It was only a matter of time...

...until the Bishop Bruskewitz Fan Club found a home online.

But one of my favorite movies is "The Quiet Man"...

You're 30% Irish

You're probably less Irish than you think you are... But you're still more Irish than most.

How Irish Are You?

I think I'll hold out for the heavenly bling

From MSNBC.com:

God wants Blige to wear bling
Mary J. Blige says she has found religion, but she makes no apologies for her earthly materialism. In fact, she says God has willed her to wear bling.

“My God is a God who wants me to have things,” the singer tells May’s Blender magazine. “He wants me to bling. He wants me to be the hottest thing on the block. I don’t know what kind of God the rest of y’all are serving, but the God I serve says, ‘Mary, you need to be the hottest thing this year, and I’m gonna make sure you’re doing that’.”

Blige also is not modest when it comes to her place in history. “I do consider myself part of black history,” she told the mag. “Since 1991, I’m still doing this and I’m successful. And I haven’t hurt anyone in the process.”

And Jesus said to her "One thing you still lack. Sell all that you have and distribute to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me." But when she heard this he became sad, for she had much bling. (hat tip: The Curt Jester)

Ya know, I'm beginning to look at life and this world closer and see that the longer I live, the more it is resembling a Saturday Night Live skit.

The Pitcher

This is one of the coolest little poems/descriptions of the art of pitching a baseball that I've ever seen. A lot of truth here..."to be a moment misunderstood" indeed.

The Pitcher

His art is eccentricity, his aim
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,

His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His technique how to vary the avoidance.

The others throw to be comprehended. He
Throws to be a moment misunderstood.

Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,
But every seeming aberration willed.

Not to, yet still, still to communicate
Making the batter understand too late.

–Robert Francis

Dependent vs. Independent

"Amen, amen I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."  (John 12:24; Jesus in the King James Bible, penetrating into the heart of man, for whom even in the beginning it was not good to be alone)

Americans have always taken pride in their "rugged individualism"...their independent spirit. Indeed as I've journeyed forth from my standing as an American first and foremost, to now one more in balance with who I am as a Christian, I've found myself at odds at times with those individualistic tendencies.

There is a strong strain in American life that resents (or scorns) the idea of dependence. This feeling makes it easier to want to get rid of grandpa when he becomes incontinent, or your wife when she becomes disabled, or your unborn child when the ultrasound shows a strong likelihood of trisomy 13. One thing that I really don't like about that strain of culture is what it does to families, extended families. I have heard of people hosting foreign exchange students from Vietnam or other cultures, and of the student's extended families pitching in to help them as much as they can. They pay for the student's education, their computer, anything they need, because they're a family and that's what families do.

Our culture seems somewhat broken and disconnected; ironic considering we fancy ourselves living in the age of connectivity.

I am reminded of a fable, which actually reminds me of Lewis' The Great Divorce, in which the new arrivals to Hell are deposited in the center of town, and the older inhabitants are perpetually moving to the outskirts to get away from other people, other people (unlike oneself, of course) always being responsible for the disagreeable and quarrelsome character of the place.

Once upon a time there was a man who wanted to be independent.

At first he lived in a city, but every morning the street-sweeper would come by, saying, "Hello there!"  That rankled the man who wanted to be independent, for he knew that without the street-sweeper the streets would shortly grow so clogged with trash that no cars would be able to make it through.  "I want to be sufficient unto myself," said the man.

So he moved to the suburbs, he and many another.  But one day he heard the rat-tat-tat of jackhammers outside.  It was the water crew, working to repair a broken main.  "Hello there!" said the chief.  But the man who wanted to be independent frowned.  He saw that as long as he had town water he was dependent on the men who fixed the water-mains, and upon the workers at the sewer plant and the reservoir -- the thought was too horrible.  "I am the cause of my well-being," said the man.

