a cable television company wanted a franchise, it seemed to him only natural that the regulators should have free service including the fledgling Home Box Office.

Joe was not happy when Dave Pietrusza and I exposed this.

“Listen, you Young Turks! Someday you guys are gonna be in charge and when you are, some kid who’s in diapers now will come here and bust your balls just like you’re busting mine, and you won’t like it any more than I do!”

But I liked Joe Purtell.

And, eventually, he liked me. After his forced retirement from politics, we began having lunch together regularly as part of a larger group, and by the time I ran for Family Court Judge, far from seeking revenge, he threw a couple of fund raisers for me, calling in chips from long-distant vendors for whom he could not possibly deliver any more favors. But they remembered him.

Fact is, Joe may have been a rogue, but self-interest was the farthest thing from his mind. He took care of his family, he took care of his friends. He took care of strangers and he took care of anyone who came to him. He got people jobs and he put food on their tables.

I can’t recall a single time when anyone who fled to his protection, implored his help or sought his intercession was left unaided.

And if that’s not enough to be a saint, well, I don’t know what is.

God grant him rest, and blessings to his family.

I had the blessed fortune of attending a good Catholic parochial school in a working class multi-ethnic town before Vatican II. It was the era of the baby-boomers and the classes were huge, something like 43 in a room when I started in fourth grade in 1960.

I am reminded of that wonderful song in The King and I: “When I was a lad/World was better spot/What was so was so/What was not was not/Now I am a man/Things have changed a lot/Some things nearly so/Others nearly not.”

No such problem as a young Catholic. The rules were all laid out neatly for us. We knew, for example, that our parents were pretty much destined for hell if they didn’t vote for Jack Kennedy that year. (I was, even then, something of a contrarian. There were exactly six Nixon supporters out of the 43.)

On Friday, January 20, 1961, the father of one of our classmates delivered a table-top 19″ black and white television up the three flights of stairs to our classroom so we could watch the historical moment of the inauguration of the first Catholic president.

“The President-elect began his day with a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs.”

We all turned instinctively to Sister, who had gasped and was holding her hand over her mouth. She made a quick recovery.

“I’m sure he received a special dispensation, boys and girls. The Archbishop is empowered to waive the no meat on Friday rule for special occasions, and what could be more special than this?”

This nine-year-old contrarian chuckled to himself but otherwise kept his mouth shut.

*******************

We engaged, as a matter of habit, in what are now described as “the pious practices of the faithful”, non-liturgical but spiritually enriching exercises. Like Bishop Sheen, we placed at the top of each paper the letters “J.M.J.” with a cross beneath, a quiet invocation of the guidance of the Holy Family. Years later, in Sister Anna Roberta’s Latin class we wrote instead “A.M.D.G.” for Ad Maiorum Dei Gloriam, “To the greater glory of God”. We learned and recited the Angelus prayers every day after lunch, sang the old hymns, took part in the May crownings of statues of the Virgin Mary.

It was a great honor to be an altar boy. We needed to be able to recite all the responses in Latin from memory. Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat iuventutem meum. “I will go to the altar of God, the God who gives joy to my youth.”

We’d be assigned a week at a time of daily masses. I always got the early one, seven a.m., which meant that I had to be out the door by 6:30 to walk the mile or so to the church with my cassock and surplice dragging over my back, in order to arrive in time to light the candles and otherwise prepare for the Mass. There used to be a short-cut through the City Hall grounds where I now work, dumping out on High Street. I remember one cold, pitch-dark winter morning when I was ten or eleven, taking that turn on High Street when a gray-haired, roughly-dressed woman emerged from the shadows.

“Boy!” she called.

I stopped. “Yes ma’am?”

She stumbled a bit.

“Boy. Say a prayer for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

*********************

Saying prayers for people was something we did a lot. On All Souls’ Day, we were told, if we made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament and said three Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and three Glory Be’s we could release a soul from Purgatory to Heaven for all eternity. What an awesome thought!

After school the church was filled with young students dashing to the altar rail, saying nine quick prayers and dashing out the door and turning around and dashing back in for a new visit which would reset the clock to enable us to release yet another soul from the place of suffering. If we ran out of relatives and acquaintances, we could rescue souls at random, or by other identification, such as “the most neglected soul in purgatory.” Any prayers wasted on those already in eternal bliss would be banked in the “Treasury of Merit” and of course all those souls freed by our good actions would spend the rest of forever praying for us before the Throne of God.

I wonder every once in a while if I was able to get through some of those rough times because some long-forgotten heavenly friend was putting in a good word for me with the Old Man.

