"He instinctively can find the shining greatness of our American culture and does a good job of highlighting it (although he also does have those rare lapses when he writes about hockey, but that is something caused by impurities in the Eastern waters or something)." Erik Keilholtz
ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH (S.E. 41st & Salmon, between Belmont & Hawthorne, Portland, Ore.) is the official home of Cantores in Ecclesia. A fine church with a wonderful Pastor, Fr. Petrus Binh Hoang, St. Stephen’s has welcomed the choir with open arms and we are most grateful Of particular interest to friends who have not yet visited St. Stephen's is the spectacular acoustic of the church, supporting and enhancing the Gregorian and polyphonic music sung each Saturday evening.
All we need now is a viable congregation. Since Cantores in Ecclesia is dependent for its survival on shared collections taken at the 7:30 Latin Vigil Mass, we urgently need your support. Realizing it is not practical for everyone on our mailing list to attend weekly, it is our hope that many of supporters and benefactors will be free to come at least once a month. With better attendance, and God’s grace, we hope to continue singing the Latin liturgy there for many years to come.
Here is the upcoming schedule:
Saturday, May 24 at 7:30 P.M. SOLEMN LATIN MASS CORPUS CHRISTI Byrd Proper from Gradualia (1605) Gregorian Missa ‘Cum jubilo’ Gregorian Chant Proper ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH 1112 S.E. 41st Avenue Portland, Oregon Fr. Robert Palladino, Celebrant
Sunday, May 25 at 11:00 A.M. DOMINICAN MISSA CANTATA CORPUS CHRISTI SUNDAY HOLY ROSARY CHURCH N.E. 3rd & Clackamas Portland, Oregon Fr. Anthony Patalano, Celebrant
Saturday, May 31 at 7:30 P.M. SOLEMN LATIN MASS HEBDOMADA IX ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH 1112 S.E. 41st Avenue Portland, Oregon Fr. Robert Palladino, Celebrant
Saturday, June 7 at 7:30 P.M. SOLEMN LATIN MASS HEBDOMADA X ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH 1112 S.E. 41st Avenue Portland, Oregon Fr. Robert Palladino, Celebrant
Saturday, June 14 at 7:30 P.M. SOLEMN LATIN MASS HEBDOMADA XI ST. STEPHEN'S CHURCH 1112 S.E. 41st Avenue Portland, Oregon Fr. Edmond Bliven, Celebrant #
i met a toad the other day by the name of warty bliggens he was sitting under a toadstool feeling contented he explained that when the cosmos was created that toadstool was especially planned for his personal shelter from sun and rain thought out and prepared for him
do not tell me said warty bliggens that there is not a purpose in the universe the thought is blasphemy a little more conversation revealed that warty bliggens considers himself to be the center of the same universe the earth exists to grow toadstools for him to sit under the sun to give him light by day and the moon and wheeling constellations to make beautiful the night for the sake of warty bliggens
to what act of yours do you impute this interest on the part of the creator of the universe i asked him why is it that you are so greatly favored
ask rather said warty bliggens what the universe has done to deserve me if i were a human being i would not laugh too complacently at poor warty bliggens for similar absurdities have only too often lodged in the crinkles of the human cerebrum
There was Jonas, the slot man, a dour veteran who sat inside the horseshoe and handed us the stories when the city editor was done. Three of us, the rim men, copy-edited and toiled over headlines. If a head sagged rather than sang, Jonas would growl, thrusting it back for another try. If it was OK, he'd just grunt. Then he'd lift his chin to bark: "Send that mother down!"
There was Chuck, the bespectacled wire editor, who used his metal ruler to tear stories off the endless sheet that stuttered from the Associated Press machine. Turning to come back to his desk, the world's news ribboning out behind him, he'd whack the fire extinguisher with the ruler. Clang! We'd jump in our seats as Chuck sang out, "Ring of truth! Ring of truth!"
And there was Jack, the assistant city editor, collar unbuttoned, necktie askew, belly swollen at his cluttered desk like a mountain looming over a village of scrap paper. I think his job was to finalize page make-up and send the dummies over to composing. Jack hummed as he worked, but every once in a while, apropos of nothing, he'd look up, pause, and say, "But, in a larger sense." A fragment from the Gettysburg Address. Sometimes he'd continue: ". . . we can not dedicate--we can not consecrate--we can not hallow . . . .," and then stop. Usually, though, he'd flourish just the one phrase, "But in a larger sense," then go back to humming.
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