The House of 'Abdu'llah Pasha

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THE HOUSE OF 'ABDU'LLAH PASHA
The house in 'Akká that 'Abdu'l-Bahá rented in 1896 and that served as His residence until He moved to Haifa in 1910. Historical photograph from media.bahai.org

"Some of the most poignant, dramatic and historically significant events of the Heroic Age of our Faith are associated with this house, which derives its name from the Governor of 'Akká who built it and used it as his official residence during his term of Office, from 1820 to 1832.... It was in this house that ['Abdu'l-Baha's] celebrated table talks were given and compiled, to be published later under the title "Some Answered Questions." In this house and in the darkest hours of a period which the beloved Guardian describes as 'the most dramatic period of His ministry,' 'in the heyday of His life and in the full tide of His power' He penned the first part of His Will and Testament.... In this house was born the child ordained to hold the destiny of the Faith in his hands for thirty-six years and to become its 'beloved Guardian,' the child named 'Shoghi' by his Grandfather, who grew up under His loving and solicitous care ...."
[As Thornton Chase, the First American Baha'i, wrote of his Pilgrimage, when he visited Abdu'l-Baha in this house:] 

'We did not know we had reached our destination until we saw a Persian gentleman, and then another and another, step out at the entrance and smile at us. We alighted and they conducted us through the arched, red brick entrance to an open court, across it to a long flight of stone steps, broken and ancient, leading to the highest story and into a small walled court open to the sky, where was the upper chamber assigned to us, which adjoined the room of 'Abdu'l-Bahá. The buildings are all of stone, whitewashed and plastered, and it bears the aspect of a prison.'

"As we contemplate the extraordinary focusing of powerful forces and events upon this house, we eagerly anticipate the day when it will be restored and made ready for pilgrims, who may inhale from its atmosphere, its grounds and sacred walls, the fragrances of a glorious past."(The Universal House of Justice, Messages 1963 to 1986, Message 157)

"Freedom is not a matter of place. It is a condition. I was thankful for the prison, and the lack of liberty was very pleasing to me, for those days were passed in the path of service, under the utmost difficulties and trials, bearing fruits and results. Unless one accepts dire vicissitudes, he will not attain. To me prison is freedom, troubles rest me, death is life, and to be despised is honour. Therefore, I was happy all that time in prison."(`Abdu'l-Baha in London, p. 120)

~ ~ ~
O House! Who climbed your stairway? When the Master was a prisoner our spiritual forbears came to you in the night, hearts pounding, souls reaching and hoping: Lua and Sarah, and Phoebe and Robert, and Louis, and Laura, and Thornton -- the first in the West to hear the voice of their Shepherd, Christ, in His "New Name."
We hear their footsteps now, the dust crackling beneath their feet. We hear their spirits, crushing doubt, opening the doors of their hearts to the Light of the New Jerusalem.
A child was born here, too --one promised by Isaiah. He ran up and down your stairs, his praises of God filling the courtyard.
- The courtyard? His voice filled the earth, and fills it still, and will for ages to come!
O Palm Tree, witness of servitude and grandeur, bearer of beauty and joy! How sweet your form, how dear your shadow, caressing the room of the Beloved! We, too, would press our cheek against that wall, feel its coolness against our face, inhale its fragrance, and seek to hear the soul-uplifting Voice within, charting destinies, answering questions, granting certitude.

Theme 196 - Rage

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From @flirtingshadows: She shielded herself from the newspapers, the television and Twitter.  She was seething but felt highly inadequate. Mere rage was not enough. She itched to be brave, to shirk off her cozy existence and take to the streets like her counterparts in the capital had done. But she also knew that courage counted for nothing

From @realfartshady:

"No one cares. NO ONE!"

"Please let us go!"

The dark man swooshed in rage looking at his spiel "NO! Y"ALL ARE GOING NOWHERE! Watch. Listen. Enjoy."

The hostages cried for help as the artist picked up his glock-en-spiel to play.

From @DNRamki: TV anchors were shouting, ministers made statements, papers screamed about the incident in bold letters. Anguished women and men stood up to sticks, water cannons, teargas and brutal force. They shouted, cursed, and somehow held fort.  But he wasn’t among them. His rage was directed against his keyboard. He had an assignment to finish.

