Phoebe Kate

Recently, someone who’d read my Facebook page and blog asked me, “Are you religious?” 

Well, there’s nothing much on Facebook to indicate my beliefs, such as they may or may not be.  For my profile, under the “Religion” category, I put “Eclectic.”  I write friends who are going through a hard time that I will pray for them — and I do. 

But for all anybody knows, I may worship cats and get my spiritual guidance from the wee leprechauns who live in my yard and from the Mother Ship who transmits instructions directly to my brain.

Obviously, the person in question read my posts here on Jesus and Mary sightings.  Does writing about religious stuff make you religious?  Or maybe just a writer with a taste for the weird and an eye for a good blog subject?

That being said, I admit that a lot of my fiction has a spiritual element to it.  In fact, it’s hard to think of a story I’ve written that doesn’t use religious symbolism, allegories or themes in some way.   I can’t help it — it comes naturally to me.

I was raised a Catholic.  I studied comparative religion in college — and after that, decided I needed to conduct some first-hand field research.  I spent time in churches of every Christian denomination from Adventist to Unitarian as well as in Orthodox, Conservative and Reformed synagogues and even one religious cult.  My Grand Tour of Religions took almost 20 years.

However, I haven’t been in a Catholic church in three decades.  My Mass-attending brethren say I’ve “fallen away.”  I haven’t been in any house of worship for the last 15 years.  My Evangelical and Pentecostal brethren call it being “backslidden.”  My atheist and agnostic friends say I’ve “come to my [humanistic]  senses.”

Well, I don’t quite agree that I’m an errant piece of pickle that slipped out of the One True Holy and Apostolic Cheeseburger or I’m dancing with the devil to eternal damnation or I’m recovering from a case of temporary theological insanity.  But in response to those who think I am, I just smile and nod.  We’re all entitled to our different POVs.

While, as I said, my religious exploration often lurks in the background or behind the scenes for my stories, there is one fictional piece where it boldly takes center-stage.  I invite you to read “Goo Cares.”  It’s not long, it’s sad and funny and, scarily enough, it’s based on real events. 

http://www.slowtrains.com/vol3issue2/fostervol3issue2.html

My thanks to editor Susannah Indigo of Slow Trains for publishing this story and for suggesting a change in title.  I originally called it, “Saving Gracie.”  Susannah, with her usual editorial incisiveness, cut right to the heart of the matter.

~ phoebe kate

It seems that I’ve been derelict in my duty to keep you informed on where the King of Kings has been cropping up.  He’s been busier in the last few months than any of us ever realized. 

Of course, you understand that such news doesn’t rate national reportage, although why I don’t know.  It’s a lot more interesting than what the anchors and talking heads usually blather on about.  How Tiger Woods’ sex life  and the death of Marie Osmond’s son manage to rate such coverage and an appearance by the Son of God doesn’t sure beats me.

Oh well.

Anyway, here are some sacred sightings that I just found:

• An suspecting diner in an Italian restaurant in Syracuse NY had consumed half his entree before brushing away the garnish on the remaining portion.  He looked down and exclaimed to his friends, “I think Jesus is on my chicken!”  Now, if that isn’t an attention grabber at a dinner party, I don’t know what is.  Fortunately for us, the gentleman didn’t eat the Lord before seeing Him.  Or after, either.  The piece of grilled chicken breast now resides in a Ziploc baggie in the guy’s freezer.  At least he didn’t sell Jesus on eBay, like so many modern-day Judases have done.
• Last summer, a woman in Texas found a baseball near the back door of her kitchen.  She picked it up and there was the likeness of The Holy One residing in a dirt smudge.  She showed it to her kids, who identified the image as well.  What she’s done with the Blessed Ball was not mentioned in the article. 
• A year ago December, an Australian man was taking photos of a dramatic stormy sky over his farm.  When he developed the pictures, lo and behold! the clouds formations portrayed a scene of the King of Heaven surrounded by angels. 
• Again in Australia, a cook spooned out some lemon cream sauce and forgot to turn off the burner when he put the pan back down.  Later, while he attempted to scrape the charred pan, he realized his unsuccessful cleaning had revealed the face of Jesus.  He says the divine manifestation has restored his faith — ah, another cooking mishap turns into a very happy Holy Accident.  I presume he retired the sacred skillet from further service in the kitchen.

