Building on my previous post, our traditio for today is the Dies Irae (i.e., Day of Wrath) from Mozart's great Requiem. I could not locate a similar recording of Benjamin Britten's, which I also love and which I have heard live with The Cathedral of the Madeleine Choir and the Utah Symphony.
Hope in justice, in meaning and truth from:
Psalm 51 (stanzas 5-8)
Make me hear rejoicing and gladness,
that the bones you have crushed may revive.
From my sins turn away your face
and blot out all my guilt.
A pure heart create for me, O God,
put a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me away from your presence,
nor deprive me of your holy spirit.
Give me the joy of your help;
with a spirit of fervor sustain me,
that I may teach transgressors your ways
and sinners may return to you.
O rescue me, God, my helper,
and my tongue shall ring out your goodness.
O Lord, open my lips
and my mouth shall declare your praise.
Lord, open my lips
-And my mouth shall declare your praise
In this we acknowledge that even our ability to declare God's praise is a grace.
An addendum to our traditio is this (thanks Alex and Fred!) on Don Gius. With an eye toward indulging The Ironic Catholic's pentecostal proclivities, Brother Lyle has a few things to add re: Judgment Day, hope and Eucharist- Dining in the Kingdom of God. While I am making feeble attempts at alliteration, Bp. Wester lamented last Sunday at the 6:00 PM Mass that I did not give the pitch for our Diocesan Development Drive, thus depriving him of the opportunity to thank "Deacon Dodge for his delighful discourse on the Diocesan Development Drive". Sorry bishop, maybe next year. Just keep in mind, when thinking about having me do it, that it is preferable and pleasing for people to actually pledge!
Finally, risking becoming the interminable blogger, I want draw attention to a post by Zadok the Roman, entitled Theodore of Mopsuestia (4th Century) on the Duties of Deacons. It is funny that he posted this on the day after I read this same passage in Barnett's English language magnus opus on the diaconate. I remember a particular fly from last summer that, over the course of several Sundays, I had to keep shooing away from the wine on the altar. Where's my fan?