Lesser Feasts

  Sir William Gillies, Wet Weather  (1961) Since returning from the conference I've had hardly a moment to collect my thoughts. There's been so much to do that I have felt overwhelmed at times, though in fact everything's gone pretty well. In the twenty minutes or so that I have before I leave for the meeting of the bishop search committee, I want to think back on -- really, just inventory -- what's gone on in the last couple of weeks. I bought the painting that I used as the image in my previous post. It's hanging in Edinburgh until the exhibition closes in three weeks, and then it will be shipped here. I am truly excited about this. I reviewed applications, and then reviewed them some more. I did four classes on Berkeley, each weirder and wilder than the one before, and got fantastic questions from students. I celebrated the Eucharist and preached on the High Priesthood of Christ. I confronted a student about some egregious plagiarism and became so genuinely worri...

James McIntosh Patrick, The Striped Scarf  (1932) The image is, obviously, a painting of me just before my first conference session. The Society for Medieval and Renaissance Philosophy held its first-ever stand-alone conference this week. I am actually not much of a conference-goer, and I didn't have anything on the program myself, but this was a chance to see lots of people I haven't seen in a while. Plus, it was held at Notre Dame, where I did my graduate work, so there was a nice opportunity for some nostalgia as well. Dinner the first night was at an Irish pub with a couple of old friends. There was a larger gathering at an upscale bar two blocks away, and I protested feebly (and not altogether sincerely) that I really should get back to the hotel and get some sleep. OK, fine, I'll go for half an hour. "Are you Thomas Williams? Can I give you a hug?" That from a scholar I've interacted with in print and on email but never met before. Lots of lively convers...

John McIntosh Patrick, Arching Boughs, Flocklones  (1955) I missed my chance yesterday to write about Saint Jerome, patron of translators, scourge of unscholarly doofuses like Saint Augustine. Today I'm stuck with Remigius of Rheims, who baptized Clovis, King of the Franks. It is said that when Remigius was asked to baptize a dying pagan, he found that there was no Oil of the Catechumens or Sacred Chrism to do the job properly, so he placed two vials on the altar, prayed over them, and found them filled with the holy oils. My own provision for sacred things involves an email to my favorite liturgical artist, commissioning a festal stole and a red stole. I suppose I could just pray for them to materialize, but I'm not sure my prayer would be powerful and effective--I am arguably not as righteous as Elijah--and I really do want to have something beautiful to wear when my new bishop is consecrated.