Max Price

Nicely put.

RSThomas hits it every time. It being the truth.

Sorting through all my stuff for a New Year clear out has put me in a strange in-between space. I’m riding a surge of joyful memories yet throwing out the very things that are bringing bring the past to life in the present. Yet they’ve got to go because I can’t take them with me on the journey.Sigh.

I hope it wasn’t the ‘second lobster’ from the nativity play in ‘Love Actually’.

If so moved, a few stay to lift up their heart and voice, to roll up their sleeves and feed the hungry, and / or get dolled up to swing the incense burner or help out at mass. To my mind, St Stephen’s is a patch of old, well-worked soil where the seeds of a radically renewed future overwinter.

They may be just passing through looking for the restroom, or taking a moment to sit down, to look around, wonder, and wait.

I’m coming to the end of a long journey, and it’s one of the few churches that rings true (to my tinny ears ): a frayed, stretched community with blurred borders, where anyone can find and share hope, food, shelter and welcome.

Today is the Feast of Stephen in most church calendars. In my church of St Stephen-in-the-fields we’ve moved it to another time when there’s less stuff going on. But I’ll take this chance to say my thanks to Mother Maggie and the community of St Stephen’s for being who they are and the way they are.

Twelve years today - thank you

I love that the pompiers assembled in Notre Dame de Paris tonight look like a conclave of futuristic Cardinals in their hi-viz red jackets.

I made the less likely choice, which it turned out he thought was the right one. We worked together for ten years after that and my fear of him evolved into respect, affection and love.

Then one day he stood beside me when I had to make a choice that would determine the course of my whole life thereafter (though I didn’t know quite how radical it would be at the time, because if I’d taken the other route I doubt I’d be having the wonderful life I have now).

Today I’m remembering Noel Patrick Barry (1917-2016) on his birthday (December 6, feast of St Nicholas aka Santa Claus, hence ‘Noel’). He was one of the greatest monks (and the last great abbot) of his generation. He had an inner strength and presence that honestly terrified me in my younger days.

Wishing a memorable thanksgiving to all my American family and friends, wherever you may be!

Watched ‘Wicked’(the movie) last night with my gay besties(except the bestest, who was on a fling with his frisbee mates). We had a blast. One moment cut through, with unexpected sharpness: when she realizes that the Wizard of Oz she previously idolized is the author of all she is fighting against.

It’s my understanding that Boris Johnson was baptized in a Roman Catholic ceremony as an infant, though confirmed in the CoE in his teens. (That is why his first marriage, which did not take place in accordance with RC Church requirements, could be declared null according to RC Canon law.

With Chester as your Aloysius :-)

“The heart of Christ is ‘ecstasy’, openness, gift and encounter. In that heart, we learn to relate to one another in wholesome and happy ways, and to build up in this world God’s kingdom of love and justice.”

Pope Francis, Dilexit Nos, 28

I’m a sucker for things royal, but I don’t like the feast of Christ the King. The only decent sermons on the topic are ones that subvert it.

Got myself into a bit of a muddle with my Bluesky accounts, because I’d forgotten that I’d already set up an escape route from the waste land about a year ago (this account); and then, unnecessarily, set up a second in response to the recent provocations. I’ll be sticking with this one.

Hello. I’m Max, 83 years a human, 50 years a priest, 40 years a Benedictine monk, 12 years married and living in Toronto, Canad

Saw ‘Conclave’. It reminded me of some abbatial elections that I’ve been privy to, though the cardinals were gentler and pulled more punches in discussing candidates than the monks.

Today is the fortieth anniversary of my mother Grace’s amazing, happy death. She was eager to meet the Lord, not to escape suffering or a life grown stale: quite the opposite. Her last word, spoken with almost her last breath, was ‘Amen’, said loudly and firmly, in response to the ‘Glory be…’

Pope John XXIII blessing a group of young English seminarians, including me, at an audience in the Vatican in 1962.

My husband and I on the balcony of high rise condominium in Toronto, with skyline of the downtown core in the background.

Hello. I’m Max, 83 years a human, 50 years a priest, 40 years a Benedictine monk, 12 years married and living in Toronto, Canada

Hit, out of the blue, by a whacking prodromal migraine aura. Usually I get a few zig zags, but this is one is an entirely new visual excitement: a revolving toothy zip fastener eating up chunks of my visual field like a portal to a new dimension.

What I hadn’t expected about old age was true gentle delight of dissolving into more or less nothing while enjoying everything more and more.