The New Marie Antoinette

 Let’s go live in France, in a Château!

True Confessions. Yes, I have a few bad habits, and some of my friends might say, “Really darling, I would never have guessed.” I hold to the principle that I’m no better than anyone, and no one is better than me. Sometimes, I slip in that arena, too. 

I also watch YouTube. I have discovered a niche of (mostly) foreigners renovating Châteaux in France. I am a francophile and still speak and understand the language with less proficiency than I imagine after not living in France for more than 50 years. I once had all of Julia Child’s cookbooks along with the overlooked but, in some ways, more interesting Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking, and I used them. I follow the reconstruction of Notre Dame.

Stephanie Jarvis bought the run-down Château de la Lande over twenty years ago. It is in Crozon-sur-Vauvre, south of Paris in central France, in the middle of nowhere. The nearest major city is Poitiers. Starting with little money, she and her friend Michel began ripping Lalande apart and undertaking an extensive DIY project. She was among the first Château YouTubers and has amassed 257K subscribers. She does segments for UK TV plus her Château Diaries. It was a lucky choice she made more than two decades ago.

Some of her projects are extremely interesting. She undertook the renovation of the 19th-century chapel with a very creative online fundraising scheme. Though not a listed building, she has spent nearly a million euros to have specialists do the work. The painting is as intricate and beautiful as some of the side chapels in Notre Dame, and those video segments have been fantastic TV. Recently, some sagging beams above the grand salon required extensive work in the bedrooms and washrooms on the first floor and renovations of the ancient fireplaces. The carpenter, her cousin, is a master. Top drawer.

Less interesting is Stephanie’s fretting over wallpaper choices, sorting hundreds of unread books, rummaging through every brocante between Lalande and the Mediterranean, and spending hours moving precious junk from one attic room to another. I usually fast-forward but can be slightly amused. 

It is also not lost on me that YouTube has provided a handsome income for Stephanie, her boyfriend, her mother, and other friends, who regularly rush off to Paris, Vienna, Venice, Geneva, the Riviera, or Marrakech for fantastic food. She leads an incredibly privileged life. (They even popped off to Venice and returned with the bed that King Charles and Camilla slept in, which became available before a major renovation in a hotel on the Grande Canal! How many people can point to a bedroom in their Château and say King Charles slept in that bed?)

Now we get to the fun part, the over-the-top mother of all disasters, the devastation of devastations! There was a leak in the ceiling of the kitchen. She had to rush back from dinner in Geneva, driving through the night to view a situation well in hand; two skilled carpenters already had the false ceiling down; the floor was mopped up, a plumber on the way; the dishes removed to a safe place, not one broken, no poo from the faulty sewage pipe on the floor, the kitchen relocated to another full-service kitchen in another part of the house, but Stephanie was inconsolable. 

20 years of shattered dreams. Her well-oiled team of codependents gather around to soothe her. Oh no, she cries. How can I go on? The kitchen was the first room we repaired. It fell apart. This is the worst tragedy ever. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JVShsNmf1sM

Get a grip, girl. Do you think you’re Marie Antoinette? The histrionics point to a life far too privileged and perhaps overpaid. I began: “Stephanie, darling, can I make a suggestion? I don’t mean it in a nasty way. Tone down the disaster and devastation talk.” I got jumped by one of her cohort of codependent supporters, telling me that she was just grieving and that I should get over it. She’s got you hooked into her game: “Poor me. A struggling minor English actress in France. Fate handed me the burden of having to spend money I have to fix a kitchen that needed to be fixed before I move on to repairing the damage caused by rotting 400-year-old beams before I restore boiserie that I picked up for a nickel out of a Parisian Hotel Particulier.

I’ll stop trying to be nice. I mean this in the nastiest possible way. Just shut up. Stop it. People who can’t afford to redo their kitchens and grand salons might find this as offensive as I do. Your team is far more interesting and pleasant.

Here is a list of my favorite YouTube Châteaux videos:

The Château Diaries; https://www.youtube.com/@TheChâteauDiaries.

Escape to Rural France; https://www.youtube.com/@escapetoruralfrance.
Les Jeromes; https://www.youtube.com/@LesJeromes.

Bordeaux Life; https://www.youtube.com/@BordeauxLife.

The Petherics; https://www.youtube.com/@ThePethericks.

Château du Theil; https://www.youtube.com/@Châteaudutheil.