So he moved to the country, where he could have his own well and grow his own food.  But one day the axle on his plow cracked, and he had to get a new one from the blacksmith.  "Hello there," said the blacksmith.  That again was too much for the man who wanted to be independent.  He left the farm and moved into the woods, setting hand-made traps for small animals, gathering berries and roots, and sheltering himself from the elements with sticks and thatch.  "I need no one now," said the man, filthy and ragged and single-minded as he had become.  But whenever people would move closer to his woods, the man would pick himself up and move further away, further north, into more and more forbidding lands, first wilderness, then the tundra, ever praising himself for his independence.

Finally one morning an Eskimo canoe forced him off his haven near the shores of Baffin Island, about as far north as anyone alive ever goes.  He picked up and started walking, inland.  He was old now and not always in his right mind.  It seemed to him that he walked on for days.  "Couldn't be," he thought.  "Need food."  But instead he kept walking, walking, past the tundra, past any signs of life, even a scrap of lichen clinging to an icy stone, finally past stones jutting from the ice, on into a landscape that was all ice, like the interior of many a misnamed Greenland, and then past ice itself into nothingness as far as the eye could stretch.  His feet ached, but he was urged on anyhow, and for the first time in many years he felt the loneliness he lived.

"I knew I should have saved that compass," he muttered.

Finally after years of walking, beside himself with worry that he had lost his way and would never escape this strange geological formation, he saw about five thousand thousand miles away a shadow in the shape of a man.  "At last," he thought.  "I can at least ask directions.  No point overdoing things."  So on he walked.  When you have been walking straight out of your physical life into the other world, to walk another five thousand thousand miles is no great deal; but to the man who wanted to be independent it seemed endless.  "Maybe he'll leave before I get there," he thought.  "Maybe he has another appointment.  Wait, wait!"  But the shadow did not move, neither towards him, nor away.  And in his madness the man who wanted to be indpendent imagined the shadow might be that of a beautiful woman, perhaps that of his own mother.  "Mama," he cried out.

At last he reached the spot.  The shadow was as shadowy as ever, more the silhouette of a man than a man in reality.  But the shadow could speak, and that was something.

"Hello there!" cried the man who would be indpendent.

"Hello yourself," said the shadow.

"You don't know how glad I am to see you!" said the wandering man.  "I must be lost.  I left the shore because of a canoe -- never could stand the things.  I wanted to be independent," he said.

"Fancy that," said the shadow.

"Well, a little conversation after so many years does my heart good," said the man.

"So they say," drawled the shadow.  A wisp of smoke came from him, probably from a kind of cigarette.

"But what are you doing here?" asked the man.  "Do you know the way out?  How do you manage when there's nothing for miles and miles?"

"Used to serve a Fellow," said the shadow.  "Had to thank him.  Hated it.  Got out.  Came here."  The shadow flickered for an instant with a kind of red light, more like a memory of light than a light in truth.

"But now, the two of us, we're together, we can make a go of it.  Just you and me.  Set up for trappers maybe, or prospectors.  This could be gold country -- another Klondike!  We can be independent all the same.  What do you say?"  And the man was on his knees, pleading.

"I say what I said to that Fellow then.  I say what I always say.  This universe ain't big enough for the both of us.  Now get lost."

"But where should I go?"  The man wept.  "Which direction should I take?"

"Go to hell," said the shadow.  "Go north.  Every direction in this place is north."

Now...balance the above fable as well as our notions of rugged individualism with the following meditation:

Meditation XVII
by John Donne

XVII. MEDITATION.

PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that. The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all. When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member. And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. There was a contention as far as a suit (in which both piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled), which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest. If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is. The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that that occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God. Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world?

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee. Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours. Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it. No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by and made fit for God by that affliction. If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels. Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it. Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

Read the Catechism in a year

I am awaiting my copy of the new Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church to arrive at Gloria Deo, as it is still on backorder. (it sold 50,000 copies since it's release two weeks ago...must be still tough to come by). In addition, I'd like to point out a neat website/blog that has been set up named the Catholic Catechism Dialog Blog, where they present a plan (see the attached PDF file) for reading through the CCC in one year along with Scripture, beginning Easter Sunday. I'm passing it along as it looks like a wonderful way to really dive into the CCC, which they also provide a link for if you wish to participate by reading through it online.

