A couple of weeks ago, a memorial Mass for Michael was held here in Birmingham at the Cathedral. The bishop presided and offered a very nice, even charming homily in which he first focused on the Scripture readings of the day, and then turned to Michael, whom he remembered, among other things, as one who continually encouraged him, among other things, to keep his preaching rooted in the Scriptures.

I blogged about that before, and once the archives have moved over here, I will guide you there, if you are interested.

(Update: It’s this post.)

The Responsorial Psalm at the Mass was Psalm 23.

The Lord is my Shepherd. There is nothing I shall want.

As I sat there listening and attempting to join my weak, unenthusiastic voice to the others, a question came to me.

There is nothing I shall want.

Really? I thought. Do I really believe that right now?

Why am I the only person I know..or even “know” in the Internet sense of “knowing”  – who didn’t hate it?

I didn’t love it, either. There was a lot wrong with it. Weak
characterization. Miscasting. Anvil-wielding mentally ill prophets.

But here’s the thing.

Whether or not Yates’ original novel intended it, whether or not Mendes intended it in his adaptation, the movie did not come off to me like a blanket condemnation of late 50’s soulless suburbia.

As I said to Michael as we left the theater, it very much felt to me like an expose of life – a person’s life –  without God.

No, I’m not going to ask you about your Lenten reading lists…although I might.

Not today, though. This post is about giving books to others. For Lent, and a long time after that.

How about….because I’m lame and hate thinking up titles to things?

No?

Okay…how about…St. Benedict?