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Interesting.

My confirmation name is Augustine. No particularly deep and heavy reason why I chose him. He was near the start of the book of saints and 5 other guys were already Andrew. (And I didnt fancy Athanasius.)

However, later in life, that was all to change.

My aunt is a nun in an Order which serves the poor. She wrote to me asking could I get my parishioners to send aspirins and paracetemol.

Three months later, myself and two truck loads of medical equipment, medicines, well, just everything, were battering down the motorway to where she was, a place called Hippone in Algeria. It still meant nothing to me.

After dock strikes, losing credit cards, crashes and an uncanny amount of unforseeable problems, we had to give up, load the gear into a crate at Marseille and go home.

A week later, someone put a blank cheque through my door with a note which read, "Go to Hippone and finish the job!!" I did.

My aunt picked me up at Hippone Airport and drove me to the Ö÷²¥´óÐã where they looked after the old people. It was high on a hill but looked more like a monastery than a hospital. Then I saw the sign 'Augustine' and finally the penny dropped. This is Hippo. Lol.

While we were there, the President of Algeria was assasinated two miles from us. Priests and nuns had been shot along with a Bishop. The atmosphere was extremely tense and the nuns were frightened.

We got a call saying that the ship carrying our crate had eventually arrived. We headed to the docks in a small van. The dockers saw us doing the hopeless task of loading the small van and, after finding out what we were doing, sent for a truck and began loading it for us.

When we drove the first load through the city centre, the streets were packed. I was lying on top of the boxes so that none would fall off. People just stared.

An hour later when we drove through with the second load, word had spread about what the cargo was and who it was for - their elderly - people stood and applauded the whole length of the main street.

We invited doctors and surgeons from the three city hospitals to help themselves to what they needed. It would take too long to list the incredible things which happened. But here's some.

Sr Aimie worked in the kitchen there for over fifty years. All she did, all day was knead dough and make bread for the sick old people. She had badly deformed feet because of this (she didnt knead the dough with her feet lol!) We brought her a specially made pair of sandals to ease the pain and help her walk again - and an industrial mixer.

Many of the old folk were incontinent. We brought pads etc.. and miles of rubber matting for the beds. (Some of the nuns spent all day everyday washing mattresses. They no longer had to do this.)

Many of the elderly suffered from cataracts. Surgeons were there who could do the ops, but they didnt have the equipment. We brought it for them. As the days went by, more and more people appeared with post op eye
patches. They kept stopping us in the corridors and kissing the back of our hands.

In the main yard there is a well. All the water had to be collected in buckets and carried up the many stairs to the wards for drinking, washing etc.. It is back breaking work. We brought an electric pump to get the water to the wards upstairs.

The three things all the patients had in common were, they were sick, they were old and they were all.... Moslem. The nuns had built a Mosque for them right next to St Augustine's Basilica.

I said Mass for the nuns in the Basilica and preached, although I was very aware that they were the ones doing the real authentic preaching with their lives.

I said that I found it incredible that on the ground of St Augustine - a man known for being a theologian - the hungry are fed, the lame walk, the blind see again and the thirsty have something to drink.

It is the singularly holiest place I have ever been in my life and is the reason why, in spite of many very valid arguments against the existence of God, I believe he lives and is, a God of love.

Inspirational.
Situation Ethics was influenced by Augustine. Agape love is at the centre.

A wonderful story RJB.

You will, of-course, be aware of how Augustine was particularly impressed by the forthright speech of the maid-servant who called his mother, St Monica, a drunkard - the shock of which led her to change her ways. Sometimes the only way to get one's message across is to tell it like it is and pull no punches. I like to think you have taken inspiration from your patron.

RJB - is that you? If so, a lovely story. One of the loveliest things is of course that there doesn't need to be a "god" for it to work. Isn't it great when love is kept pure and unsullied by the pollutant of "belief"? I rather think Augustine would have enjoyed that.

Helio

Funnily enough, I kept thinking of you when I was writing that rather lengthy piece today and thought that I would be placing myself in danger of a real roasting from you. That was why I added the last sentence to be respectful of those who very validly dont believe. Here's why, for me, God was involved.

Immediately outside the front doors of the Basilica of St Augustine is the yard with the well and, a statue of St Joseph. (He is the patron of the nuns who work there.)

