My how the Liturgy of the Hours for today is difficult

OK, so...

Today is Corpus Christi... except, in the U.S., it's not. Fine. I think that moving the Solemnity so people don't have to attend Mass more than once a week is a bad idea, but I'm not in charge and - since I don't have access to a 1962 Breviary and thus cannot choose to use the old calendar for today - I am obediently praying the Liturgy of the Hours for St. Barnabas the Apostle.

One problem. St. Barnabas is on the calendar as a memorial. Both the Ordinary of the Liturgy of the Hours, i.e. the rubrics written in red, and the General Instruction of the Liturgy of the Hours say that memorials are not celebrated during the daytime hours of terce, sext and none (or midmorning, midday, and midafternoon prayer, if you prefer). But St. Barnabas has proper readings for terce, sext and none. So what's a man to do? Does the fact that he has proper readings trump the general norms? I am leaning towards not using the readings in his proper since both the rubrics and the praenotanda seem to say that I shouldn't.

Does anyone out there have a 2009 Ordo for the Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite in the United States? What does it say?

On the murder of George Tiller

I have seen a number of Catholics question whether the killing of the child-murderer George Tiller was actually an act of murder. In more than one place I have seen an analogy drawn between the act of the killer and the assassination of Hitler planned and attempted by Colonel Claus Philipp Maria Schenk Graf von Stauffenberg. The thinking seems to be that, since both Hitler and Tiller were mass murderers, if killing one can be justified, so can killing the other. The analogy not only fails, but it does dishonor to the memory of Colonel Stauffenberg by associating him with a murderer. I will take the time to spell out why and in what ways the analogy fails for the sake of honoring a true German patriot and hopefully shedding some light on some bad moral philosophy and theology.

First, the analogy fails because Stauffenberg did not attempt to assassinate Hitler simply qua mass murderer, but qua tyrant. And even this can be argued as potentially suspect, since tradition has generally held that a tyrant by usurpation can be justly killed but a tyrant by oppression must be deposed by legal, not extra-legal, means. Indeed, the Syllabus of Pius IX condemned the proposition that, "It is lawful to refuse obedience to legitimate princes, and even to rebel" (prop. 63). See the article from the 1912 Catholic Encyclopedia for more information.

Now, it can be argued that a tyrant by oppression can become a tyrant by usurpation when they extend their power in a manner that is contrary to the law and constitution of their nation. As far as I can see, such an argument appears sound. Thus Hitler would have been a tyrant by usurpation after illegally taking the presidential power for himself following the death of President Paul von Hindenburg, if for no other reason - and I'm sure that at least a few more, if not many, could be found. But even given this, the analogy fails.

The second reason the analogy fails as follows: even if one is acting against a tyrant, one is only justified in acting if doing so will do less harm to the tyrant's subjects than the tyrant's continued rule (Summa Theologia (hereafter ST), II-II, q. 42 ad 3). Even if Tiller where somehow analogous with a tyrant qua tyrant, this does not hold. The potential lives saved - and they are only potential, since we neither have evidence that anyone who was signed up for an abortion with him would have gone through with it, nor that he would not have eventually been stopped by legal means due to performing abortions after it was legal to do so, nor that the grace of God would not have moved him to repentance, nor that some other doctor will not now willingly step in and take his place due to the fact that the pro-abortion crowd can now treat him as their own twisted version of a martyr - these potential lives saved do not seem to outweigh the potential lives lost due to the marginalization of the pro-life message that will be attempted following the act, a marginalization that will further set back the legal battle against abortion.

But even if the lives saved do potentially outweigh the lives lost, the analogy still fails for a third reason. Tiller was not a tyrant. He did not have any special authority over the abortion laws of his state or of the union. Indeed, he willingly violated those laws that did exist. He was an evil man, but no private individual has the right to take the life of an evil man of his own volition. This authority rests with those people who have responsibility for maintaining the common welfare of society, and here only through those means as set out by the law (ST II-II, q. 62, a. 3c).

Finally, some have offered a hypothetical situation: suppose we find out that the man who killed Tiller was acting in the defense of a child or grandchild who was scheduled to be aborted by Tiller later that week? Even if this hypothetical is true, the act would still be murder for at least two reasons.

First, because self-defense must be proportionate to the threat (ST II-II, q. 62, a. 7c). Since the hypothetical child we are speaking of was not immediately under Tiller's knife, the violence used was not proportional to the immediate threat to the hypothetical child's life. Tiller's attacker could have first attempted to convince the mother of the hypothetical child not to go through with the abortion. Failing that, he could have restrained her until she gave birth. Such an act would have been illegal, but the attacker apparently had no qualms in breaking the law, and such an act would have been proportional to the threat at the time.

Second, even if the physical force used would have been proportional to the threat, a private individual still cannot intend to kill an attacker, only to repulse the attack with the force necessary for doing so (ibidem). To intend otherwise would be to violate the aforementioned rule forbidding private individuals from taking the life of an evildoer of their own volition.

