A reader emailed last week inquiring about an old article.  He said a favorite article had disappeared from the Crisis Magazine site. He wondered if by any chance I had a copy of Monastery Vacations In France that appeared in the November 2002 issue of Crisis Magazine. (Crisis is now found at InsideCatholic.com)

Thanks for your request, Ben!

Below is an unedited version of that article–I’ve linked various information/photos. The novel that Anne Broderick”s husband, William, wrote  has been published to acclaim.  Enjoy!

Monastery Vacations in France

Glossy travel catalogs overflowed the mailbox in early spring. Their pages are no longer content to feature pristine Tahitian beaches or elegant Italian boutiques. Modern travelers are wooed with the promise of novelty: Swim with the dolphins in the Caribbean, hike Himalayan peaks with Sherpa guides or search for Incan artifacts with archeologists in Peru. Travel professionals recognize that the “vacation” traveler is in search of something beyond a change of scenery. Often what is sought is not just another excursion, but A Significant Experience.

Sandwiched between the travel catalogs in the mailbox was a gift copy of Hannah Green’s posthumous Little Saint. George Wiegel’s book jacket endorsement promised the reader a “strangely compelling form of travelogue…Green transforms travel writing into spiritual writing….” The Baltimore Sun praised Green for her “descriptions of the French landscape as utterly disarming as her descriptions of the mysterious way the spirit of God moves through her.” I was captivated. By the last chapter I had resolved to see the French hamlet where Hannah Green, an Episcopalian, had a significant experience: She had fallen in love with a child saint martyred 1600 years ago.

Most visitors include the magnificent wonders of France’s Christian heritage, from Notre Dame, to Mont St. Michel to Lourdes in their itineraries. Hidden in remote, verdant villages, undiscovered by millions of tourists, are the most improbable treasures. These temporal and spiritual riches are revealed to the pilgrim in search of something more than another vacation. Over the centuries, many such secrets were vouchsafed to monasteries. And, happily, the monastic tradition that accepted medieval wayfarers as a holy duty still offers hospitality for the modern pilgrim’s quest.

A recent book, Europe’s Monastery and Convent Guesthouses, lists dozens of religious houses whose rich welcome for persons of all faiths (or none) belies the pittance charged for bed and blessing. Here the traveler becomes a pilgrim and a vacation may double as a retreat; an encounter for the soul as well as the eye and the palate.

I transferred my research to a unique map (provided by the French Consulate in New York) that locates the major monasteries and abbeys in France. Some are just kilometers from crenellated castles and fortresses—a plus those traveling en famile. Before departure I’d mapped and re-mapped a route to combine spiritual discoveries with the celebrated delights of Normandy, the Loire Valley, and Provence.

* * * * *

Pilgrim ‘s Journal: Paris and Beyond

The fashionable 7^th Arrondissment is home to the oldest Parisian families and exquisite antiques shops. A little beyond a window filled with antique baby shoes, at 140 Rue de Bac, I entered the convent where the Virgin Mary revealed the Miraculous Medal to St. Catherine Laboure. Visitors scoop up books and medals along the narrow courtyard before entering the church. Inside, Catherine’s incorrupt body reposes beneath a statue of the white-robed Virgin of the Globe, Satan pinned beneath her feet. Despite the noisy, bustling tourists outside, the interior of this church is serene. Perhaps the serenity is due to the intensity of the prayers offered in this simple chapel where the Virgin Mary sat in a chair and counseled the young nun who knelt at her feet.

Ten years later the Blessed Mother again appeared in the chapel to a novice, Justine Bisqueyburu. This Daughter of Charity was given the Green Scapula with the promise that it would aid in converting souls to Christ. Pope Pius IX approved the use of the Scapula in 1870. The Miraculous Medal and Green Scapula are among the great devotional treasures of the Church—a comforting antidote to Rodin’s “Gates of Hell” down the street at Musse d’ Orsay.

Leaving the Miraculous Medal chapel I walked a few blocks to the shrine of St. Vincent de Paul at 95 Rue de Sevres. Though he once lived in splendor as chaplain to Queen Margaret of Valois, St. Vincent chose to dedicate his life the poor. The St. Vincent de Paul Society carries on his work today in thousands of parishes.

