It’s time to talk miracles this Christmas season. Born of the Virgin Mary, son of God, Christ in himself is a miracle, but one of the most fascinating aspects of our faith are the modern miracles that take place here and now and are scientifically and rigorously verified by the Vatican for all the skeptics in the room. There are lots of different types of miracles, some more common than others, but a seemingly appropriate one for the weekend after Thanksgiving is an example of a Eucharistic miracle. Jesus is the ultimate spiritual nourishment, a perfect and necessary balance for the perhaps over-indulging of corporal nourishment from last Thursday.
While a true miracle occurs during every Mass as the bread and wine sacramentally become the Body and Blood of Christ, the term “Eucharistic miracles” generally refers to a special sign of Christ’s presence in the Eucharist, normally bleeding hosts or the transformation of a host into a piece of human heart tissue. Yet, they are quite difficult to verify scientifically.
But on the evening of August 18, 1996, a parishioner approached her parish priest, Fr. Alejandro Pezet, about a consecrated host that had been desecrated and left on a candle holder at the back of the church. Father Pezet was unable to consume the host and so placed it into a glass of water in the tabernacle to dissolve (customary handling of such a host). When he opened the tabernacle a week later, Fr. Pezet discovered that not only had the host not dissolved, it seemed to have become a piece of bloody tissue much larger than the original host.
Fr. Pezet informed his archbishop of this occurrence (then Archbishop Jorge Bergoglio, now Pope Francis), who asked that Fr. Pezet have the host professionally photographed. This was done on September 6, 1996, and the host was kept in the tabernacle without publicizing the event. The host-turned-bloody tissue did not degrade for over three years while it was kept in that tabernacle, with no special effort made to preserve it.
In 1999, a sample of the bloody fragment was sent for scientific analysis, which revealed two important things: the tissue was from the left ventricle of the heart muscle, which pumps blood to the entire body; and the heart muscle from which the sample was taken was inflamed, containing many white blood cells (responsible for fighting infection). White blood cells are only present in tissue taken from living beings, and cannot survive without a living organism to sustain them. Thus, the sample must have been taken from the heart of a living human being.
The tissue was taken from a living heart — this could not have been fraud. The blood type, AB+, matches that of the blood on the Shroud of Turin and the Sudarium of Oviedo. It comes from the most critical part of the heart muscle; the left ventricle is responsible for pumping blood throughout the entire body. How did this sample survive three years of no special preservation? How did the piece of tissue come to be in that tabernacle in the first place?
It’s just a miracle.
—Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
An all-American, champion-of-the-common-man movie star, the horseback-riding, gun-slinging Gary Cooper is another unlikely convert to Catholicism. While he didn’t convert until much later in his life, it was an audience with Pope Pius XII at a distraught, complicated time in his life that sealed the deal on his religious discernment.
Born in Helena, Montana in 1901, Gary Cooper had a somewhat inauspicious rise to national acclaim. When he was fifteen, he injured his hip in a car accident — his doctor sent him to his parents’ Montana ranch, where he was encouraged to horseback-ride as therapy. This misguided advice gave him a characteristic stiff walk and iconic, slightly-angled riding style that ended up being extremely beneficial for his career, if not his joint health.
As a young man, Cooper’s parents left Montana and moved to Los Angeles; they encouraged him to join them, suggesting that he nurture his interest in painting, drawing, and other fine arts in Southern California. This he did, where he began working as a stunt rider (for $10 per day) at several Hollywood movie studios to finance his art education. Though his riding skills gave him steady employment on Western film sets, Cooper was a horseman at heart and hated to see the dangerous stunts that often injured both horses and riders.
He loved the screen, though, and the energy of the movies; so, he did a screen test, hired a casting director, and became Hollywood’s sweetheart overnight. In the 1928 film Wings, Cooper’s two-and-a-half minute scene told the movie studios that they were looking at a star.
In 1933, Cooper married East Coast socialite Veronica Balfe, whose positive, steadying influence helped him to take control of his life and get a handle on some previous indiscretions — like many movie stars, then and now, Cooper had a series of affairs and romantic partnerships that may have been less than advised.
In 1948, however, Cooper began an extramarital relationship with his co-star from The Fountainhead, Patricia Neal, which ended up stretching three years and catalyzing a legal separation from his wife. God was on Cooper’s side, though, and in 1953, Balfe and his daughter (both devout Catholics) joined him on a press tour for High Noon. While in Italy, the three of them had an audience with Pope Pius XII.
