yesterday. i saw the power of G-d and the futile anger of satan. I went to prison to pray with and console a 16 year old prisoner---innocent, terrified, a good boy. I had resolved to pray the simple exorcism of Leo XIII---it is not what you think: it is simply a prayer to thwart the power of the evil one, not to exorcise anything from this poor boy. When I arrived, the ward was silent. After saying the prayer to Michael the Archangel and beginning the Leo XIII prayer proper, the entire ward erupted into a clamorous din I have never heard before: and I was in a private side room with my charge--no one should have been able to hear us. It continued until the prayer was over and then abruptly ceased.

that place is so full of hatred and fear. I tried to explain to my charge that I have come to provide spiritual guidance and protection, but that I cannot guarantee what the Judge will say at his (then upcoming) hearing (which is today). But I looked him straight in the eye and said: right now you think the world is this moment--but this moment, however terrible, is but one moment: God wants to alleviate your suffering, yes, but the greater truth: God. Wants. You.

I hope this had an impact. For I know that God had chosen this boy, this young man, to be one of his servants. At any rate, through me he claimed him. And nothing happens except by the will or permission of God.

I won't list all of the many circumstances that feebly attempted to thrwart me. Before, I have entered that prison with no problems at all. This time, I had been shunted from one unit to another, finally told to leave because the ward in which my charge was confined had had 'incidents'---FOUR fights had broken out that day, and pepper spray had been used. After calling to ensure the 'coast was clear', I was still told to go away. I refused. I was finally allowed to wait inside the prison. There, I was assured I would be allowed to visit my charge soon. I was abandoned. Finally, after I confronted (politely) the guards, I was allowed to enter. The guards, whom I know, who had previously been polite, were insulting to my charge as he was called down to meet me. My God. it was amazing.

But all this was nothing but the lashing about of uncontrolled energy: it is no match for the overwhelming, serene and controlled power of our Lord. Tears come to my eyes now as I think of it. But at the time, I was dry-eyed, clear, direct and intense. I've never prayed such a powerful prayer over anyone before. My alb touched to my charge's body in protection, my other hand pressed on his head. My voice commanding.

Sweet Jesus, I do not know where this is all leading. Let it lead to the greater glory of God and let it lead to the remaking of the earth: one child at a time.

May Almighty God make of me a tower of guard, a force of good will, a pillar of strength, a conduit for his grace--this grace which is 14 trillion times greater than any power on this earth.

it seems there is no end to the number of analogies to the married life you can make to the priesthood.

so. i have just finished a month of relative 'spiritual seclusion'. During this time, I have been saying mass (almost) every day at home; getting more fluid, more confident. Mostly, getting used to this new world. This new 'deep magic of the earth' (using a 'Narnia' analogy) is so strange and so wonderful. The Mass is simple, complex, benign, terrible. It is a raging lion, a lamb. I don't know. Thank G-d I am only the conduit. Although, as the prayers say "for ourselves too we ask some measure" of the grace of G-d. And, of course, as the conduit, some of the God-substance sticks to me, an unworthy vessel. Yet he covers over my foolishness and warts and holes and infections with his Motherly love and grace. I am like a child rocked to sleep, so safe.

In fact, the only thing 'wrong' about Eucharist, is having to be done. I have sat after Mass, especially when offered alone, so unwilling to snuff out the candles, to put away the beautiful linens, to strip off my vestments. Oh G-d! Why must the Eucharist end? Yet, as a good Father, he finally guides me, helps me out of His clothes, puts on my own small shoes after carefully stowing his large, manly ones, and I go back to my insignificant and silly life. At least I am grateful for each moment in which I can love someone else. It is like a drop of cold pure water on my parched tongue. Surely, we live on an earthly hell, in which glimpses of the beatific vision descend sporadically--for most, rarely and almost not at all. G-d grant that no soul go from this world without at least a single drop of that cold clear water.

May the whole earth rejoice in a gentle rain that covers all her children; that fills and cleans all cisterns. That washes away the putrefaction of evil in all of us--and especially, drowns our spiritual foes. Drive back our constant enemy o Lord! And set us, once again, on your Rock. This time, let's put in a guardrail so we don't slip off so easily . . . . .

perhaps another language can describe the terrible lightness of my body. the delicate forcefulness that i must employ even to press these keys.

perhaps another tongue has words and declensions to express the sense of being elsewhere and yet completely present. of loving more intently than ever each person i meet, and yet caring little and almost nothing for this life.

in another land there are idioms that talk of fire and ice and cold and terrors subterranean. in that blessed place, a man can say to another the fragilities and the paper-thin tissue of his soul to another, and at the same time demonstrate his yellow-green roots of unyielding resiliency in love. and the other man, he will understand.

in that place, i could sip tea and arch my eyebrow and fold my legs in a certain way, and others would know that this is a time for non-being, non-talking, for silence hushed like woods 10,000 years old, woods where sunlight dapples young leaves high above. and the hard earth reveals no secrets.

there, perhaps, i could rest.