The visitor who seeks mildly austere accommodations as a salute to these Parisian saints will find the proper atmosphere at the Benedictine Priory of Sacre Coeur in Montmartre. A subway and a funicular ride away, the height of Montmartre provides a spectacular view of the city. Those who prefer to adopt an ascetic routine only after departing the City of Light, might try the nearby quirky but upscale Hotel Buci Latin. This entertaining hotel anchors the pedestrian promenade, Rue de Buci, at the Boulevard St.Germain. Open air markets and streetside restaurants abound, complete with mimes, jugglers and fire–eating canines.

Along the avenues of this chic neighborhood of the Left Bank one may indulge at famous Parisian boutiques and bistros (Deux Margots), and bibliophiles who can read French are not disappointed– but once satiated, respite is found inside the Church of St. Germain. A former Benedictine abbey, St. Germain is the oldest Church in Paris. Descartes is entombed here (no thaumaturgic properties reported). A little further on is the Gothic confection, St. Severin, encircled with gargoyles. But my favorite solace this side of the Seine is Davioud’s formidable statue of St. Michael the Archangel slaying the Dragon. His towering magnificence reigns over the Place St. Michel. I am tempted to scramble over the fountain and sit at the angel’s feet where, surely, no evil could touch me.

April in Paris is seductive, yet the adventures ahead beckoned. Driving in France is an act of faith when one’s French is limited to the nursery song, Frere Jacques. But, Sonnez les matines; by mid-morning the next day I sped along the A-13 outside of Paris, exited onto the N-13 toward Caen en route to the famous Abbaye Notre Dame-du-Bec in Normandy. On the far side of minuscule St. Colombe, once a Templar stronghold, the sunny green fields erupt in exuberant gold –perfect agricultural blocks of yellow chamomile, mile after mile. The undulating countryside seemed a giant quilt of emerald and gold.

Past the half-timbered town of Brionne on D-130, a small sign pointed toward the abbey two kilometers down D-580. This minor road is not noted on the Michelin map, but the lane was bordered by a creek, its banks smothered by blue hydrangeas and fat woolly sheep — it seemed a worthy approach. I drove over a toy bridge into the storybook village of Bec-Hellouin.

The abbey, named for a knight turned hermit, was founded in 1034, 32 years before the Norman Conquest. Following the Conquest, a number of its abbots became Archbishops of Canterbury, including St. Anselm, father of Scholasticism. Pope Alexander II was a student at the abbey. I tried to imagine the young pope-to-be strolling the abbey grounds that, today, seem a medieval reverie. It is so quiet that I wince at the crunch of my shoes on the pebble walkway. Wisteria clamors over the stone walls bordered with purple cabbages. Apple trees and pink clematis stir in the breeze, the birdsong too sweet for words. Though the cream colored stone church, cloisters and dormitories have been faithfully restored, the 15^th century tower of St. Nicholas remains as it stood centuries ago. Shall I lie in the grass with John Donne? “Batter my heart, three person’d God…”

Notre Dame du-Bec maintains two guesthouses, one on the grounds for men only and another outside the walls for women and couples. Retreats are self-directed and participants join the community at will for the liturgy of the hours and for mass sung in French. A felicitous relationship with Canterbury continues, thus the abbey is popular with English retreatants. Those who desire accommodations must write well in advance for reservations.

More spontaneous pilgrims will be pleasantly cared for at 18^th century L’Auberge de l’ Abbaye, perched on a ridge overlooking the abbey grounds. The inn’s restaurant is justly proud of its regional dishes featuring apples and Calvados. A resident recommended the diminutive Creperie, opposite the abbey gates, for genuine family fare. Afterwards, a walk up the green canopied road above Bec-Hellouin aids digestion and meditation. Two kilometers through the trees one comes upon the hamlet of St. Nicholas. A community of Benedictine nuns, oblates of Notre Dame du-Bec, makes their home here, far from public view. On Sundays the nuns come down to the abbey to sing the office.

Beyond St. Nicholas the road winds back down the bluff overlooking the village. Below in the creek valley the abbey tower dominates the landscape while peonies, pink and round as a child’s face, tilt toward the sun. Harlequin cows graze behind cottages, time seems suspended [[as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole into another life, a bucolic fantasy ]].

“There are only 450 residents in the village” said Anne Brodrick, whose 250-year-old cottage has been restored. “After the Second World War the monks returned to the abbey and village life was revived. The residents have resisted commercialization, but it is difficult to live here — there is so little work. Most people do not attend the office or even mass, but we have a core community that does participate. It is a different way to live.”