There is no analogy between Tiller's killer and Colonel Stauffenberg. The tradition of Catholic moral philosophy and theology clearly appear to condemn the killing of Tiller as an evil act of murder. We may not do evil that good may come of it. And of those who say we can, I offer only the words of St. Paul: damnatio iusta est, "their damnation is just" (Romans iii.viii).

As for the fall-out of this act, my opinions have already been written. They once again boil down to this: "Unfurl the black banner. Quarter neither asked for nor given. No Surrender, no retreat."

I know that, given the ludicrous, hysterical and void of documentation Homeland Security Report we found out about not two months ago, I may be suspect as a "domestic terrorist" simply because I called a spade a space and said that Tiller was a murderer and evil, even though I did it while condemning his own murder. But I already had a Ron Paul bumper sticker on my car, so I was suspect long before writing this. I plan to become even more suspect by eventually adding a Gadsden flag bumper sticker, a Bonnie Blue flag bumper sticker, a 1st National flag bumper sticker, and maybe even a Jolly Roger bumper sticker. So color me not all that frightened.

Indeed, given that same report, and the fact that the last such murder or attempted murder was over ten years ago, I am not yet certain that this whole thing is not simply a false flag. But I take heart in the fact that today is the memorial of St. Justin Martyr. To quote the saint: "For as for us, we reckon that no evil can be done us, unless we be convicted as evil-doers or be proved to be wicked men; and you, you can kill, but not hurt us" (First Apology, Chapter 2). "You can kill, but not hurt us." Words to remember when things seem darkest.

Lepanto

Today is the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary. This feast was instituted by Pope St. Pius V in a.D. 1573. The Pope instituted it to honor Our Lady for the victory of the Holy League over the far greater naval forces of the Ottoman Turks at the Battle of Lepanto on October 7, a.D. 1571. Pope Pius V had asked all of Christendom to pray the rosary for victory. That day, while he was himself praying the rosary in his chapel, he was granted a vision of the Holy League's victory.

The victory itself is often considered something miraculous. As the fleets moved to engage each other the wind, which had previously been in the Turks' favor, changed direction. This change in the wind shifted the advantage to the Christian forces and lead to their victory, a victory decisive for Christendom and Western Civilization.

In honor of this great feast of Our Lady and the great victory behind its institution, I present here the poem "Lepanto," by G.K. Chesterton.

White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain--hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,--
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces--four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still--hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,--
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed--
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign--
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

"It takes all kinds to make a heaven."

In honor of the feast of St. Jerome, I give you "The Thunderer," by Phyllis McGinley.

God’s angry man, His crotchety scholar
Was Saint Jerome,
The great name-caller
Who cared not a dime
For the laws of Libel
And in his spare time
Translated the Bible.
Quick to disparage
All joys but learning
Jerome thought marriage
Better than burning;
But didn’t like woman’s
Painted cheeks;
Didn’t like Romans,
Didn’t like Greeks,
Hated Pagans
For their Pagan ways,
Yet doted on Cicero all of his days.

A born reformer, cross and gifted,
He scolded mankind
Sterner than Swift did;
Worked to save
The world from the heathen;
Fled to a cave
For peace to breathe in,
Promptly wherewith
For miles around
He filled the air with
Fury and sound.
In a mighty prose
For Almighty ends,
He thrust at his foes,
Quarreled with his friends,
And served his Master,
Though with complaint.
He wasn’t a plaster sort of a saint.

But he swelled men’s minds
With a Christian leaven.
It takes all kinds
to make a heaven.

Prayers

I think it fitting, given the events of seven years ago that we commemorate today and the events of three hundred and twenty-five years ago we will commemorate tomorrow, to offer up a prayer to Blessed Marco D'Aviano and the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose Most Holy Name is a symbol of victory over sin and death, for the conversion of all Muslims and an end to the preaching and practice of Jihad.

In librum B. Dionysii De divinis nominibus expositio, c. IV, l. 9

Ex amore enim bonitatis suae processit quod bonitatem suam voluit diffundere et communicare aliis, secundum quod fuit possibile, scilicet per modum similitudinis et quod eius bonitas non tantum in ipso maneret, sed ad alia efflueret.

Indeed, from love of His goodness [God] proceeds insofar as He willed His goodness to be diffused and communicated to other things, according to all that is possible, i.e. by way of similitude and insofar as His goodness does not always remain in Himself, but flows forth into other things.

St. Casimir

Indeed, it is difficult to imagine or to express his passion for justice, his exercise of moderation, his gift of prudence, his fundamental spiritual courage and stability, especially in a most permissive age, when men tended to be headstrong and by their very natures inclined to sin. ~from the Office of Readings on the Commemoration of St. Casimir (emphasis added)

St. Casimir was the son of the King of Poland. He died in 1484. Apparently he lived in "a most permissive age." Don't we all? Perhaps the best thing to do is to follow St. Casimir's example and develop a strong devotion to the Holy Eucharist and the Virgin Mary.

Gracious God and Father, like St. Casimir, we too live in a most permissive age. Grant us that we may follow his example in resisting the spirit of the age and that we may instead be filled with the Holy Spirit. We ask this through Jesus Christ, Your Son, Who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever. Amen.