The Hero Construction Company

Those of you who have read my two posts about the Bosnian cellist, Vedran Smailovic,  will enjoy a blog site I stumbled  upon--or was led to--today. Featured in a March 3, 2009, post at Matt Langdon's "The Hero Construction Company" site is the children's book, Echoes From the Square, by Elizabeth Wellburn. In an accompanying video, Ms. Wellburn reads the full text of the book, which Deryk Houston beautifully illustrated. There's a blurb by the great Yo-Yo Ma, and the musical accompaniment is quite lovely, too.

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

The Saint With the Dragon Tattoo

I've always marveled that some children reared in wretchedly dysfunctional families grow up to be marvelous, well-adjusted human beings. Others born into loving homes and Western-style comfort and privilege choose an opposite path, living their lives in seemingly self-inflicted misery. Those who have scratched their way to maturity--even happiness--against the odds now have a new model and patron saint in Lisbeth Salander, the female protagonist of the late Stieg Larsson's internationally best-selling Swedish trilogy: The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest.

Purists will argue that a literary (and now film) character cannot  qualify as a saint. There was a time when I, too, delimited my understanding of the spiritual world along the boundary lines of fact and fiction. A crack appeared in my dualistic (either/or) thought processes in 1969, when the Catholic Church admitted that only shaky evidence existed to support the historicity of some saints who had long enjoyed their special annual feast days. Among those demoted was everybody's favorite co-pilot, St. Christopher.

Archbishop Jacopo de Voragine, author of The Golden Legend, a thirteenth century compilation of saints' lives, set off a seven-hundred-year run of popular devotion to the muscular Christ-bearer. Over the past three decades, the saint's medals and dashboard bobble heads have virtually disappeared. What became of those billions of prayers sent heavenward by travelers who relied on him for protection? Jesus assures us, as he did the people of his own day, that our God wastes nothing: "Your faith has saved you" (Luke 7:50).

Humans, whether religious or not, have always drawn inspiration from legends, as well as from certifiably historical people and events. So, why not adopt Larsson's protagonist, Lisbeth Salander, as a saint for our time, especially as a model for young adults? 

I won't give away the details of her life story here. There just might still be a few people on the planet who have not read the books (or not yet completed the trilogy). Personal discovery of her inner life, values, and unique, but finely tuned, morality is one of the trilogy's great rewards. But I give nothing away by saying that the Universe dealt Salander one of the worst hands of any child, fictional or real.

Canonizing Salander does challenge us to shift our understanding about what is moral and what is not. By rigid Judeo-Christian standards, the behaviors that enable her to survive as a functioning human being are immoral. But behavior alone is not the ultimate determiner of morality. For me, the most sensible and hallowed definition of morality is enshrined at the core of my own tradition. For Catholics, individual conscience is the final arbiter of morality, superseding everything else. The essence of morality is being human in the best sense, according to each person's unique capability at any given moment in life. Since we are made in God's image, whatever attitudes and behaviors help us to grow emotionally and spiritually--and thus become more like God--are moral. An intentional decision or action is immoral to the extent that it causes us to be less than the person God created us to be.

In The Girl Who Played With Fire, co-protagonist Mikael Blomkvist says of his friend Lisbeth, now a murder suspect, that she possesses a highly developed sense of morality. By this he means that her moral compass is a trustworthy guide and that she consistently operates from that core principle. In view of that, by what right does anyone judge her or condemn her choices? This is especially so, in light of the abuse she has suffered as a child and teen from the very adults responsible for guiding and protecting her (mother, father, legal and social welfare systems, and government at the highest levels). That she survives and arrives at womanhood as a still-moral human being is miracle enough to merit this fictional character the titles of role model and patron saint for the twenty-first-century. 

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

Author's Website

______________________

Alfred J. Garrotto is the author of the suspense novel,

The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story.

My Cello Year

What's not to love about the cello? Sexy design. Polished finish that brings every wooden fiber to brilliant life. A to-die-for "voice." 

Twice in recent months, this instrument has caught me by surprise and thrust itself upon my consciousness. First, in the PBS documentary, "Joan Baez: How Sweet the Sound," that chronicles Baez's life, including her 1993 visit to the destroyed and terrorized city of Sarajevo, Bosnia. In a December 26, 2009 blog entry, I described her moving encounter with Sarajevo Opera cellist Vedran Smajlovic. 