According to Vatican sources, Pope Benedict XVI is quite skeptical about all this and is compiling a handbook for bishops around the world to de-bunk these bogus apparitions. Such phenomena, in his opinion, pose a risk to the Church.  He proposes to silence the “pseudo-mystics” who have seen Christ in a Cheeto or His Blessed Mother in a blueberry muffin and subject them to examination by demonologists, exorcists and theologians. 

And oh yes, psychiatrists, too.

Let’s give a big, warm welcome to the New Inquisition, 21st century style.   

It sounds to me like it could possibly be a case of ecclesiastical jealousy.  Has the Pope seen the Son of God or the Virgin Mary in his piece of Margherita pizza?  If he had, it truly would make international news – and there wouldn’t be any battery of wig-pickers and Ghost Busters to question the authenticity of his divine sign — or his sanity.

If there really is a Supreme Being, then nobody can put limits on what He/She/It can or cannot do.  If the faithful don’t find faith in their house of worship — whatever denomination it is – then maybe, just maybe, the Man who said He was ”meek and lowly in heart” may step in and do the job Himself.

~ phoebe kate

I’ve always been a person who reads labels.  I don’t usually read them because I don’t know how to use what I’ve bought, but because I’m somewhat OCD and we compulsively read everything. 

We know how many additives, calories and fat grams are in our food, which country our produce and ground beef originated from, the name of the manager in our local Taco Bell, the inspection rating of any restaurant we patronize, where the fire exits are in any public place we happen to be, where the emergency doors are on airplanes and how to open them and save the lives of our fellow passengers, and all the fine print in any contracts we sign.

Labels can be useful.  However, the following caveats on products probably won’t be noticed by the people who most need to read them:

• A toilet brush with a tag that says: “Do not use for personal hygiene.”
• A scooter warning, “This product moves when used.”
• On a digital thermometer box: “After using rectally, do not use orally.”
• On a food blender box: “Do not remove food while the machine is in operation.”
• On a bag of air used to cushion a fragile product: “Do not use this as toy, pillow or flotation device.”
• On a can of pepper spray: “Do not spray at your own eyes.”
• Instructions on a catsup bottle: “Put on food.”
• “Not for human consumption” on a can of fish food.
• On a package of ear plugs: “Are non-toxic but may interfere with breathing if caught in windpipe.”
• “Avoid contact with face and eyes” on a container of foot spray.
• “Do not ingest” on a lava lamp.
• On a power tool: “Not intended for use as a dental drill.” 
• A fish tank label that suggests additional purchases: “Rocks, aquatic plants, fish.”
• A deoderant that has the advice: “Use only on underarms.”
• On a bottle of hair dye: “Do not use as a topping for ice cream.”
• On a package of Clearasil: “Do not use on infants under 6 months of age.”
• A foaming face wash warns: “May contain foam.”
• A tampon box lists as its final instruction: “Pull up underwear.”
• On a toilet bowl cleaner: “Safe to use around pets and children, although it is not recommended that either be permitted to drink from the toilet.”

I used to think that it was the label writers who were looney.  Now, I’m not so sure.  So many crazy labels…on so many products…

What’s the matter with us, America?  What’s happened to our minds?  Our common sense?  Haven’t we been wearing our aluminum foil hats to keep the aliens from stealing our brains?

Or did Reynolds forget to put on its box, “Not for human consumption.  For external use only”?

~ phoebe kate  

True to His scriptural word — “I will never leave you or forsake you” — the Son of God has made another surprise appearance this year…and in a venue you’d never expect to find Him.

In an Indian restaurant.

A couple in Surrey, England were about to chow down on some curry when they found something funny in their food.

No, not a hair from the chef’s head.

It was the face of the King of Kings staring up at them from a piece of naan bread that they were about to rip apart and devour.  Said the lucky recipient of the divine visitation, “My wife and I were about to tuck into our curry when I spotted Jesus looking right back at me.”