Hat tip: Amy Welborn

Launch date:  Easter Sunday 2006

Our Purpose as stated in the sidebar Overview:

A group blog for devotional and practical dialogue with sacred Scripture and sacred Tradition via the Catechism of the Catholic Church to the glory of God, for unity with the mystical body of Christ, for personal growth and the new evangelization.

Our aim is to inspire as many people as possible to make reading the Catechism of the Catholic Church as regular part of their daily life and to create a dialogue between Writers and Guests of this blog. We encourage everyone to become a consistent reader of the Bible and the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

The Gospel of Skip and Muffy

A response to the Gospel of Judas. I particularly like the last paragraph Diogenes wrote.

 

New Gospel Discovered!!

Newark, Apr. 8 (CWNews.com) - Archeological researchers in Ridgewood, New Jersey, have discovered an ancient Christian document that offers a radically new account of the founding of the Catholic Church.

The newly discovered document, which scholars have named "The Gospel of Skip and Muffy," was found in an abandoned row house in New Brunswick, New Jersey, which had formerly housed a Rutgers sorority.

Theologians and anthropologists agree that "The Gospel of Skip and Muffy" is likely to cause intense debate among Christians, forcing a complete re-examination of all Catholic teachings.

There is no possible debate, however, about the authenticity of the document. "It was typed on an IBM Selectric II," reported Dr. Ernest Litewaite, an associate professor of Contemporary Archeology at Kutztown State. "Using a Courier 72 10-pitch element." The document is believed to be a copy of an earlier statement, crafted by students at an East Coast private college sometime around 1970.

"The Gospel of Skip and Muffy" is an extended dialogue between two young theologians who take a startling new approach to the faith. The document suggests that young Christians of the 1970s generation did not accept Church teachings on some controversial moral issues.

B.F.D. Zeitgeist, a Professor of Serious Christianity at Dupont University, said that the Gospel of Skip and Muffy will force Christians to re-examine the nature of Church authority. He pointed to one key passage in the manuscript:

"The Church is-- I mean-- it's just a bunch of, like, rules and stuff," said Muffy.
"Yeah," Skip replied. "I mean, really. Hey, don't let that thing go out."

Ultraconservative Catholic officials may not accept the validity of the new Gospel. Spokespersons for the Newark archdiocese did not immediately return a reporter's phone call. But Msgr. Pius Grümbling, a pastor in Hoboken, replied to queries by saying: "OK, that's right. We do not accept the validity of this document."

But Professor Zeitgeist doubts that Church officials will be able to stop parishioners from raising questions about the new document. He cites "astonishing new insights" such as the one contained in this passage:

"Have you ever thought," said Skip, "that the solar system is just like an atom in this really gigantic alternate universe, and the planets are just, like, electrons spinning around, and the sun is, like, the nucleus?"
"Wow," said Muffy. "Heavy. And then we'd be, like, just tiny little, like, specks that you can't even see."
"Riiight," said Skip, exhaling slowly. "Far out, huh?"

"This document will force Christians to re-examine all of their basic moral principles," said Professor Zeitgeist, "starting with the outmoded and inhumane taboo that prevents teachers from having love affairs with their students."

"Or with reporters," the professor added, smiling. "Would you care for a daiquiri?"

Professor Litewaite said that he had found the manuscript of the Gospel of Skip and Muffy several months ago. "The significance of the discovery was immediately obvious," he said. "But my publicist suggested that I should wait until Holy Week to make it public."

Victimhood

This Calvin & Hobbes comic got me to thinking about something so prevelant in our culture today: victimhood. Indeed one no longer has to look to Oprah and her ilk to find it as it is a daily part of our headlines. From our Olympic athletes to Cynthia McKinney, victimhood is everywhere. Why? Because it's so damned easy. We're a generation of narcissists, and none of us seems immune. I myself have been mired in one form of this or another for the past few years and only recently decided enough was enough. I didn't used to be this way, but when you see the prevailing tide accepting of it you eventually figure out it's easier and think why fight it? No more. I am going to fight it. I want my life back. And when I became a victim, that's exactly what I gave up control over...my own life and my own decisions. I abdicated.