One morning after I had finished Mass, I came out of the church and into the yard for a smoke. The nuns always stayed in the church to say their prayers of thanksgiving. I noticed that in front of the statue there was.... an egg, of all things.

When the nuns emerged from the church, I began to gently poke a bit of fun at them. Pointing to the egg, I quipped, "If you needed candles, you should have said and I'd have brought them."

An Iranian nun who didnt get the humour said, "You dont understand, whenever we only have one left of anything, we give it God. That is our last egg."

That afternoon a van arrived full of boxes of eggs. As I was helping to unload them the Iranian nun was smiling at me. A lorry had shed its load on the main road below the Basilica and some of the local men had brought the eggs for the old folk.

Two mornings later after Mass I noticed a melon in front of the statue. When the Iranian nun came out of the church I asked her cheekily what time the melon van was arriving at. She laughed and said, "You'll see, God never lets us down."

That afternoon I heard the bell ringing at the front gates. (I always went when I heard the bell, the nuns were frightened because another group of nuns had been shot when they answered their door.) A group of men stood there in military uniform and with guns, with a van.

A conversation took place between them and one of the nuns, in Arabic. She then opened the gate and let them in. Seemingly a racket had been going on at the local market and the police had confiscated some of the food.

I was thinking to myself that if this van contains melons, my life is going to be a nightmare with the Iranian one. They pulled back the canvas to reveal... corn on the cobs. Relieved, I started laughing and was making comments like, "You hit the crossbar there, Sister!"

We carried the corn into the kitchen and when we returned to the van, a man pulled up a sheet of hardboard to reveal dozens of melons.
I still cant explain or describe to this day what happened to me in that moment. But I just 'knew'.

The experience of my time there made me look at spirituality, prayer, what we ask of God, on whose behalf we ask and the purity of intention behind our prayer.

I came away utterly convinced that we in the West have lost that 'connection' with God. Our churches still dont make our only security in God, trusting completely in him for everything. These people did.

The next morning when the nuns came out of the church they all fell about laughing. There was an empty bottle of whisky in front of the statue. They knew it was me who put it there.

(BTW, it didnt work!)

Yes Helio its me. I cant sign in under RJB anymore, dont know why. Just call me 'Smithy' if you like, I quite like that.

RJB AKA John Smith--You might try logging into your Ö÷²¥´óÐã Id account, which on my computer involves looking up at the very top right corner of William's page. If you click on settings, you will be redirected to a log-in page. If you insert your password then you can access your account. At the top is the place you specified your user name--romejellybean. About halfway down there is another box, called real name or something, in which you might have written "John Smith." If you erase the name in this box, and save the changes then the Ö÷²¥´óÐã should go back to calling you romejellybean again. Anyway, give it a try!

Thanks Tat.

Done that and it has changed me back to RJB on top right page of what I see but has it change what you see or is it still John Smith?

Rats. No, it hasn't changed it. The Ö÷²¥´óÐã blog comment system is most wondrous peculiar. I wonder if we could persuade William to move to other, less-moderated pastures?

But RJB - why didn't the whiskey work?!?
;-) Sounds like a wonderful place; well done.

-H

Helio

As the peasant said to King Arthur-

"Strange women in ponds distributing swords in some sort of farcical aquatic ceremony, is no basis for a system of government. Just because some watery tart lobbed a scimitar at you doesnt give you a mandate for exercising power. Supreme executive power is derived from the masses. I mean, if I went around saying that I was Emperor, just because some moistened bint had chucked a sword at me, they'd put me away!"

In the same way, I'm not trying to promote a theology based on some sort of heavenly vegetable vender who stoops down to distribute fresh farm produce. Our vitamin and carb intake should not really be the concern of the Transcendent, yet somehow strangely Immanent, being some people call 'God.' Arbitary distribution of fruit and dairy produce has more to do with deliberately exploited market forces than it has to do with the Hypostatic Union. I mean, if I went around saying that this world was designed, created and sustained by some sort of Divine Jolly Green Giant in the sky, well.... they'd put me away.

Your reluctance to drive a big atheist double decker bus through my above posts, is noted and much appreciated.

I'll save it for later. I think it's nice that someone passing by will have noticed the statue, and thought to themselves - "ah, the nuns must be out of melons. Must tell Ahmed."