Anne and husband William, an English barrister, visited Bec-Hellouin on holiday. “We simply fell in love with this life. We knew we had to come here. William had an idea for a novel. [[The main character is a modern day monk, Ansel, who is also an amateur detective. A ninety-year-old man is being tried for war crimes. Ansel’s mission is to determine if he is really the guilty one.]] William submitted the idea to a publisher and they accepted his book, so we moved to Bec to learn about life in an abbey.” Viking Penguin will publish William Brodrick’s novel, The Sixth Lamentation, in late 2002.

Two English couples recommended a routine of morning mass with day trips to Honfleur (a seaside city favored by Pissaro and Cezanne) and Rouen (Joan of Arc was burned at the stake here), returning to the abbey in time for vespers.

As I gathered myself to depart for Pontmain a part of me declined to leave. I hope to retrieve it next year.

My departure route westward skirts Lisieux, another option for a day’s roam from the abbey. In the countryside beyond Lisieux on the D-13 toward Falaise, I rambled down D 271—no more than a lane— past espaliered apple trees and a child pulled by a St. Bernard to discover Chateau Vendeuvre. How charming life must have been here! White roses marked the family cemetery. Beneath a life sized marble Christ in agony I read: Captain Jacques le Forestier de Vendeuvre, died June 30, 1940 at Gibraltar.

The Starry Virgin

Pontmain is not on any of my three maps. No guidebook lists this verdant speck of Normandy. The spires of the Basilica of Pontmain appear first as a mirage on the horizon, miles before the village comes into view. The vision is oddly misplaced in the rolling pastures forty miles from the coast at Mont St. Michel.

On a snowy January night in 1871 the desperate villagers, near starvation, received reports that the German army and entered the gates of Laval, forty kilometers south. French deserters roamed the farmlands searching for food, typhoid and small pox were spreading. “ Prayer is useless. God does not hear us,” grumbled the townsfolk. Fear pressed families behind closed doors.

Twelve years old Eugene Barbedettes left the family barn in the evening. The sky was heavy with cold, the night clear. Above the neighbor’s roof he saw a dazzling woman in a starry robe, her hands outstretched toward him. Eugene called for his brother and father. The children of the village could see the Virgin. They described a blood red cross as it gradually appeared on her breast. She was unseen by the adults.

“Do pray my children, God will answer you very soon,” she said. The apparition remained above the village for three hours. Three days later, inexplicably, the German troops withdrew and Pontmain was spared. An armistice was signed on Jan 28^th, ending the Franco-Prussian war. In 1872 the bishop of Laval authorized devotion to Our Lady of Hope and the construction of the shrine at Pontmain.

More than 250,000 pilgrims per year find their way west of Alencon, then north along D-31 to the Basilica of Our Lady of Pontmain. Few stay longer than an hour. They miss woodland walk of Calvary where blue bells carpet the path along a stream. They never see the 20 foot red crucifix that was visible from my window at the Relais la Bocage, staffed by the Oblates of Mary Immaculate. Here the rooms with a bath are appropriately spare. The turn of the century building behind the basilica is permeated with that contentment that comes with simple life of prayer. Meals are lovingly served, worn books are piled in chairs and baskets, and evening fragrances soothe tired minds. As with many such religious houses, a pilgrim is left to structure his own day of prayer and play, exercise and study. One may join others or maintain a polite solitude. Hikers could happily tramp from village to village– up hill, down dale– within a five-mile radius, completing the circuit after lunch and before vespers.

If one must interrupt meditative days at Pontmain, it seems fitting to do so with a day trip to the D-Day beaches or Villedieu les Poeles –Village of God of the Saucepans. This quaint city is famous for its copper pots and pans. More intriguing are the miniature World War II soldiers in pewter and copper. Is there any object the craftsmen of Villedieu have not rendered in copper? A little further west is the astonishing abbey of Mont St. Michel, known to most visitors, but this angelic fortress of the faith cannot be visited too often.

Gregorian Chant and Notre Dame du Nid

Wise pilgrims do not deprive themselves of at least one day tracing the Loire River around magical castles and medieval fortresses. In the midst of this fairy tale region there are several important abbeys. The modern music industry was no less surprised than the monks when Gregorian Chant topped the charts. Abbaye Saint-Pierre de Solesmes is home to the now famous Benedictine monks whose voices fill the abbey church several times each day.