His daughter later recalled that at the papal audience, Cooper had rosaries up his arm and his hands full of other mementos from well-wishers. Because of his bad hip and back, he had trouble genuflecting, and as he did, “everything just fell, the medals and rosaries and holy cards...while he was scrambling around on the floor, he suddenly encountered this scarlet shoe and robe…”
That meeting with the pope was just what Cooper needed to set him back on track, and on his return from the High Noon press tour, moved back in with his wife and daughter and began to reconcile their relationship. He began attending regular Mass with them, and received spiritual counseling from their parish priest. After a few years, he concluded that perhaps “a little religion wouldn’t do me no harm,” and entered the church formally in 1959.
—Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
“Professional soccer was my God,” wrote Gavin Peacock in a recent article in the June 2016 edition of Christianity Today. Growing up in a secular home in Southeast London and immersed in the pervasive culture of the game, he dreamed of following in the footsteps of his father, who played for Charlton Athletic from 1962-1978, and taught him the fundamental “art of turning with a soccer ball.” So, imagine his surprise when, decades later, a call from God competely changed the course of his life.
Despite achieving his goal and signing a contract to play professional soccer at the age of sixteen, happiness still eluded him. “I was an insecure young man in the cutthroat world of professional sport,” Gavin said. “My sense of well-being depended entirely on my performance. I soon realized that [it] wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.”
A few years later, however, “God intervened.” He found himself struggling for meaning and attended a local church on a Sunday night. After the service, the pastor invited him to a Bible study for young adults. “I walked into a room full of young people as the one with money, career, and fame,” Gavin wrote in the article. “I was the in crowd, and they were not. Yet when they spoke about Jesus, they displayed a life and joy that I did not have.” Over time, Gavin discovered the same life and joy in the gospel as the young people he had met in that small group and eventually “realized that the biggest obstacle to happiness was that soccer was king instead of Jesus.”
His newfound belief, however, was met with “a mixture of mockery and intrigue” by his teammates. Yet, the biggest test of faith came in 2002, at the age of 35, when soccer no longer remained a viable career because of a chronic knee injury. Subsequently offered a prestigious broadcasting career with the BBC, Gavin began “covering weekly shows . . . for several million UK viewers.” The highlight of his second career was anchoring the 2006 World Cup watched by more than one billion people around the globe.
But God even then had other plans for Gavin, soon calling him to pastoral ministry as a preacher. “Within weeks,” he wrote, “I went from speaking on TV about David Beckham and Cristiano Ronaldo to writing papers” and studying theology in Alberta, Canada. Today, Gavin is a pastor in Calgary with a heart for the gospel and a passion “to build men for Christ.”
“All those years ago,” Gavin said, “my earthly father taught me the art of turning, but it was my heavenly Father who turned me first to Christ and then to preach his gospel.” Today, he continues “to turn and teach others to turn,” not with a soccer ball, but towards Jesus Christ and his kingdom.
In our Sunday message series each week, we’ve been looking at the logical basis for our belief in Christ and his divinity. One of the greatest pieces of evidence that will convince others, however, is the passion and joy his followers excude. Join us each Sunday to ignite that passion and joy for yourself.
What does Nicole Kidman have in common with St. Elizabeth Ann Seton, the first American-born saint? Not a lot, at first glance, except for the most important similarity: they both came (or, in Kidman’s case, came back) to Catholicism after failing to find spiritual fulfillment in other faith expressions. For Seton, it was the true presence of Christ in the Eucharist that brought her in. Like C.S. Lewis, the Anglican understanding of Christ symbolically in the Eucharist was just not enough.
Born in the colony of New York in 1774 (before the United States became a nation), Elizabeth Ann Bayley was very active in her Anglican faith. Married at nineteen, she had a very different outlook on faith from that of her husband, William Seton. Jesuit Bernard Bassett describes Elizabeth’s faith as “earnest, sincere . . . with a marked evangelical streak,” while William, in contrast, was “not very religious . . . part of a new breed of men [for whom trade came first], who we would call executives today.”
In her young, married life, Elizabeth gradually amassed a variety of spiritual beliefs, often confusing those around her. She would wear a Catholic crucifix, supported those who chose the cloistered life, liked the doctrine of saints and angels, and appreciated spiritual practices from many different sources, including the quiet, constant faith of Quakers, the emotionalism from philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau, strict Calvinist beliefs on sin and punishment. She even practiced meditation, which was highly unusual for the 1800s.
She became deeply close to a cleric at her Anglican church, Henry Hobart, whom she looked to as an important spiritual guide and religious authority. “Elizabeth was in love with God, and Henry Hobart was the man charged in God’s providence with bringing this love to a higher earthly potential,” writes Fr. Charles P. Connor.