Château de Purnon; https://www.youtube.com/c/Ch%C3%A2teaudePurnon.

Au Petit Château 1780; https://www.youtube.com/@AuPetitChâteau1780.

How To Renovate A Château; https://www.youtube.com/@HowToRenovateAChâteau.'

Escape To The Dream; https://www.youtube.com/@chateaudelalacelle.

 

Ordo Amoris

This is not the first time I’ve been disappointed in our roman catholic shadow government. I’m starting to feel the ghosts of Pius 12 playing footsie with Mussolini and Hitler, but perhaps my paranoia is winning the day. It is still unnerving to watch this unfold. 

JD Vance told us to Google it. I share this much with our Catholic VP—I often use Google while constructing theological arguments. What shows up in my search for “Ordo Amoris” does not go back to the sayings of Jesus but originates with Augustine, another convert from some weird Gnosticism almost 400 years after the life and death of Lord Jesus and, I might add, a favorite of Opus Dei. 

So, let’s take care of the biblical sources right away. JD’s “family and friends first” is on shaky ground. I’m not saying the scripture has nothing to say about your mother, but you should not elevate those conversations to prayers to the Blessed Virgin. Three passages will cover my argument. 

Matthew 12:47-50: “47 Someone told him, ‘Your mother and brothers are standing outside, wanting to speak to you.’ 48 He replied to him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ 49 Pointing to his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers. 50 For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.’”

John 15:12–13: “12 My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. 13 Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

And then, of course, Luke 25-37, the story of the Good Samaritan. I’ll only quote Luke’s rhetorical question: 36 “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” 37 The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.” Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”

Obviously, Jesus was not as narrow-minded as JD. Or perhaps I should say, “properly ordered.” Loving your parents, especially your mother, is high on the list of virtues to be emulated. Even the Dalai Lama tells his followers to love the world like your mother. But add a Latin formulation from Agustine to Aquinas, and ordo amoris has the ring of natural theology if not the Revealed Word of God. 

But I have trouble with it. It is called natural theology because it states that the order of the world as we find it should be respected because it provides a broad outline of what God intended for the world. But Natural Theology, at least as far I recall, was a relatively confined discipline, covering the “Just War Theology” and a list of sexual disorders that included contraception, sexual attraction, and the proper positions for sexual intercourse. Of course, there were other applications, but this is where the rubber met the road in my Jesuit theology: justification of the war in Vietnam, condemning the sexual revolution, and the “gay Kabal.”

But here is where I can legitimately put on both what remains of my Ratio Studiorum (should I tell JD to Google it?) and my Buddhist robes: Compassion is not a zero-sum game. Vance wants to use lofty-sounding Latin to justify draconian budget cuts that mostly affect poor immigrants and people of color because he can then say that Catholic teaching justifies budget cuts. The order of the universe tells us to take care of our own first. I will not comment on the finite limits of the possible US debt obligation, but this is not a conversation about compassion or the proper order of love. It is bookkeeping, and paying the bill is included. Luke’s tale is explicit. After the Samaritan cared for the man: “35 The next day he took out two denarii and gave them to the innkeeper. ‘Look after him,’ he said, ‘and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.’ 

Father Ignatius also teaches us that Love is expressed in actions, not words. Compassion is the supreme virtue in most Buddhist sects, and I suspect in most interpretations of the teaching of the Lord, though the language is slightly different. I usually try not to give spiritual advice online, but this is a no-brainer: JD, talk to your priest or spiritual director. You are doing something wrong if your compassion is not growing and expanding, including more while excluding none. Change your life, and don’t take the advice of your bookkeeper or the tax collector as the word of God. 

I found this article by Frederick Bauerschmidt and Maureen Sweeney in The Church Life Journal helpful. They are a couple. Maureen is an immigration attorney, and Frederick is a theologian.

https://churchlifejournal.nd.edu/articles/ordo-amoris-wisely-extending-love/

Words Shape Our World: Why It's Time to Rethink the Language of Partnership

 by  Akash Maharaj

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I returned to this article by my friend Akash Maharaj today. I thought I should repost it.

Most people don’t think twice about the words they use, but the truth is, words shape our world. They're not just descriptors. They’re creators. When someone says, “You’re hired” or “You’re fired,” they’re not just describing a situation—they’re creating a new reality. The phrase “I now pronounce you husband and wife” doesn’t reflect a relationship—it forms one. That’s how powerful language is. Even in the Bible, it says, "In the beginning was the Word." The very foundation of creation starts with language. Words are that powerful.