 

Dr. Laura Schlessinger has a new book out called Bad Childhood Good Life which will be snarked at by those who champion the "compassion" for victims. While I share in that compassion, I also believe that a form of compassion is empowering people to break the cycle and be free of that feeling of being a victim. From a review by Molly Stark:

 

As the blunt, brutally honest Dr. Laura sees it, we have much more control over our life’s direction—and a duty to responsibly steer it—than we’re sometimes willing to admit.  She counsels us to get over the past by moving past it; to stop continually blaming others for the bad choices we now as adults freely make; to take control of our future instead of letting our yesterdays choke the joy out of our tomorrows. 

Dr. Laura loudly proclaims: “Continuing to be an adult victim is voluntary.”

Unfortunately, for some forever-victims, “The emotional pull of the past…is more powerful than the logic of the moment.”  And these folks, instead of being “individuals with a past” become “individuals defined by the past.”

Now stop for a moment and think about the society in which we live.  Does is ever seem responsibility light?  One where we overlook the poor behavior of many adult adolescents intent on playing peek-a-boo with the real world?

Do you know people who continually act out their tragic past dramas over and over and over again—forcing others to be part of their painful stage plays? 

Are you one of them? 

And why is this “victim” mentality so deeply entrenched in the souls of some? 

Time to call AntiPesto

As I recall, some British lads have faced this situation before... perhaps it's time for the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch!

 

"Monster rabbit" targets vegetable patch (article below)

Tim: There he is!
King Arthur: Where?
Tim: There!
King Arthur: What? Behind the rabbit?
Tim: It *is* the rabbit!
King Arthur: You silly sod!
Tim: What?
King Arthur: You got us all worked up!
Tim: Well, that's no ordinary rabbit.
King Arthur: Ohh.
Tim: That's the most foul, cruel, and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on!
Sir Robin: You tit! I soiled my armor I was so scared!
Tim: Look, that rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide! It's a killer!
Sir Galahad: Get stuffed!
Tim: He'll do you up a treat, mate.
Sir Galahad: Oh, yeah?
Sir Robin: You mangy Scots git!
Tim: I'm warning you!
Sir Robin: What's he do? Nibble your bum?
Tim: He's got huge, sharp... er... He can leap about. Look at the bones!
King Arthur: Go on, Bors. Chop his head off!
Sir Bors: Right! Silly little bleeder. One rabbit stew comin' right up!

LONDON (Reuters) - It sounds like a job for Wallace and Gromit.

A "monster" rabbit has apparently been rampaging through vegetable patches in a small village in northern England, ripping up leeks, munching turnips and infuriating local gardeners.

In an uncanny resemblance to the plot of the hit animated film "Wallace & Gromit in the Curse of the Were-Rabbit," angry horticulturists in Felton, near Newcastle, have now mounted an armed guard to protect their prized cabbages and parsnips.

"They call it the monster. It's very big -- it's nearly the size of a dog," said Joan Smith, whose son Jeff owns one of the plots under attack.

"It's eating everything, all the vegetables," she told Reuters. "They are trying to shoot it. They go along hoping to catch it but I think it's too crafty."

In the "Wallace" film, which topped both the U.S. and UK box office charts and in March won an Oscar for best animated feature film, the plasticine heroes battle a mutant rabbit bent on destroying their home town's annual Giant Vegetable Contest.

Those who say they have witnessed Felton's black and brown monster describe it as a cross between a rabbit and a hare with one ear bigger than the other.

Its antics came to public attention when Jeff Smith, 63, raised it as an issue with the local parish council.

"He came along to pay the annual fee for the allotment (vegetable patch) and he said 'ooh we've got this big cross between a hare and a rabbit,'" the council's clerk Lisa Hamlin told Reuters.