The Tell-Tale Sign You're An Aged Rock Star

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Each generation is presented with new, never experienced before challenges. Think of the cohort who invented the wheel, then had to cope with their teenagers taking the first ever joy rides. Or the first Catholics who suddenly had to get culinarily creative on a Friday night. Or Morse's peers who had to deal with the first prank telegraph messages (just what is the dot-dash configuration of "Do you have Prince Albert in a can?"?). Obviously, the daunting, never-before-have-people-had-to-face-this challenge of the present generation is, what to do with aging rock stars. It's amazing to think of it, but many of the Founding Fathers (or Queens, and here's to you, Little Richard) of Rock'n'Roll are still alive--Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and the previously mentioned Mr. Penniman. Hell, Elvis would be/is only 77. All hail them and the rest, but still, we as fans are faced with several thorny issues concerning how to deal with these former paragons of youth now that they ain't that young anymore.

For years now we've rather naturally taken in stride the gradual steps of an aging career: the balding, the hearing loss, the myriad "comeback" tours and albums (when you've got at least three of each on your resume, you know you're getting old, Mr. Rock Star), the Rock Hall induction, the Super Bowl gig, the tribute albums and concerts, the third or fourth box sets, the ironic singing of lines penned in youth--and all of that's just the last thirty years of Pete Townshend's life. Like Medicare, senior coffee at McDonald's, and EZ Lift chairs for the rest of us, an entire network of safety nets has been erected to ease the once callow, rebellious rocker into senescence. There's Unplugged, and Storytellers, the duets album, the album of standards, the greatest hits live album, the hook-up with the hip young producer album, the songwriters in the round concerts, the rock cruises, and the inevitable writing of the memoirs (David Ritz thanks you all). Say what you will about Elvis's tragic death, but the man put out a lot of schlock when he was alive, and, all the merchandising since his death notwithstanding, imagine the crap he would have made lo these last 35 years!

But, accustomed as I am--and I'm sure you are--to all of this by now, the question that has bugged me for some time is, what's the Rubicon, what's the jump the shark/couch moment, the definitive dividing line between being an aging rock star--where we can salute the career, bask in past glories, honor, if a bit sadly, the god while he or she is still alive --and being an aged rock star, where the whole thing is just downright depressing and should be kept away from the public? Well, like Steve Jobs must have felt years ago when he realized, "Phones, my God! Who knew? The future is phones!" yesterday I had a eureka moment concerning this aging/aged rock thing. I now know the exact moment when it is clear that our beloved aging rock star, the hero of our youth, has landed at the bottom of the slippery slope and is now not simply completely irrelevant but is dangerous to our collective joie de vire and should be put out to pasture for good--however you want to define that euphemistic idiomatic phrase.

But first let me qualify things. I love the Rolling Stones. It might be an oldies station playing it, but whenever I hear "Jumpin' Jack Flash," or "Brown Sugar" or "The Last Time" on the radio, they all still sound like the freshest, nastiest thing on any airwaves. If I were a pugilistic sort, I'm sure by now my oft-repeated, and oft-scoffed at, statement of incontrovertible fact that the Stones were/are/and ever shall be greater than the Beatles would have gotten me engaged in many a fisticuffs over the years. It's such a foundational truth, that I guess only the hoariest, most despicable cliche applies--you look up Rock'n'Roll in the dictionary, and you'll find a picture of the Stones.

Of course, duh, I'm speaking of the Rolling Stones only in the first 20 years of their by now 50 year existence (sic). Go ahead, name three great songs the Stones have made in the past thirty years; here's a hint, I'll be beyond aged by the time you can even muster an argument for the third one. Hell, they've made a grand total of six, 6! albums in the past thirty years. (By the way, the answer is one. One great song in the last thirty years: "The Worst," off Voodoo Lounge; a Keith song, ironically, from 1994!).

Now I won't bother going through yet again the "pathetic parodies of themselves," "only in it for the (huge amount of ) money" arguments. You've read them all before. And will undoubtedly read them again as they mount whatever becomes their 50 Year Celebration, i.e., hopefully, Swan Song, in the next few months. No, my beef at the moment is with Keef. The Human Riff. The alleged poster boy of all things Rock. Mick is Mick, always was, always will be. God save him. Ronnie's just a hired gun. Charlie is irreproachable; always was and always will be the coolest guy Rock has ever created. But Keith. My God. Years ago I thought it, and I still do, now more fervently than ever--every day he lives he gets less cool. For thirty years now he's been trading on the lovable bad guy schtick. Now he's Goofy Grandpa, professionally raconteuring rather than rocking and touring. We love you Keith, always have and always will, but shut up and go away already.