The Abbaye Saint-Pierre maintains a guesthouse for men. Two blocks distant the Abbaye Sainte-Cecile, a community of Benedictine nuns of the Congregation of Solesmes, welcomes women and families at Villa Sainte- Anne, located at the entrance to their abbey. Visitors are encouraged to be present several times each day for the singing of the Divine Office in Latin. And it is pure joy.

Abbaye Saint-Pierre stands majestically over the river Sarte. It’s stone archway leads one into a small courtyard that in turn leads to the abbey church; the remaining buildings are cloistered. Inside the shadowy church lit with candles there is remarkable bas-relief of the Dormition of Mary. Repose comes naturally here. One is barely conscience of the faint hum as the singing monks (more than 50) process from their cloister toward the church. [[Two by two the monks enter, their voices resonant and rising toward the vaulted ceiling. Two were lame, aided by their brothers; another, blind but strong, was led to the choir stall. Perhaps a dozen were under forty. ]]

Locals and visitors half-fill the church. We hold our collective breaths, receptive, anticipating. The chanted praise and supplications flow over us like a warm liquid. Tensions recede. Some unspoken bond has formed among us, we exchange knowing smiles as we exit the church. I plucked a sprig of forget-me-nots from the base of tree outside the abbey bookstore. There I found CDs of Solesmes Chant as well as devotional gifts. Most treasured, however is a book—in English!—that details the genius of Dom Prosper Gueranger, abbot of Saint-Pierre who is credited with the restoration of Gregorian Chant.

At Villa Sainte-Anne Sr. Marie of the Abbaye Sainte-Cecile was arranging flowers from the villa garden. She takes care that everyone has met and dinner in the dining room is a family affair. Earlier she’d shown me to a spacious room with an antique armoire. Her eyes are wise and friendly—how many pilgrims must she have welcomed? Sr. Marie dashes away for Compline with her community, and though most of the others return to Saint-Pierre for Compline, I walk up the walled road to Abbaye Sainte- Cecile to hear the nuns chant.

This church is sweetly, elegantly feminine. Lilies and incense perfume the cool interior. I am alone in the nave. This community is cloistered; I cannot see the nuns. I need not for their fluttery, ethereal voices rise like hummingbirds, then echo down into the nave from gothic vaults, as if to heaven and back. Later I asked Sister Marie if her nuns had recorded their own CD’s. She shook her head; “It is no matter. We sing for God.”

Across the river opposite the Abbaye Sainte Pierre there is a hidden flight of stone stairs that lead up behind an artist’s studio. There in a tangle of briars and neglected roses stands a tiny chapel dedicated to Notre Dame du Nid, Our Lady of the Nest. The door creaked open to reveal a small altar with candles and an endearing statue of the Virgin nesting a family and their puppy in her hands. The pamphlet on the table explained the chapel was built by a man whose marriage was troubled. He sought the aid of the Blessed Virgin, promising to build a chapel in her honor if his family was restored. A few kilometers away one discovers the diminutive Notre Dame du Chene (Our Lady of the Oak). Built in memory of small statue place in a nearby oak, this remarkable church is filled with oak leaf carvings, and acorns are carved in the altar, woven in the carpets and crown the vault—a tribute to a kernel of faith that grows into a spreading tree. Despite the claim that there is little faith left in France, the evidence along my route pointed to another interpretation.

My name is Faith and I am a Christian

I’m unable to suppress my excitement as I wind through the mountains toward Conques. The village is described as forgotten medieval dream where iris grow in the cracks of the ancient walls. The land is mysterious. Deep gorges, rivers rushing out of the granite cliffs shrouded in mist, tall chestnut forests. I have re-read many parts of Hanna Green’s Little Saint and I am anxious to see St. Foy in Majesty. Foy—the name means Faith—stood before the proconsul Dacien at Agen 303 during the reign of Diocletian. She was twelve. Taught the tenets of Christianity by her nurse, this nobleman’s daughter refused to renounce her belief in Christ, “My name is Faith and I am a Christian,” she said. He beheaded the child.

Her relics are enclosed in an elaborate jewel encrusted doll reliquary. The oldest portion, the head, is from fifth century. Over the centuries the kings and conquerors have brought incredible gems to adorn St. Foy: pearls, aquamarines, jasper, rubies, onyx, topaz and the rarest Byzantine intaglios. An astounding Carolingian crystal engraved with the crucifixion anchors the back of her throne. Accompanying St. Foy in Majesty in the cloister room known as “The Treasure” are priceless European objects of art and history—the premier collection of medieval goldwork in Western Europe.