Smith himself has described it as a "brute" which had left huge pawprints.

"This is no ordinary rabbit. We are dealing with a monster," he was quoted by newspapers as saying.

"It is absolutely massive. The first time I saw it I thought to myself 'What the hell is that?'

"We have two lads here with guns who are trying to shoot it, but it is very clever."

The BBC has more:

Hunt for real life 'were-rabbit'

Sharp-shooters have been brought in to defend allotment patches in Northumberland suffering from a real-life "curse of the were-rabbit".

The ravenous giant rabbit, named after the famed Wallace and Gromit character, is reported to have ripped up dozens of prize-winning leeks and turnips.

Now growers in Felton, near Morpeth, have drafted in licensed gamekeepers with air rifles to halt the rampage.

But animal welfare workers have called for the animal to be trapped instead.

Four gardeners described the rabbit as having one ear larger than the other.

The main clues are oversized paw prints and sightings of what growers claim to be a cross between a hare and a rabbit.

A small group of allotment holders have now clubbed together to hire two air rifle marksmen with orders to shoot to kill.

Grower Jeff Smith, 63, said: "This is no ordinary rabbit. We are dealing with a monster.

"It is absolutely massive. I have seen its prints and they are huge, bigger than a deer. It is a brute of a thing."

Mr Smith, who has kept an allotment for 25 years, added: "We have two lads here with guns who are trying to shoot it, but it is clever.

"They never see it. There were big rabbits in the 1950s and 1960s before pesticides were introduced, but not like this."

Marksman Brian Cadman, 17, said: "We've been told to shoot on sight, but we've not had much luck yet.

"You can see what it's been eating.

"It's been taking huge bites out of cabbages, carrots and turnips. It's a hungry fella."

The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA) urged the growers to set a humane trap for the animal and release it elsewhere.

Rather be cruisin'...

"This is a day that was meant for cruisin'." That was my thought this morning as I drove to work, having stopped to pick up a 20oz Turtle and a peach muffin at The Sunrise Coffee Co. Maybe it's the fact that it's sunny, clear and supposed to hit 75 degrees. Maybe it's the fact that I'm ready for a bright day after a week of sorrow over having lost my companion of eleven years to old age. Maybe it was the familiar face at the coffee shop who always makes me smile. Or maybe it was the music in my tape player. How about all of the above?

I spent another four hours last night mudding and taping the drywall in our basement. Since our CD player has been put away during this dusty phase of the work, I dug out our old "boom box" and a recently discovered ancient case of cassettes. Most of it was junk, but I discovered two old friends inside that I hadn't dusted off and listened to in (shamefully) ages. Chris Rea's The Road To Hell and Missing, Presumed Having a Good Time by The Notting Hillbillies. Both were favorites of mine at the very start of the 1990s and finding them last night was like shaking hands with an old friend: comfortable and warm. The Road To Hell sounds like an album that Dire Straits may have made if they had recorded a bluesy album somewhere between recording Love Over Gold and Brothers In Arms, and contains songs so laden with melody and mood much like the smoke in a corner bar. From the two part title track, Texas, Your Warm And Tender Love, and Tell Me There's A Heaven, you are brought into the music and revel in it. Now, if I could just find my Simpatico cassette by Chet Atkins and Suzy Bogguss, I'd be set.

The Notting Hillbillies were a collection of four men, including Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits, and is similarly an album that is perfect for a sunny cruise, or a lazy Sunday morning. Traditional songs, very understated, and mellow. Railroad Worksong, Your Own Sweet Way, Will You Miss Me, and Feel Like Going Home are among the many highlights. It just makes you feel good, and what can be better than that?

Naturally, I've ordered both on CD this morning. I don't want to lose these two every again. They have withstood the test of time perfectly.

So who wants me to pick them up in front of their office? Tell the boss your taking the day off.

More on Bishop B's remarks

Bishop Bruskewitz sent a stern rebuke back to the National Review Board last week and it's received a lot of coverage online.