*********************

On special occasions (other than inaugurations) we would make “Spiritual Bouquets” for our parents, usually with a hand-drawn picture of the Eucharist or the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the cover, wherein we would pledge to say so many rosaries, make so many Visits, offer up so many Masses, etc. so that God would pour forth spiritual blessings on them. And I’m pretty sure He did.

Mom kept them all. I’ve still got them. I was pretty generous. I think I may still owe a few of those rosaries.

“My Spiritual Bouquet,” they all said.

Could there be a better gift?

In my last post I mentioned my wonderful trip to the Church of Our Saviour in New York (Park Avenue at 38th Street for those of you, including my children, who might be in the area). I was delighted to receive an e-note from Father George Rutler, the Pastor, who said, “You are most welcome anytime here, at what I like to think of as a village church in the midst of the big city.”

I thought that was cute, but the more I reflected, the more I realized the truth in that short sentence. The church, though beautifully decorated, is on the small side and intimate. The congregation, though metropolitan, seemed friendly and there was an easy familiarity among many whom I suppose to be regulars. I certainly felt right at home. There was no sensation of being enveloped as sometimes happens in the great cathedrals. Sure, a village church. I’ve been to a few of those.

When the children were smaller we often took them camping in the summer in the southern Adirondacks. There were a couple of small village churches we attended and I always felt a sense of great faith abounding in the simple surroundings. We also got remarkably good preaching. It was especially remarkable because both churches were on the far fringes of their respective dioceses, Albany and Ogdensburg.

One of them we hit four summers in a row and I heard four of the ten best homilies I’d ever experienced from a simple unassuming priest of no obvious greatness. Yet, he somehow managed to startle with an old message newly told and I remember thinking that if I could only come there six more times he’d probably capture every spot in my top ten.

Most of what he said has faded away now with the passing years. If only I had blogged it. There is one story he told, however, that has stuck, and may be not a bad one for the beginning of Lent.

Back in the early days of the Civil Rights movement, an African-American preacher approached a famous white lawyer who had been sympathetic to the cause and asked him to take the lead publically on some matter. Whatever it was, it created a great risk to the lawyer professionally. He was reluctant to get involved.

“I implore you, as a follower of Christ, to do the right and just thing!” begged the preacher.

“I’m a follower of Christ, too,” said the lawyer, “but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to be crucified!”

“If you’re not willing to follow Him to Calvary,” said the preacher quietly, “you’re not one of His followers.

“You’re just one of His fans.”

About a year ago, after a week by ourselves with Louisa off in Ireland with Anna and Peter, Mary and I finished off with a lovely weekend in New York City, hosted affably and skillfully by our son Bob who even picked up the tab for dinner Saturday night at his favorite Japanese eatery in the Union Square area.

From his apartment in Jackson Heights I plotted out the options for Sunday Mass, based on a poll of friends more familiar with the local liturgical scene than I. We ended up at the Church of Our Saviour on Park Avenue at 38th Street. The Pastor is Father George Rutler, whom I have seen many times on EWTN. He is in the top tier of the finest homilists in the English-speaking world and today he didn’t disappoint.

There is a side altar dedicated to St. Thomas More, one of my heroes and the patron saint of lawyers. I wanted to go over there and quietly sing the Ballad of High Noon for All Seasons, but alas, there wasn’t enough time before Mass and the opportunity never presented itself again.

“This isn’t gonna be all in Latin, is it?” Mary asked. She is that much younger than me that she has no recollection of the sublime beauty of the Tridentine Mass. “No, of course not,” I replied without telling her that my second choice was the Tridentine Mass at St. Agnes which was even closer to Grand Central than this church, and at the same hour.

*****************

“Something old, something new.” Father Rutler may have been in the midst of his brief history of Time, but he might just as well have been talking about the liturgy itself. For a Novus Ordo Mass, there was little evidence that the old order had passed much. Six candles, incense, sprinkling of the congregation with holy water, triple bell-ringing at the Consecration, and glorious Gregorian Chant sung by a magnificent choir whose voices filled the church. It seemed like dozens, but I think there were only about four of them, in wondrous harmonies, accompanied by a most-accomplished organist. First rate all the way.

When they did occasionally break into English, it was the good stuff, like Holy God We Praise Thy Name. (No Gift of Finest Wheat or that calliope number Sing a New Song.) I never really understood why we abandoned Gloria in Excelsis Deo for the flat English translation. Hearing it again today, I would find it difficult to believe that anyone would not understand its meaning. And the Sanctus! To me, as an altar boy, that chant always sounded like the clink of censors and the tinkling of altar bells. It was in word and sound a brief glimpse of the Beatific Vision itself. It all came back to me today.