The church of Abbaye de Sainte Foy took my breath away. Oh, this beautiful church! Austere, pure, stark, it is a symphony of geometry that steals the heart. The original tenth century church was built when the Pious Robber monk “transferred” St. Foy from Agen in 866 A.D. to this hidden mountain village—ostensibly to preserve her from the invading Normans. The famous Last Judgment tympanum invites king and knave to bear his soul before God.

According to Bernard of Anger’s eleventh century Book of Miracles of Saint Foy, the whispered reports of miracles– the blind could see and the lame could walk– brought pilgrims who were crossing through France en route to Santiago de Compostela in Spain (see “Pilgrimage to the Stars” Crisis May 2000).

Modern pilgrims to Santiago who still mount the craggy Route de Charlemagne winding from Le Puy through Conques are welcomed by the white-robed Premonstratensian monks at the abbey’s ample guesthouse. There are dormitory style rooms, but single rooms with modern baths must seem heavenly to road-weary pilgrims. The monks and lay volunteers who staff the pilgrim’s retreat radiate love and dedication for their visitors. In the refectory (oak tables and copper kettles), merry chatter in several languages bounces from the rafters. The food is simple but hearty, the local bread delicious.

At vespers the pilgrims’ blessing ceremony brings unbidden tears. The wayfarers are sent forth with a small loaf for the road and the chanting monks are joined by all in singing “Ultreya, Ultr-ey—a.” I wanted to lace up my own boots and follow them. Century after century saints and sinners walked this way, prayed in this church; their prayers and ours connected by a filament of time in this place…a communion of saints.

Compline at Abbaye St. Foy stirs the soul. The candlelit heights are filled, nay, expanded with a powerful organ concert by frere Jean Louis. Seraphic shadows hover at the dome 72 feet above us. The sojourners file in; they gape at the triple tier arches atop soaring columns. I watched a young pilgrim, trembling with fatigue, ease into a pew, his head tilted upward in utter amazement. I could hear his heart cry, “Oh my God, oh my God.” The celestial music swelled and his eyes half closed, his chest rising and falling. Surely this is the foyer of heaven.

Visitors not following the pilgrimage road, Chemin de St. Jacques, through Conques will be well cared for at the Hotel St. Foy. A wisteria-shaded terrace overlooks the cathedral. Inside, the restaurant surprises the diner with sophisticated interpretations of regional dishes. A potage of potato, dotted with fresh English peas and a croix of fresh green and white asparagus left little room for Poulet accompanied by chantrelle mushrooms and a creamy risotto. Regional wines would take days to sample. For the poulet the waiter suggested a Gaillac Blanc, Chateau de Gradde. A mildly effervescent choice, it is reminiscent of Prosecco. At the adjacent table a family discussed their afternoon river-rafting trip and planned a cycling tour of the valley below for the morrow.

A misty rain glistened on the silvery slate roofs of the village as I departed Conques. I believe it is impossible to leave this mysterious place unchanged. This cloistered hamlet itself is reliquary for treasures of history and of the spirit.

Deep Retreat

Ahead lay Provence. Writers, artists, poets, loafers and lovers—all sing the praises of this well traveled Eden. Most reside in sybaritic hotels and bougainvillea draped villas. Too many visitors miss the beauty and solace of the Abbaye Notre Dame de Senanque.

A spectacular 12th century Cistercian abbey, Senanque lies in a narrow valley surrounded by its own fields of lavender. Throughout Provence images of this famous abbey are sold on postcards and calendars. The gray stone abbey church is a marked contrast to the soaring volume of the cathedral of St. Foy. Cistercian form called for reduced heights, and spires were forbidden in until the 12^th century. Here, the architecture reflects the Cistercian virtues of order and simplicity.

The approach to the abbey is through neat rows of lavender. Unsure where proceed (suitcase in hand) I entered an impressive gift shop. Abbey products and gifts included CDs of chant, abbey cookies, lavender products (sachets, oil, honey) charming children’s toys, jewelry, and a daunting selection of theological volumes. A young man directed me outside, through iron gates and around a drive marked “Prive.”

I pushed the bell beneath a sign that read, “Ring the bell and have patience.” This admonition set the tone for the days to come as I accustomed myself to the monastic rhythm.