And what has brought me to such apostasy today? What has me so sacrilegiously blaspheming the mighty Keith Richards? The eureka moment I experienced yesterday. The discovery of the tell-tale sign that the aging rocker has become aged. The end of the living rock god's relevant life: At the bookstore where I work, we received two remaindered (duh) copies of Keith's autobiography, Life, IN LARGE PRINT! Trust me, I know the book retailing business. Keith's audience is not the LARGE PRINT audience. Unless he's ditched Patti and is shacking up with Debbie Macomber, Danielle Steel, or Barbara Taylor Bradford, Keith Richards has no place in the LARGE PRINT section of a bookstore. Good God, Keith, I know you've raised reckless nonchalance to an art form, but why in the name of Robert Johnson did you sign a publishing contract that allowed them to print your book in LARGE PRINT? If you do ever tour again, you better have a special ring of seats for AARP members, where earplugs, Depends, and seat cushions are included in the senior discount price. You never even made a standards album, Keith! How can you go LARGE PRINT on us?

R.I.P. KEITH. IT'S ALL OVER NOW.

An Oldster Re-Fashions A Youngster's Song

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Well, the toe bone is connected to Epsom Salts
And the foot bone is connected to ongoing litigation involving Medicare, the insurance industry, and Payday Loans, Inc.
And the ankle bone is connected to God only knows what.
The shin bone is connected to the slings and arrows of absurd misfortune
And the knee bone is connected to Dial-A-Prayer
While the thigh bone is connected to a heating pad.
The hip bone is connected to Mother Nature's storm center
And the tail bone is connected to this EZ Lift Chair.
The back bone is connected to Edvard Munch's psyche
And the breast bone is connected to the hopes of Ponce de Leon.
The shoulder bone is connected to Advil
All the arm elbow wrist hand and finger bones seem to be connected to someone else's nervous system
And the neck bone is connected to Meyerwitz, Meyerwitz, and Pane and Sons.
The jaw bone is connected to Ensure
The nose bone is connected to a sink of dirty dishes at the moment
The ear bone has been disconnected
And the head bone is looking to connect with a soft pillow.

Ancora Imparo

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According to David Markson's The Last Novel, Michelangelo, at the age of eighty-seven, said, "Ancora imparo"--still, I'm learning. Ergo, far be it from me, at forty-nine and with a slightly less impressive resume than Mr. Michelangelo, to say I know it all. Not a bad mantra to keep front and center in one's everyday life, ancora imparo (I'm going to choose to say it ala Don Vito Corleone, just because). It might save you a lot of frustration, consternation, and downright anger, let alone uttering sentences that begin, "But I thought ... " Besides, it might also save you a lot of wincing from acquaintances at cocktail parties if you simply say, "Ancora imparo," (again, I think Don Vito would work best in this instance) rather than that Sally Fieldsesque modern translation, "I'm a life-long learner!" (Fine, Sally. BTW, AARP is calling with more bonus rewards points for you; get a third bottle of Ex-Lax free when you buy just one.)

Anyway, to prove my ancora imparo bone fides, here's a small sampling of what I have learned, still, just in the six days since my last post. First, I learned that when faced with a brewing donnybrook between two middle-aged women holiday shoppers one minute before your shift ends two days before Christmas ("Call a cop and have me charged with battery? You don't even know what battery is!"--that's verbatim), rather than saying a quick silent, "Lord, make me a channel of your peace," and stepping into the fray to play U.N. Peacekeeper, it's much better to say a rather loud "Merry Christmas, everyone," and just walk (and keep walking) away. I've also learned that a slow leak in one of your car tires never slows down, it only speeds up, and that buying a new tire is one thing, but when the mechanic mentions four new struts, it ain't no cheap talk. I learned (coincidentally in the car repair waiting area) that Leeza Gibbons is still on TV, hosting, and--it was a wait long enough for me to see the credits roll--executive producing a show called America Now (which, beg pardon, Leeza, isn't quite "now," as the taped segments made no mention of the holidays or a blizzard stomping half the country). I also learned (well, had my learning refined) that my sister and brother-in-law put Gatsby totally to shame--they throw wonderful parties, with sincerity! I learned that in this fast-paced world of ours, the Christmas Season indeed ends at midnight on Christmas: I received three pieces of mail today. Yep, bill bill bill. After having coffee with one former student and then a few hours later running into a couple of former students in a bar, I learned 16 is a far far cry from 29. I learned that a cheese ball that looks like a somewhat unappetizing meatloaf is actually just about the heavenliest tasting thing on Earth. I'm learning as I type and look out the window, that with today's radars, when a weatherman says twenty-four hours prior that it will start snowing at 11 a.m. tomorrow and not let up for another twenty-four hours, he's pretty damned accurate. A couple of my nieces are apparently quite adept blizzard, what blizzard automobile drivers. I think I already knew this, but it was confirmed to me on Christmas, that only a Jesuit priest could/would bring Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov into a true-meaning-of-Christmas sermon. And yes, mother, with aplomb, he did it with aplomb. Most viscerally, though, I have learned in the last week that despite centuries of good publicity, those Mayans didn't know shit.