"Unable to stop the madness that had ripped apart the former Yugoslavia, Smajlovic honored the memory of his friends and defied their killers by doing the only thing he was good at. Placing his chair in the middle of the street, he took out cello and bow—musician and instrument melding into a single defiant force. Eyes closed to the surrounding destruction, he rendered the mournful Adagio in G minor by Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni."

That experience sent me to Google and beyond to learn more about Smajlovic, the man. I found and read Steven Galloway's best-selling novel, The Cellist of Sarajevo. According to an article in Wikipedia, "Although he only appears as a peripheral character in the novel, Smajlović has publicly expressed his outrage over the publication of the book, demanding financial compensation from the author. " Copyright attorneys I looked up have been quoted as saying that he has little chance of winning that legal battle.

More recently, my wife and I squeezed into our busy spring lives a 29th wedding anniversary date that started with Sunday Mass at our local parish, Christ the King, in Pleasant Hill (CA). Then we enjoyed a terrific seafood brunch at Scott's Restaurant in Walnut Creek, followed by a rare matinee visit to the Diablo Symphony at the Lesher Center for the Performing Arts (thank you, Goldstar).

The first half of the program was pleasant but uninspiring. The post-intermission program promised a guest appearance by a cellist, whose name meant nothing to me, but I do love the instrument. David Requiro, a tall, slender twenty-something, came on stage wearing dark slacks and a loose-fitting white shirt. He carried his instrument and bow. From the first note, I knew I was in the presence of a unique artist. What captivated me, beyond his exquisite rendition of Antonin Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B minor, was the mirage he created, making himself and his cello disappear as separate entities and reappear as a single, inseparable unit. 

This is an artist's supreme achievement, be it a musician, actor, painter, or writer: to become one with the work. I think of Michelangelo on the scaffolds of the Sistine Chapel, Antoni Gaudi living the last years of his life in the construction site of Barcelona's (still-unfinished) Sagrada Familia. I think of Victor Hugo becoming one with his idealized man, Jean Valjean, and Stieg Larsson losing himself in the personae of Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander in the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy.

The great gift of artists is that they do not hoard their transcendent experience, but allow us less-skilled humans an opportunity to be transported in spirit to a higher realm of contemplative unity, be it ever so brief. That's a lofty and sacred calling.

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

Author's Website

______________________

Alfred J. Garrotto is the author of the suspense novel,

The Saint of Florenville: A Love Story.

In a Child's Eyes

What's heaven like? The closest I've come to it was in the eyes of a 3 year old with a passion for choo-choo trains. Little trains, like miniature Thomas; big ones, like the old retiree (shown here) resting trackside at the Martinez (CA) Amtrak Station.

At my grandson's command, I hoisted him onto my lap and displayed his favorite snapshot on my wide-screen monitor.

"Can that choo-choo go on the tracks?" I asked.

"No!" He delivered his line with the enthusiasm of a child actor in a Cheerios commercial.

"And why not?"

"Too old, too tired." Together we exhaled a compassionate sigh for this once-proud locomotive that now can only watch and reminisce, as younger models race by. 

Recently, we lucky grandparents had our little guy to ourselves for two whole days. What better way to spend this time than by treating him to his first ride on a real train and a visit to the Railroad Museum in Old Sacramento? On the day before our adventure, he and I went to the station to buy our tickets. 

"Why do we need a ticket?" I asked.

No script for this dialogue, but several prompts later he got it. "No ticket, no choo-choo ride." 

In our short time at the station, an eastbound Capitol Corridor train roared in, whistles blasting, guard gates clanging as they fell. When it stopped, the engineer leaned out of the cab and waved. At first, my grandson couldn't believe the gesture was directed at him. How could such an important man--one with power to tame this mammoth beast--be waving at me? Slowly, his little arm rose and waved back.

The next morning, a silver giant's doors slid open to receive a wide-eyed little boy and two excited grandparents. For the next hour, our little traveler pressed his nose to the window, in awe of every sight that we considered ordinary--the Martinez-Benicia Bridge and the brown Carquinez Straits current lapping at its pylons, empty Solano County fields, and a ho-hum stretch of the Sacramento Valley. 