Philosophers like John Searle and Fernando Flores got it. They understood that words aren’t just passive tools we use to describe the world—they actively create the world. When we speak, we’re doing more than talking. We’re building the future with every sentence.

Now, think about the language we use at work. Specifically, in recruitment and professional services—a world I know well. Words like “human resources” are a relic of an industrial past, where people were seen as cogs in a machine. “Head-hunting”? Even worse. That language reflects a transactional, outdated way of thinking about talent. It doesn’t just describe how we treat people; it informs how we treat them.

What if we changed that? What if the words we used matched the future we want to build? We don’t need "resources." We need talent, creativity, and energy. We don’t "hunt heads." We build teams. This isn’t just semantics—it’s how we shift the narrative, the culture, the work we do.

And speaking of shifting narratives, it’s time to rethink how professional services and managed service providers are viewed. “Suppliers.” Really? That word reduces us to a one-sided transaction, where companies receive and service providers deliver. But the best partnerships aren’t built on transactions—they’re built on collaboration. Service companies should be seen as partners—invested in your success, not just delivering a service. It’s a relationship that goes both ways, where both parties grow together.

But here’s the kicker—changing our language isn’t hard. It’s a choice. It’s about being intentional. When we start using words that reflect respect, possibility, and collaboration, we stop thinking about people as resources and start thinking about them as partners. It shifts the conversation from what we can get to what we can create together. And that small change in language? It leads to a big change in culture.

So, what does this mean for you? It means you can start today. Pay attention to the words you’re using. Are they shaping the future you want, or are they holding you back in an outdated mindset? The power to change the way your organization thinks, hires, and grows is already in your hands—or rather, in your words. And once you start using them with intention, the impact will be impossible to ignore.

Maha Kumba Mela as Sacrament

Religion defines a sacrament as a religious ceremony or ritual that imparts divine blessing. They are both a sign or symbol of a spiritual reality and that reality itself. The efficacy of the intervention from above usually depends on inner qualities, the depth of faith in the believer, his or her devotion, and the level of commitment, for example, the depth of the penance or suffering displayed in the ritual.

The Baltimore Catechism defines sacraments as outward signs that represent inward grace and have the power to produce it in the soul.

What’s important here is that it is the religion itself spelling out its terms, descriptors of its tools, as well as their uses and intended results. From the viewpoint of the historian of religion, it’s just some data for analysis. My intention is clear: I am trying to be as objective as possible. This is more evident when we look at various cultural expressions side by side for comparison.

The Sadhguru and every other baba will tell us that the Maha Kumba Mela is a massive public display of devotion with an equally powerful inward reality that is a vehicle of God’s grace and that even Westerners can benefit. “I do yoga, man, so let’s do this maha mela thing.” My YouTube feed is making it a numbers game. !4 million participants will yield more blessings than 1.4. They are playing the game of the relative power of a cult or belief system. Join the club.

I’ve spent more time in India than most Westerners who are not scholars, Hindu converts, or wanna-be Saddhus. Even if I were younger, I would never subject myself to the Kumba Mela. Woodstock was what? Half a million. Burning Man, 70,000. How many at Lourdes, even on a yearly basis? Three to four million. Due to the alignment of the celestial bodies this year, 15 million people are expected to attend the Kumba Mela over the next 45 days. All huddled on an open, muddy plane with minimal sanitation facilities and accommodations. But that is a description of my culture shock. The fault is in the observer.

My first year in India, in 2010, we traveled from the northernmost part of India to Delhi to catch our plane to the US on or about July 15th. We had been up in Leh-Ladakh to avoid the heavy rains marking the beginning of monsoon. We came down the Manali Highway on the east side of the lower Himalayan range, traveling over the highest passes (at the time) for conventional vehicles, Tanglang La, at about 18,000 feet. Then we drove over the famous Rohtang Pass to Manali and Shimla before we dropped down into Haridwar, which, at 1000 feet above sea level, sits at the head of the Ganges as it begins its descent to the Bay of Bengal. We’d planned a ceremonial dip in the sacred waters. Even at its head, with all the new water from the melted snow, the river was so filthy, I wouldn’t even stick my toe in it, much less swim, particularly when I saw half-burnt human bodies floating downstream among floral garlands.