This is definitely a departure from the usual food scenes that the Savior has historically favored.  Both He and His Mother have shown a decided preference for South of the Border specialties for their manifestations, such as tortillas, tacos and nachos.  

However, this new sighting in naan reiterates the importance of grain-based products as a vehicle for many of His appearances – hardly surprising for someone who metaphorically referred to Himself as “The Bread of Life.”

So, you may be asking, what’s a nice Jewish boy doing in an Indian restaurant?  Shouldn’t He be popping up in a matzoh ball in Netanyahu’s soup?  As the founder of Christianity, oughtn’t He pay Benedict XVI a visit in a plate of antipasto?

Well, the good news is the peripatetic Prince of Peace is ecumenical.  He doesn’t read the sign on a house of worship or on a restaurant either — He’s more interested in reading men’s hearts.  

And He’s no respecter of persons, as it says in the Bible, which means a truly divine dinner entree just might be coming to a table near you. 

~ phoebe kate              

It seems like a lofty aspiration, to work at making the country or your state or city a better place for its citizens.  It sounds exciting — the cameras, the press conferences, the speeches, the events where everybody wants to shake your hand and hear what you have to say, being a newsmaker and a headliner and (you hope) a household name.

I think it sounds like the career from hell and a quick detour to a nervous breakdown. 

Politicians are probably the only people who never can escape the public eye and the scrutiny of the news media.  Even the most famous Hollywood celebs get a break between movies and disappear for a few months to enjoy something resembling a private life.  Johnny Depp hangs out in France where nobody bothers him, Sarah Jessica Parker and her family slip into the Irish countryside and numerous Red Carpet strutters seclude themselves in remote parts of Latin America that daunt even the most rabid of the paparazzi. 

But politicians — well, the old saying “out of sight, out of mind” is very true when it comes to voters.  The next election is always just around the corner and too much time away from your constituents means you may shortly be out of a job (and reduced to paying a ghostwriter to pen your memoirs about a life in politics.)

With hectic 18-hour days of meetings, breakfasts with one group, lunches with another, some afternoon public appearances, three dinners where your presence is required and the ever-present opinion polls that determine your personal future, public servants can’t do the really important things in life.

Like sleep late and stay in their pajamas all day.

Attend everyone one of your kids’ school plays, music recitals and Christmas programs.

Take long naps on rainy afternoons.

Decide to study flower-arranging, cake decorating, haiku writing or martial arts at your local community college.

Go window-shopping at the mall.

Devote your evenings to re-reading The Complete Works of Charles Dickens or all seven volumes of Remembrance of Things Past or playing board games and cards with the family.

Spend a hour throwing catnip mice for the cat to chase or tossing a Frisbee for the dog or enjoying a leisurely walk in the park.

Watch the big game at a sports bar, drink beer and pitch peanut shells at anybody who cheers for the other team.

Only hang out with people you really, really like.

Do something spontaneous.

Wear something silly.

Have a bad hair day.

Say a bad word.

Express what you truly think and believe.

Be yourself — and if somebody doesn’t like the Real You, well, the hell with him. 

Tell the truth, regardless of the consequences.

Do I feel sorry for politicians?  Yes and no. 

Yes — for those who have truly dedicated their lives to doing the best they can for their constituents.  There are some — and nowhere near as many as there should be — who have interpreted “public service” as being a servant of the people they represent.  And they have my admiration — and my sympathy for doing a thankless job.

No, because they chose their career path — for whatever reasons.  They were obviously willing to give up a “normal” life and their freedom of choice for something.

Unfortunately, it seems that many have made the sacrifice not for the betterment of society, but for ego and personal aggrandizement.  Power is a heady aphrodesiac and a highly addictive substance.

The political arena is chock-a-block with individuals who emphasize the “public” aspect — the meticulously manufactured ”image,” familiar and cliche-riddled rhetoric, empty promises and impossible dreams that woo the masses and turn campaigns into a popularity contest rather than a rational decision between two well-defined, clearly stated and carefully thought-out platforms.             

As someone once observed, “Politicians think of the next election; a statesman, of the next generation.” 

~ phoebe kate