I envied my grandson's vision of the wonders to which I had become blind. I felt moved by the depth of his contemplation of the miracles of nature and human invention.  I resolved then and there to view  the world that day--and after--through his eyes.

(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

Author's Website

 

A Prayer for Renewal of the Roman Catholic Church

Lord Jesus, I lift my saddened spirit to you in humility and faith—also in great hope and trust that your Spirit is guiding my beloved Roman Catholic Church. I believe this, even as the fires of the sex abuse scandal lick around the feet of Pope Benedict XVI.

Lord, bring the triumphalism of our pope and hierarchy to its knees. Let the secrecy and protectionism that shroud your Good News and saving mission in the world end. Give light to our Holiness, Eminences, and Excellencies who have lost their way. Turn their inevitable humiliation into a grace that will purify our defective Church and heal it of its sins. May your gospel no longer be muddied by holy, but empty, words that coddle scandalous behavior in preference to virtue and fidelity. For only by acknowledging their current blindness can our leaders return to their apostolic roots and restore the Body of Christ to full health and vigor.

Lord, inspire our Holy Father to take responsibility for the current rebuke and ridicule that has fallen on our heads. Let him declare a period of “Universal Repentance,” as the King of Nineveh did, when the humbled prophet Jonah called for confession and reparation. And from the sackcloth of this top-down admission of guilt, raise up a newly baptized and cleansed Church to bask in the glory of your divine Light.

Finally, let the renewal for which I pray begin in me. I make this earnest prayer with confidence in the guiding presence of your most Holy Spirit. Amen.

We Both Had Dads Named Joseph

Where I live, boisterous St. Patrick's Day parties have a way of spanning most of a week, drowning out today's whispered feast of St. Joseph. Not to be deterred, I honor this day for personal reasons--the least of which is my Italian heritage, with its historical devotion to Mary's husband.This day has personal meaning because my father was Joseph, my mother Josephine. My middle name is Joseph.

The first Scripture reading in the Roman Catholic Liturgy on this day pays homage to Joseph's livelihood in the construction trade. "Are you able to build a house for me to live in?" Yahweh asks in 2 Samuel 7:5. 

It was my reflection on the gospel text from Matthew 1 that shone a light on what has been a shadowed recess in my spiritual understanding. 

 
Lord, I can imagine your dad, proud and gentle, cradling you in the crook of his well-muscled arm. Did your parents ever share with you how close they came to breaking off their betrothal because of you?

*  *  *

I never thought of it before, Lord, but I wonder if the memory of your father's death contributed to the welling of grief and the tears you shed at your friend Lazarus's tomb . . . "and Jesus wept" (John 11:35). Were you reliving the day when you stood at your newly widowed mother's side, supporting her grief, holding your own in abeyance for her sake? Did  the raising of Lazarus offer you a second chance to get it right, after responding to a different call of divine destiny, when your dad passed?

*  *  *

Lord, you learned from both your mom and dad the importance of "doing God's work God's way," as Sr. Joan Chittister puts it. What a stunning statement! It reminds me that many of us, laity and clergy, old and young, set out to do God's work in the Church, but not all of us do it "God's way," as your dad Joseph did. That is the message for me today. Show me the "Joseph way" of ministry, "God's way."


(c) 2010 by Alfred J. Garrotto
All rights reserved

Author's Website

For Esther on Her Birthday

A reflection on the Scripture readings
of the Roman Catholic liturgy
  for Monday, 4th Week of Lent, 2010.

The Prophet Isaiah 65:17-21
"Be glad forever and rejoice in what I create."

The Gospel of John 4:43-54
"Jesus went back to Cana of Galilee."

Lord Christ, 

 God of new,

of joy and creation.

 I praise you today
for one of your best,

my wife
my friend
and
partner,

on her birthday.

 You have blessed me

by sending her

to share my journey

through the second half of life.
 Grant us health

and length of days.

Can it be coincidence 

that today John

invites us with you 

back to Cana,

where you blessed two lovers

with abundance
of mirth-enhancing wine?

Happenstance,

that on this Lenten day

Isaiah sings in praise 
of newness and creation, 

of joy and rejoicing?

I think not.

On my daughters' behalf,

I thank you

for such a model 

of wisdom and virtue!

And grant to me 

that elusive third sight,

to see among
the miracles of life and love

your presence
even here, even now.

Amen.