The non-Lord moves in mysterious ways ;-)

And so do nuns and what they do with their melons..

"The non-Lord moves in mysterious ways"

Which of course, Helio, rates as one of the best non-bible quotes ever. Remember, William Cowper didn't write the Psalms, but if he had....

But the bit you're still missing is that God moves in ordinary ways, and one of them probably was Ahmed!

Helio - RJB's wonderful story, like all good religous tales, is richly textured and full of almost accidental but utterly intrinsic meaning.

You know in your heart, as we all do, why the whisky didn't work - RJB noted he left an empty bottle at the statue, the nuns did not leave the hollowed out shell of a melon!

What I really loved about the story is, too, encapsulated in the incident of the bottle, the humour of which the godly nuns richly appreciated. The knowledge of the reality of God, an experiential knowledge which truly passes understanding, does not lead to awe, reverence, and fear - it leads to laughter and that sense of fun which comes from a shared joy in the loving goodness of that which we know.

ÌýÌý

Hi folks, I accept that god, in addition to love, is teh funneez. Which does of course raise the issue as to why the more po-faced religiots around insist that we have to *believe* in it! LOL! Where does this leave dogma? Once again, we come full circle to the Golden Rule, and a lot of pious folks are going to find that Atheists, Agnostics, Humanists etc have beaten them to it yet again. RJB, high five to you and the Nuns of Hippone :-)

Parrhasios/Helio/Peter Morrow

There is much more I could write about what happened there, and I'm already wondering if I've over-stepped the line in terms of self-indulgence. I'm not writing any of this to convert, simply to inform or, God forbid, enlighten.

I connect with Peter Morrow's comment about the Lord working in ordinary ways, the most mysterious of all. If he exists, why wouldn't he? Its the religiously insecure who need the trumpet blasts and winged seraphim.

I connect utterly with Parr's comments about the joy of the place. Dont forget, every week someone died there. During the night, each night, I heard the cries in the darkness as the pain of some old man's tumour became too much for him to bear. I heard the scuffling of feet as the nuns got out of bed and ran to help him and comfort him.

I answered the front gate in the middle of the night and found an old woman crumpled on the ground clutching a cloth with all her wordly goods in it, having been left there by her family who knew she would be looked after. And I saw the nun give up her bed that night for that woman, choosing instead to sleep on the concrete floor.

The nuns were also under constant fear of their lives from outside the place, dont forget.

Yet, in all of this, I have never been in a place so saturated in sheer joy.

There were other opposites. The continuous beautiful sound of the Moslem cleric singing out verses from the Koran in his tower, as a backdrop to our Mass each morning. We blended our prayers with his so naturally. It was all one.

But the thing which so drew my eye/heart really was the egg and the mellon thing. (And Sr Amie - she was a darling.) The history of Judaeo Christianity is full of offerings - the first born, the first lamb, the first of the crop, the new.

These people offered the last, all they had left to live on. The parallel with the widow's mite for me, was inescapable. And Jesus caused that old woman's story to go down in history and to be spoken of across the globe. No one else noticed, but HE did. If he lives, why wouldnt he empower and soothe and comfort and love these people? It all made absolute sense to me.

And lastly, Helio, I connect totally with so much of what you post as well. What underpins your writing consistently is a deep love and concern for your brother and sister, coupled with a very astute critique of religion. More power to your arm.

And just as you rejoice in people practising love without religion tainting it, I rejoice in your love without needing you to believe in any God. What you do is admirable and praiseworthy. You and Peter and Parrhasios are actually one.

That was me started calling RJB "Smithy".

I know he secretly likes me.

If you get a chance there's an older translation by F.J. Sheed of the Confessions that's the best I've read.

I know it's described as an autobiography and to some extent it is - but really it's a dialogue between Augustine and God.

Not sure if William reads the posts related to his blog, but I am trying to track down the name of the artist/original source of the image of St Augustine featured in this article...

Try Nancy Oliphant.

It's a nice picture. Will - any sign of Agora showing up in the UK, or will QFT be showing it? Now that would make a GREAT outing for the W&T commenters club! Check it out: [Mods, link is relevant - pleaase don't remove!]

Thank you Parrhasios!!!