The Curt Jester demonstrates the differences between the Diocese of Lincoln and Cardinal Mahoney in LA, while Gerald says observes that our bishop kicks "backside", Ad Majorem links to the original USCC file on the National Review Board, and Domenico (the editor of Catholic World Report) notes that the bishop pulls no punches. Amy Welborn agrees with the bishop, but thinks he weakened his case with his "silly" and "ridiculous" tones.

One canon lawyer says the bishop is in error, while another says he's not (many others point out that Bishop Bruskewitz was himself a fine Canon lawyer). He also points to an article in The Wanderer that states why the Bishop of Lincoln refused to participate in the much-ballyhooed survey.

Comments, such as these, on the blogs have been overwhelmingly in favor of his actions.

UPDATE: Sparki pointed out a recent interview the bishop did for The Wanderer on this subject.

The Cruelest April Fool's Day of all...

Our beloved family pet, our shih tzu who had just turned 11 yesterday, has passed on. Yesterday when I took Fenway to the vet X-rays showed a chest cavity so full of liquid that his heart and liver were not visible, and he was only able to use about 25% of his lung capacity to breathe. Either a tumor or enlarged heart was the cause, and it was inoperable. The only humane thing to do was to release him from his pain. So I took him home to spend a night with his family, for the time necessary for all of our goodbyes, and then this morning I took him back to the vet and returned alone. I can't write any more than this because the pain is all too fresh, because he was my best friend for 11 years, and because I was up with him until 3:30 last night. I'll write more about my friend another day. For now, here are the two last pictures taken of Fenway from last night.

This morning I sat out on the back patio in the morning sun with Fenway as I've done so often since moving here three years ago this May. One of the readings this morning in The Divine Office was from Guadium et Spes, a Vatican II document on the Church in the modern world. It said in part:

Man, redeemed by Christ and made a new creation in the Holy Spirit, can and must love the very things created by God. For he receives them from God, and sees and reveres them as coming from the hand of God, As he gives thanks for them to his Benefactor, and uses and enjoys them in a spirit of poverty and freedom, he enters into true possession of the world, as one having nothing and possessing all things. For all things are yours, and you are Christ’s, and Christ is God’s.

Fenway was our gift from God for eleven years. We received him, revered him, and gave thanks for him. Indeed, my last words to Fenway as I hugged him on the table at the vet's for the last time as he was slipping away from consciousness were simply "thank you."

I love our bishop...

...as he's never been afraid to call a spade a spade. How's this for a hearty thwack upside the head?

Bishop Fabian Bruskewitz of Lincoln, Nebraska, has responded sharply to criticism from the US bishops' National Review Board about his refusal to cooperate with the Board's "audit" of diocesan plans for implementing national guidelines on sex-abuse programs. Bishop Bruskewitz released this statement on March 31:

Some woman named Patricia O'Donnell Ewers, who is the Chair of something called "A National Review Board for the Protection of Children and Young People", has said that her Board "calls for strong fraternal correction of the Diocese of Lincoln." The Diocese of Lincoln has nothing to be corrected for, since the Diocese of Lincoln is and has always been in full compliance with all laws of the Catholic Church and with all civil laws. Furthermore, Ewers and her Board have no authority in the Catholic Church and the Diocese of Lincoln does not recognize them as having any significance.

It is well known that some of the members of Ewers' Board are ardent advocates of partial birth abortion, other abortions, human cloning, and other moral errors. It is understandable then how such persons could dislike the Diocese of Lincoln, which upholds the moral teaching of the Catholic Church.

The words attributed to Ewers seem to confirm the suspicion that the members of her Board are unfamiliar with Catholic teachings, Catholic ecclesiology, and even the basic rudiments of the Catholic Catechism. Rather than concerning themselves with the Diocese of Lincoln about which they appear completely ignorant, Ewers and her colleagues would occupy themselves in a better way by learning something about the Catholic religion and the traditions and doctrines and laws of the Catholic Church.