Highjacked by a Great Novel

I'm always on the prowl for a great novel. Not just a good read, but one that grabs me by the collar and drags me into its pages, causing me to lose sleep but loving every lost minute of it. Most of the time, I'm left stranded on page 30; sometimes I'll hang in as far as 99. 

One of my greatest disappointments so far in this still-young year of 2010 was Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna. Out of respect for this great author and in memory of The Poisonwood Bible (still one of my all-time favorites), I read the whole book. I kept faith far too long that the "good part" lay just on other other side of whatever page I was reading.

Then a novel I had not yet discovered found me. My wife's bridge partners declared it a must-read, so we purchased the newly released paperback edition of Abraham Verghese's near-700 page Cutting for Stone. The author hooked me like a trout on page one and wouldn't release me until I had read his lengthy Acknowledgments and the Bibliography.  I just didn't want it to be over. 

A review in the Los Angeles Times said, "You many never leave your chair." Well, at my age that's too long. Besides my hypoglycemia won't let me skip too many meals (and I didn't marry a woman who will deliver meals to my rocking chair so I won't have to stop reading).

I don't want to give the book's wisdom and mysteries away, but since it's on the back cover blurb I can tell those who have not read Cutting yet that the main character, Marion Stone, and his brother Shiva "are twin brothers born of a secret union between a beautiful Indian nun and a brash British surgeon." All of the main and secondary characters are beautifully drawn. Wisdom abounds in their virtues and is arrived at through their vices. I am not a fast reader and I hardly ever tackle anything over 500 pages, but I swept through this book like a slow-motion speed reader. Rarely did I scan through a paragraph (and only when it exceeded my tolerance for medical terminology).

Cutting for Stone is right up there with the best novels I have read (I stop short of equating any book with Les Miserables). It surpasses another of my all-timers, Ann Patchett's Bel Canto. 

I've been debating whether or not to share something else with you, but here goes. For the last 50 pages, I was close to crying my eyes out. There. It was that good.

My Favorite Books of 2009

2009 Fiction

Christ in Concrete by Pietro Di Donato



2009 Fiction (Audio Book)

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen


2009 Nonfiction

Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality by Richard Rohr


2009 Nonfiction (Audio Book)

The Monster of Florence by Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi

Abraham: A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths by Bruce Feiler

What good can one person do? (When All Else Fails)

For 22 consecutive days in the spring of 1993, Sarajevo Opera cellist Vedran Smailovic dressed in his tuxedo at midday. Carrying his black cello case and a straight-backed chair, he made the perilous journey from his apartment to a downtown street. It was there that 22 of his closest friends had died when a Serbian artillery shell landed in their midst. The Bosnian War had filled local soccer fields with hastily dug gravesites. Most markers bore the death dates, 1992 or 1993.

Unable to stop the madness that had ripped apart the former Yugoslavia, Smailovic honored the memory of his friends and defied their killers by doing the only thing he was good at. Placing his chair in the middle of the street, he took out cello and bow—musician and instrument melding into a single defiant force. Eyes closed to the surrounding destruction, he rendered the mournful Adagio in G minor by Tomaso Giovanni Albinoni.

On one of those days, at the end of his lonely concert, he opened his eyes and saw the American singer and peace activist Joan Baez standing reverently at his side. They embraced, brother and sister united in a seemingly futile cause. As Smailovic packed his instrument and prepared to leave, Baez hesitated, then sat in his empty chair. Closing her eyes, she sang a heartfelt “Amazing Grace,” whose lyrics echoed Albinoni’s funereal mood. As her crystalline voice pierced the bystanders’ hearts, she blotted her tears with her sleeve.

Often, my daily tour of the world, via electronic and print media, leaves me feeling powerless to address humanity’s wide-ranging ills. Rather than yield to the despair of my littleness, I take courage from the example of those who offer what small gifts they possess to the cause of peace. Vedran Smailovic, now known worldwide as “The Cellist of Sarajevo,” played music. At any moment, he could have been targeted by snipers and gunners in the nearby hills. Playing the cello in the street was his statement that honoring life and beauty is more powerful than bullets. Joan Baez contributed by “being there” at the nadir of Sarajevo’s suffering. Powerless to do more, she offered the people her gift of song.

My daily challenge is to do something to make a positive difference in the world, even if it seems insignificant amid the deadening weight of the day’s headline stories.