My welcome was kind and gracious. The monks were intrigued that an American layman had written to request a retreat at Senanque. Frere John, the hotelier, summoned Frere Colombe whose English was less limited than my French, to translate our conversation. Frere John wondered if, perhaps, Americans, used to convenience, would hesitate to come to Senanque where the rooms are so simple and the baths are reminiscent of college dormitories? Frere Jean Marie, the superior, estimated that between 500-600 people per year spend a few days at Senanque– mostly French, some Swiss and Italian, and a rare American. “There is always someone here,” He said.

Frere Colombe escorted me through the cloisters with its incredible variety of capitals, the ancient chapter house–how cold it must be in the winter!—the private chapel, and the library. Keys are exchanged. My own room overlooks a walled garden facing the woods and beneath my window a monk is hanging laundry on the line.

That evening three of us from the guest quarters joined thirty local residents for vespers in the abbey church. Its foreshortened cruciform interior, transept, nave and apse is bridged above by the magnificent central dome. The church was unlit save the candles at the altar. The monks of Senanque took their positions and Frere Colombe unwound a thick rope that fell from the ceiling and was wrapped around a pillar. In the hushed and darkened church there was an anticipatory pause: Then Frere Colombe’s pushed back the long sleeves of his habit and lifted his arms as high as they could reach along the rope. His body strained upward then sank downward. Above us in the octagonal dome the abbey bell sang out over the valley.

The guest refectory looks over the monk’s large and supremely orderly potager (kitchen garden). Meals are vegetarian and simple; this night, poached leeks dressed in olive oil, linguine with zucchini, hearty bread, yogurt and chamomile tea. Visitors to Senanque observe silence and thus, readings or music accompanies meals. Each clears their own plate and sets out dishes for breakfast. Where silence reigns, smiles speak volumes.

Frere Jean Marie has a heavenly voice. He leads the others in the solemn night prayers at compline. The abbey church is utterly devoid of ornamentation– in the Cistercian style—save a Byzantine icon of the Virgin Mary whose red and gold veil shimmers in the candlelight of the night-dark church. The chanting voices lift the soul. Here one is able to understand and believe that all over the world there are men and women whose dedicated prayers sustain the earth.

The world is asleep. Footsteps brush quietly along the ancient cloister. Ahead of me in the dark someone inserts a key into the heavy oak door that leads to the monk’s private chapel. We have come for vigil. It is four-thirty in the morning. This is my first vigil: It has taken me three days to complete and entire cycle of the Divine Office. The body rebels, but now the soul impels. I smile at my little victory. This is a secret knowledge, difficult to learn in the world outside these walls. Here I have had a glimpse of discipline, order and detachment…and patience.

The TGV train for Paris leaves from Avignon, just an hour away. The gates of Senanque close behind me. Above the monastery the road winds three kilometers up to Gordes, one of the most romantic villages in Provence. Yellow roses as big as saucers cling to its walls. It is a breathtaking cliffside collection of villas, hotels, and shops. There is a colorful street market here on Tuesdays. The people are beautiful, outdoor restaurants clatter pleasantly and rosemary perfumes their terraces. A week ago I would have been content here. Now, I see the sweet loveliness of the sky against this storied village, but my heart is listening for the bells of Abbaye Notre Dame de Senanque.

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First, let me extend a very hearty THANK YOU!! to the Catholics United for Life in Wyoming for their wonderful hospitality and a very successful conference on Defense of the Traditional Family. Thank you too for the wonderful Mystic Monk Coffee! I hope many of you will try this smooth and delicious treat.

While I was with the good people of Cody Wyoming we necessarily addressed the homosexual  push to legalize same-sex unions in every state in the union.

I’ve only been home a week and in those few short days there have been at least two critical new developments.

The first is the passage of “hate crimes” legislation in the House.

Disguised under the title “Defense Authorization Bill”,  hate  speech” becomes criminal — but 15 Democrats and 131 Republicans voted NAY.   It will become law after the Senate passes the measure and Mr. Obama signs it–as he has promised to do.  This  effort in the House follows an earlier expansion of “hate crimes” language in April. (see also http://www.lifesitenews.com/ldn/2009/jul/09071505.html)

Before an examination of the news, may I point out an important statistic? According to the FBI, the rate of “hate crimes” by heterosexual persons on homosexuals is less than 1% –less than 1%!     The most common assault on a homosexual is by another homosexual. Domestic violence among homosexual pairs is far greater than in the heterosexual domiciles.