As we were checking out of our guest house, we began to notice large groups, gangs of young guys, a few younger saddhus, plus a few women, very few, walking on the road with large buckets of water. Though there was no dress code, they all seemed to be attempts at something vaguely like the saddhus' orange loincloth. Headbands de rigeur. Each band or gang had a large image of Shiv or some other deity they were carrying or pulling. There was equal chanting and boom boxes. The smell of marijuana was so strong that we were getting high in a sealed vehicle.

We began the trip from Haridwar to New Delhi. It usually takes about four and a half hours, but it would take 12. At some places on the road, the procession was so slow-moving that our driver tried some shortcuts in vain. The dense procession clogged the new double-lane highway. I have no way of estimating, but I suspect at least 50,000, perhaps more than 100,000 pilgrims, were walking barefoot the 233 km from Mother Ganga's source to Delhi and then onto small villages, carrying holy water for the new year’s rituals. That is just one day’s count. The “carrying” would go on for at least a fortnight.

It was a ritual not widely publicized outside India. We asked what it was, but Ashish may have poorly understood the Hindi, or it was untranslatable. Later, we discovered that these crews are called “the carriers.” Indeed, any village Shiv temple worth its salt had to organize a team. Baba-ji would lose face if he didn’t get a few buckets of holy water from the onset of the monsoon.

It was a cross between rite of passage and village custom that goes back many generations if not millennia. With a few exceptions, the single middle-aged man or the small group of women, it was a young men's game, but unlike Woodstock, there was no sex; the sporty groups in orange gym shorts were moving quickly and carrying their shrines, the new-age rockers with loud boom boxes had rented and decorated a truck; farm boys were dragging their altars with tractors, another hip crowd had streamers and sequins, there were the kids whose guru came from the strict observance, flowers, and incense combined with traditional religious songs, and as I mentioned, they were all barefoot.

The Sadhguru will explain the myth on TV, but, like the Mormon Prophet, he won’t dirty his crisp white uniform. His net worth is also 50 million USD. The average income of the carriers I observed was probably pretty standard--under 5,000 USD yearly. But everyone has their job and their pay scale.

All the local temples along the route, and there were more than several hundred--the route was more than 150 miles, had pales of rice and dahl, drinks, ice packs, and some essential medical attention, all organized by the Hindu equivalent of the lady's Marian devotion group; they’d corralled their husbands into lending a hand. That was recognizable and quite lovely. It was almost as if the culture was ensuring that a new supply from the headwater made its way back to the village temples for the cultic rituals.

At one petrol station, we found a Hindu entrepreneur with a water purification system on the back of his truck. He was selling purified holy water in recycled two-liter plastic containers. Ashish bought some for his super pious mother. The hard truth is that Mother Ganga is a sewer. This was in 2010, and in the fourteen years since then, the Modi government has poured billions into cleaning up the water. They have tried to stop or curtail the dumping of raw sewage directly into the river, the runoff from the Muslim tanneries and cloth dying factories, and the effluent waste products from chemical manufacture. However, these efforts have been going on in earnest since at least 1984, and they are still trying to measure the results. The sacrament's efficacy does not extend to measurable reductions in pollutants, at least not yet, though there are some reports of improvement from the government. My experience in Haridwar, Varanasi, and Calcutta tells me there is a vast gap between what is reported and reality. My motto in India is: “Never drink the water. Pray and filter. Always.”

Now for the hard part. It is impossible to gauge any realization experiences, blessings, or other events we might attribute to divine intervention. I’m not saying that they don’t exist, but all we have is anecdotal evidence of deliverance or inward change. There is probably enough evidence that some people who undertake experiences out of the ordinary experience some inner change, some more than others, some beneficial, and some quite the opposite. But these experiences remain in the realm of religion and mysticism.

The devotees at the Maha Mela may have life-changing experiences. In fact, it is probable that some do, especially if they were doing penance for some infarction, real or imagined, but it is impossible to attribute a direct cause-and-effect relationship. It takes a leap of faith. Is it like a Catholic First Communion? That is a definite no.

We reached Delhi with enough time for Ashish’s ritual leave-taking as well as a nasty fight with our Sikh diver about the tip he had expected after driving us over treacherous roads for almost a month. Ashish invented some complaints that disqualified Govinda. I complained to Ashish that he was being unfair, but it would take me 10 years to realize Ashish’s Indian American arrogance.