Fill the heavens with sweet accord
Holy! Holy! Holy Lord!

It really doesn’t matter that they don’t write hymns like that anymore. ‘Cause we’ve still got ‘em!

******************

The first thing I noticed on entering the church was the long line at the confessional. This is something you don’t see much anymore. The congregation was largely youthful, something we don’t see at all at home, the demographics being what they are. It was most encouraging.

As I say, Father Rutler is an extraordinarily gifted preacher. My hearing has been steadily deteriorating in recent years, and it is harder and harder for me to place myself in an assembly where I can get much out of what’s being said. I tried to capture each of the words today, and repeat them to myself as he went along. I felt, in the end, reassured, revitalized. Refreshed.

New York City is such a paradox. It is crawling with sin, sin of the worst kind, lost souls,drugs and alcoholism, diminishment and despair.

Yet in the midst of it all are these islands of hope and confidence, oases of grace and blessings in abundance. It is the surest sign that He wasn’t kidding when He said, “I will be with you always.”

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High above the sanctuary of the church there is written this legend: “LORD, IT IS GOOD FOR US TO BE HERE.”

Amen.

When we were kids, Mom made it a practice to take us to daily Mass during Lent. It wasn’t easy. Mom was teaching at St. Mary’s and the Mass schedules at St. Mary’s Church were such that she couldn’t quite get there and get ready for school too, so we would attend St. Michael’s a block away up the hill which had a syncopated Mass at just the right time, which, however, because there were five of us, we were never on.

Day after day we would wander in at the Epistle, and the Cuban priest who was attending in the sanctuary while the pastor said Mass would glare at us fiercely. We often sat behind Gene and Nancy Catena and their large brood of mostly rambunctious young boys (and one poor girl). The boys were continually poking at each other and otherwise messing around and Nancy would firmly, but gently bring them back under control.

Gene later became Family Court Judge and served for the 21 years before me. One of the rambunctious lads is now the County Court Judge of Montgomery County, another is in the seminary, another a hospital administrator. None are in prison.

One day, probably by accident, we arrived on time. The Cuban priest saw us and flew into near-hysteria, naturally assuming that something must have happened to the pastor, who obviously must be very late for Mass.

After Mass we’d walk down the hill to school and open up our breakfast of buttered toast, neatly wrapped in wax paper.

**************

Years later we were sitting near the front of St. Mary’s Church and Mary and I were having a bit of a problem controlling our two boys who were, shall we say, behaving inappropriately for church and uncharitably toward each other.

I turned around and there sitting behind us were Gene and Nancy Catena.

Smiling.

The call of business brought me in late December to the city of my birth, Troy, NY, for the third time in five weeks. The business was mercifully short, and we used my should-be-patented navigational method of follow-your-nose to wind our way back to the bridge over the Hudson.

I suddenly realized we had swung up to Fifth Avenue and when I spotted a church up ahead, I asked the driver, my former secretary, to pull over. For this was St. Peter’s Church, the church of my baptism and our home parish until just before my third birthday.

Our other companion was her sister, also a former secretary of mine, and the three of us stepped smartly through the front door and back into the 1950’s, for St. Peter’s had hardly changed a whit from the days of my toddling.

Twenty-something companions were awed by the beauty of the architecture and decor.

“This is what churches used to look like,” I told them.

It’s the third oldest parish in the State of New York, following St. Patrick’s in New York City and Old St. Mary’s in Albany. A Catholic church has stood on that site since 1830. The present building dates from the 1850’s, the interior decor from the late 19th-early 20th centuries. One of the early pastors was Rev. Clarence Walworth, whose name you might not know, but whose translation of a German hymn Holy God We Praise Thy Name should be on the lips of every English-speaking Catholic.

We wandered around, marveled at the marble high pulpit, the stations of the cross, the Christmas creche, the old confessionals. I realized I had missed the baptistry so I checked out the periphery until I found it in the back near the front door. (Churches are funny that way. You enter the front door to get to the back of the church, and the back door to enter the front).

It is astonishingly beautiful, dating, I later learned, from 1900, with an ornate baptismal font of marble, onyx and brass.

It was here that in July of 1951 I was given my name, and where, attended by my Aunt Marie Weise and Uncle Bob Brunelli, the stain of original sin was wiped away and I became, through the grace of Jesus Christ, a child of God and an heir of heaven.

*********

I should mention that this church is the only place in the diocese of Albany where the traditional tridentine rite Latin Mass of the Catholic Church is regularly celebrated. The old altar is still in use.

For more information, see the unofficial parish home page.

Folks who see Meredith Willson’s The Music Man are often startled to discover deep in the second act that the lovely near-lullaby ballad Goodnight My Someone is in fact the same melody as the stirring march 76 Trombones.

