Nov. 13th, 2003

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Today is, I think, one of the lesser feasts of St. John Chrysostom, perhaps the day of his death. His great feast commemorates the triumphant return of his relics to Tsargrad, I mean Constantinople, I mean... never mind.. anyway, that feast is kept on the birthday of John Chrysostom Wolfgang Theophilus, I mean Gottlieb, I mean Amadeus, oh, you know who I mean...

Last night I finished Kelly's biography, depressed at our hero's uncanny ability to shoot himself in the foot, at the sheer outrageous nutty malevolence of Theophilus of Alexandria (What were you thinking, Papa Mozart?), and the way John himself reflected some of his tendencies, in his own attitude and particularly in his henchman Sarapion.

So I turned to a life of the Neoplatonist martyr Hypatia, cut to pieces by a mob of militant Christians incited (however indirectly) by Theophilus' nephew and successor Cyril, who would later hound Nestorius out of Constantinople as his uncle had John.

Curiously, Thelophilus had had no problem with her. Cyril's problem was that though -- perhaps -- a pagan herself, she was acknowledged as the intellectual, moral, and spiritual mentor of a rival faction of Christians, the faction we would be tempted to call Catholic and Orthodox, since it was only later and grudgingly that Cyril agreed to the posthumous rehabilitation of John Chrysostom and accepted into communion with Constantinople and Rome.

Hypatia was accused of influencing the Prefect Orestes not to attend church as he had done heretofore, and it is generally assumed that this is because she was a pagan. But she had no such influence on those of her students (Orestes was not a student) who went on to become Bishops. Perhaps the issue was the unseemliness of an Imperial officer attending services of what the wider church considered a dissident sect.

Not that schism was any big deal back then. After all John himself was baptized and ordained by a Patriarch of Antioch not recognized by Rome, Old Rome, if you will, and only established communion when translated to the See of New Rome.

As they say at Yankee Stadium, You can't tell the players without a scorecard.

It ain't so easy with one.

And how do you pick a scorecard?
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My devoted readers will recall that I came downtown Thursday, two weeks ago today, to pick up my paycheck, and found there was none for me, as management had not made out my timesheet during my vacation. I did receive it last week with the assurance that my timesheet had in fact been filled out for the last pay period the day before I returned, and for the proper eighty hours. And so it had been -- except for the tiny box on the upper right where the total hours is transcribed from the box where it was first written. And in that box it was written correctly; but in the little box that matters the number forty had been copied from a weekly total. And of course the department head signed it without inspecting it. And today I was the lucky recipient of half a paycheck, and must wait another week for the rest.

I am, as the saying goes, not entirely gruntled.

Besides suffering a delayed reaction to my flu shot.

Or maybe the damned thing just didn't work.

In another half an hour, home to sleep.

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