In short, a homosexual person is 99 times more likely to suffer violence at the hands of another homosexual than at the hands of someone who deliberately attacks a “gay” person.

The key point for people of faith is that the law essentially creates two classes of citizens: those with ordinary rights as guaranteed by the Bill of Rights and a special protected class of citizens whose rights trump your rights to free speech and the free practice of your religion.

I understand that many people are sympathetic to the horror of being attacked physically simply because one is a homosexual. Such attacks are heinous. But, such attacks are heinous NO MATTER if the victim is homosexual or heterosexual. A physical assault is not more of an assault because one is tall, or short, rich or poor, old or young.  The very premise behind “hate crimes” is illogical.   It is not the thought  but the ACT that we prosecute. If you are robbed and beaten and left for dead your suffering is the same whether you attacker was motivated by greed or revenge.

If a victim is murdered, the penalty for this capital offense if life in prison  or the death penalty. In other words, it is impossible to punish a murderer any more than to take his life in exchange or take his freedom forever.  The motivation for murder does not  and cannot increase the punishment because the punishment is already the maximum possible. Adding a special category of motivation does not increase punishment.  The idea that hate crimes proponents push is that we should be punished for what we think as well as what we do. This concept is exceedingly dangerous. To insure equal protection under the law we must confine or prosecutions t the acts committed, not the thoughts one has about the victim.

What then is the true purpose of “hate crimes” ? If increased punishment is not possible, what can be the true reason for the legislation?  What is to be gained?

The real purpose is to shut down true open debate and to severely penalize persons of religious faith who would share their faith with others.   How is that if the crimes are not words but acts? Because once the term “hate speech” is introduced into law, as the precursor of a “hate crime” it is just a short step to  legalizing arrests for speech, not  only acts. Why ? Because the speech alone will be considered a threat.  Already a Canadian minister has been jailed for teaching against homosexuals even though his comments were made IN HIS CHURCH!

To imagine how this special category of thought, or special category of protection works,  think of this: suppose we could arrest and prosecute homosexuals who defiled and attacked St. Patrick’s Cathedral– and that their crimes would be of a separate category  because their hate-filled attack on the church was motivated by their homosexual beliefs?  Do you think for one minute that Congress would consider such measures? Of course not–nor should they.  If ANYone attacks and defaces private property the penalty is the same REGARDLESS of motivation. We simply cannot start guessing the thought patterns of persons and assigning an arbitrary penalty based on what they were thinking when they committed the act.

The second item of news was the speech that the president  gave at a homosexual gathering, the  organization,Human Rights Campaign.  Mr. Obama called persons who oppose homosexual acts people of “old attitudes” who needed conversion. He  said that those opposed to homosexual unions “fail to see your families like their families.”  The president made a promise to the homosexual lobby–that if elected he would overturn DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act).  This president is beholden to the homosexual lobby. He stated, ” And I’m here with a simple message: I’m here with you in that fight.”

Mr. Obama urged the homosexual guests to continue their fight by electing “people who share your values” to office.

This is the fight we Christians  and Jews and others who revere the natural order must wage: elect persons to office who share OUR values.  We MUST take back lost ground at the grassroots. That is, elect NO ONE to any office who does not promote the natural family.  People of faith must support others in the effort to gain positions on school boards, city and county commissions, state legislatures and judgeships. EVERY local office counts. Each elected office (and many appointed offices) are stepping stones to higher office.

If we  are to reclaim the culture, to reestablish the morals and values that made this nation great, we have to be prepared to fight the same long haul, the same “long march through the institutions”, the same 50 years that the militant homosexual lobby has fought.

We can do no less.

Tags: homosexual lobby, marriage, natural families.

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A sincere thanks to Constance Cumby for having me as her guest tonight (Sept.15th) on radio to discuss the newest links between the New Age movement and global elites who envision a global government.

That the roots of the New Age movement and all of its tag-a-longs are based on heresies, ancient and modern, will surprise very few of you.  What is new is the degree of confidence in the coming “global  governance” that New Age groups  and their politically connected leaders have made public .

In the coming weeks I will examine various aspects of this phenomena .  The first post will address the United Nations as home to, host to,  one of the world’s most powerful New Age organizations.  Stay tuned!

P.S. If you have questions about a particular aspect of  the world movement toward a New Age ethos, please email me : mja@maryjoanderson.net

Tags: Add new tag, Cumby, Global Governance, NewAge, United Nations.