Even with that Great American Musical background, I am still stunned by the revelation that the most beautiful, solemn, mysterious and angelic Gregorian Chant of them all, the 13th century Pange Lingua of Thomas Aquinas, takes its underlying rhythm from more than a thousand years earlier, before the birth of Christ even.

It comes from a marching chant of the legions of Julius Caesar. Like Sherman’s Army singing Marching Through Georgia, the Romani celebrated themselves and their leader by singing, “Ecce, Caesar nunc triumphat qui subgegit Gallias.”

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Aquinas slowed it down a bit and gave us:

Pange lingua gloriosi
Corporis mysterium,
Sanguinisque pretiosi,
Quem in mundi pretium
Fructus ventris generosi
Rex effudit Gentium.

Nobis datus, nobis natus
Ex inacta Virgine,
Et in mundo conversatus,
Sparso verbi semine,
Sui moras incolatus
Miro clausit ordine.

In suprema nocte coenae
Recumbus cum fratribus
Observata lege plene
Cibis in legalibus,
Cibum turbae duodenae
Se dat suis manibus.

Verbum caro, panem verum
Verbo carnem efficit:
Fitque sanguis Christi merum,
Et si sensus deficit,
Ad firmandum cor sincerum
Sola fides sufficit.

Tantum ergo Sacramentum
Veneremur cernui:
Et antiquum documentum
Novo cedat ritui:
Praestet fides supplementum
Sensuum defectui.

Genitori, Genitoque
Laus et jubilatio,
Salus, honor, virtus quoque
Sit et benedictio:
Procedenti ab utroque
Compar sit laudatio.
Amen.

While I understand the need for choir masters to translate the above into rhyme, this is the best direct translation I have found:

Sing, my tongue,
The mystery of the glorious body,
And of the precious Blood,
Shed to save the world,
By the King of the nations,
The fruit of a noble womb.

Given to us, born for us,
From a stainless Virgin,
And having dwelt in the world,
Sowing the seed of the word,
He closed in a wonderful way,
The days of his habitation.

On the night of His last supper,
Reclining with His brothers,
The law having been fully observed
With legal foods,
He gives Himself as food with His
Own hands to the twelve.

The Word in Flesh makes true Bread
His Flesh with a word;
Wine becomes the Blood of Christ,
And if sense is deficient,
To confirm sincere hearts,
Faith alone suffices.

Then let us prostrate and
Venerate so great a Sacrament,
And let the old law yield
To the new rite;
Let faith stand forward to
Supply the defect of the senses.

To the Begetter and the Begotten,
Be praise and jubilation,
Health, honor, and strength,
And blessing too,
And let equal praise be to Him,
Who proceeds from Both.
Amen.

I arise today
through a mighty strength,
the invocation of the Trinity,
through belief in the Threeness,
through confession of the Oneness of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
through the strength of Christ with His Baptism,
through the strength of His Crucifixion with His Burial,
through the strength of His Resurrection with His Ascension,
through the strength of His descent for the Judgment of Doom.

I arise today
through the strength of the love of Cherubim,
in obedience of Angels, in the service of the Archangels,
in hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
in prayers of Patriarchs, in predictions of Prophets,
in preachings of Apostles, in faiths of Confessors,
in innocence of Holy Virgins, in deeds of righteous men.

I arise today
through the strength of Heaven:
light of Sun, brilliance of Moon, splendour of Fire,
speed of Lightning, swiftness of Wind, depth of Sea,
stability of Earth, firmness of Rock.

I arise today
through God’s strength to pilot me:
God’s might to uphold me, God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me, God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me, God’s hand to guard me,
God’s way to lie before me, God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to secure me:
against snares of devils,
against temptations of vices,
against inclinations of nature,
against everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and anear, alone and in a crowd.

I summon today all these powers between me (and these evils):
against every cruel and merciless power that may oppose my body and my soul,
against incantations of false prophets,
against black laws of heathenry,
against false laws of heretics,
against craft of idolatry,
against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
against every knowledge that endangers man’s body and soul.
Christ to protect me today
against poison, against burning,
against drowning, against wounding,
so that there may come abundance of reward.

Christ with me, Christ before me,
Christ behind me, Christ in me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ in breadth, Christ in length, Christ in height,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
through a mighty strength,
the invocation of the Trinity,
through belief in the Threeness,
through confession of the Oneness of the Creator of creation.

Salvation is of the Lord.
Salvation is of the Lord.
Salvation is of Christ.
May Thy Salvation, O Lord, be ever with us.

Read and comment on my novel The Evil Has Landed. Free!