Through the Heart of a Mother

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Mrs Monica Seeber (1928-2009)
"A vocation comes from the heart of God, but goes through the heart of a mother," wrote Pope St Pius X. Today, the third Anniversary of the death of Mrs Monica Seeber,the Mother of our Father Anthony Mary, F.SS.R.,Father sung a Mass of Requiem in Our Lady's Chapel, Stronsay.To few people could the words of the Holy Pope be more truly appliedthan this wonderful lady. The Collect for the Deceased Mother of a PriestDeus...O God, who hast commanded us to honourour Father and our Mother;in Thy mercy have pity on the soul of my mother,and forgive her her trespasses;and make me to see her again in the joy of everlasting brightness. Through Christ our Lord. Amen. Crossing with Father this morning from Papa Stronsay to Stronsayon his way to remember his dear motherat the Altar of God one could not help be reminded of this image of the Mother of all priests with her son, St John, the Model of all priests;and of the words of Mrs Seeber's holy patron, St Monica
to her priest son St Augustine,"One thing only do I ask of you, that you remember me at the Altar of Our Lord wherever you may be." The Servant of God Archbishop Fulton Sheen wrote:"As God consulted with Maryto ask if she would give Him a human nature,so He often consults with the mother of a priestto ask her consent to the continuation of His priesthood."
What a beautiful tribute this morning of a priest sonto his beloved motherwho most surely gave that consent with all her heart.

Heaven is Sweet – Heaven is Near – Heaven is Mine

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Some of the members of our Congregation had the privilege of knowing Sr Judith  Meisner, an elderly Norwegian Sister of St Joseph, who lived out the final years of her life in the Zaitzkofen seminary in Bavaria. She often told the story of an event that had made a profound impression on her as young nun. Sister, who had received the gift of the Faith as schoolgirl with her future Congregation, while a novice and not yet 20 years of age, recalled that a Redemptorist Missioner had come to their convent. The priest preached a profound retreat which affected all, and on one of the days he gave a conference which ended with the words – and Sister would say them very slowly and solemnly – “Heaven is Sweet, Heaven is Near, Heaven is Mine”. “Heaven is Sweet, Heaven is…” she would repeat a few times making sure you understood the import of those words. 
Like the ending of every retreat conference the nuns went their way to their cells for the night, moved at what  the priest had said, but thinking no more about it than that. Early the next morning after the usual common prayers they were awaiting the appearance of the Missioner in the Convent Church to celebrate the Holy Mass when a nun burst into the choir and quite excitedly told them that
 Father had died in his sleep during the night… “Heaven is Sweet, Heaven is Near, Heaven is Mine,” Sister would repeat again solemnly… “those were his last words!” 
For us who remain in this Valley of Shadows, perhaps those words are no more appropriate than
 in this time of Advent. For now Salvation at Hand, 
now amidst the Winter Darkness we await that Heaven on Earth Who is Sweet, and Near, and Who can be Mine if only I will open my heart to Him,if perhaps I make that good and holy confession that I need to make,if I forgive that soul who is most in need of my mercy,if I give up that person, that place, that object, that amusementwhich is causing my darkness and unhappiness through sin. On Christmas Night Heaven will bow down to Earth and let drop the Sweet Dew of Our God and Saviour, Our Little Lord Jesus Christ.Would it not be so SWEET if then He would be NEAR,
 if He would be MINE?

It is not certain that the “Way of Bethlehem” was written by Our Holy Father St Alphonsus; but tradition has always ascribed it to him, and in our most small
 Congregation of the Sons of the Most Holy Redeemer the devotion has always held a special place of honour. 
This year in order to help our Friends know
 and love these beautiful prayers we have arranged the 12 stations as little images for the 12 days preceding Christmas. Each image shows a “Bambino” or “Niño” which in some way expresses the mystery
 described in the station. Some of them bear very lovely names “Infant of Great-Sorrow”, “Infant Nazarene”, “Infant of the Four-Winds” etc.
Most of all we hope that they remind you each day thatHeaven is SweetHeaven in NearAnd … may Jesus Bambino be your Heaven this coming Christmas.
Veni Domine et noli tardare!Come O Lord, and tarry not!