In 1802, William Seton’s health began to fail, and he was advised to move somewhere with a gentler climate in order to heal. Because of family and business connections, the “gentle climate” chosen was the Italian countryside. While in Italy, the Setons’ closest friends were devout Catholics. It is unknown whether they exerted any influence over William’s faith, but they certainly impacted Elizabeth’s. After William’s death in 1803, she traveled extensively with them to Catholic shrines and holy places, and her writings began to reflect a deeper penchant for Catholic theology.
In a letter from that period, she wrote of her longing to believe in the true presence of Christ in the Eucharist: “How happy I would be, even so far away from all so dear, if I could find You in the church as they do . . . how many things I would say to You of the sorrows of my heart and the sins of my life.”
Upon her return to the United States, her Anglican friends and family were shocked by her “new” Catholic beliefs; Henry Hobart, once deeply supportive of her unique religious expression, became a harsh critic. But convinced through prayer and meditation on several Catholic texts, the true presence of Christ in the Eucharist was her catalyst. She knew that Catholicism was the faith expression she had been longing for and went on to do incredible work through it.
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
As much as we can draw from the experiences of Catholic converts from years and decades past, there’s always something to be said for people actively converting to, engaging with, and practicing Catholicism with all of us right now. Something about living in the same time and space with people walking the same faith journey speaks power into the case for Christ in ways that historical figures cannot.
You might know some of these people from the big screen, too, even if you didn’t know that they spend their Sunday mornings the same way you do. Ever heard of Nicole Kidman? This Oscar-, Emmy-, and Golden-Globe-winning actress (famous for roles in the TV series Big Little Lies and the movies Moulin Rouge!, Boy Erased, and Aquaman, to name a few) centers herself in the pews with her family every week in their hometown of Nashville, Tennessee.
Growing up in Australia, Kidman was raised in the Catholic faith and educated by the Sisters of Mercy at Monte Sant’Angelo College. She has a strong belief in God, greatly influenced by her “very Catholic grandmother” and her young and early exposure to prayer. “A lot of my friends tease me,” Kidman said in an interview with Vanity Fair, but she makes church with her family a priority (and even though her husband, country music star Keith Urban, doesn’t share her Catholic beliefs, he comes too, she said, noting “that’s how we are raising our children”).
Kidman didn’t always practice as regularly as she does now. In fact, she married her first husband, Tom Cruise, in the Church of Scientology, dabbling in both Scientology and Buddhism while with him. While she didn’t raise her two children (with Cruise) in the Church of Scientology, she says that she was “definitely not a practicing Catholic” during the ten years she was married to him. She notes that she felt estranged from the Catholic faith, but that neither Scientology nor Buddhism fulfilled her sense of spiritual longing.
But she never fully renounced her Catholic upbringing, though, because when preparing to marry Keith Urban, she applied for (and was granted) an annulment so that she could marry him in the Catholic Church.
Her marriage to Urban was called a “kind of spiritual homecoming,” her longtime friend and spiritual advisor Father Paul Coleman said. The Jesuit priest, who officiated the ceremony, dedicated his message to the bride and groom on the secret of keeping love alive — making time for each other in their relationship, as each made space for God to guide them. Kidman has given several interviews in which she mentions the centrality of her Catholic faith to the rest of her life.
“Catholicism is a part of my life. Last Easter time was lovely because I was back with my family, which was the first time in a long while that I spent Easter with my huge extended Catholic family, with aunts and cousins from all over the place,” she said in 2017. “Being Catholic was so much a part of my childhood, that it still remains with me and forms so much of my life experience [though I lapsed practicing for several years].”
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
For many, the path to Christ is not straightforward or simple. Even those who grow up knowing an experience of Christ often experience doubt or confusion in regards to their beliefs at one time or another. For those who convert or become Catholics later in life, the process of discerning faith can be a deep and complex process, much like it was for C.S. Lewis, whose relationship with Catholicism was as critical to him as it was confusing.
Lewis, the author of the wildly-popular book series, The Chronicles of Narnia, was born and raised as a member of the Anglican Church of Ireland. Growing up in Belfast, Northern Ireland, Lewis saw firsthand the divisiveness that religion could cause and became an atheist at age 15, though he described himself as “paradoxically angry at God for not existing.” He could not understand how such a perfect God as was purported to exist could allow the creation of a world with as much pain and suffering as he saw.
In his thirties, however, he struck up a deep friendship with another notable (and very Catholic) author, J.R.R. Tolkien, whose influence together with the writings of G.K. Chesterton re-opened the door to faith for Lewis.
In Surprised by Joy, a semi-autobiographical account of his journey to faith, Lewis writes that he was the most unwilling convert to ever exist —“picture me alone . . . night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet . . . in 1929, I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all of England.”
Lewis became a member of the Church of England, much to the disappointment of his good friend Tolkien, who had hoped that he might become a Catholic. Interestingly, though, many scholars qualify Lewis as semi-Catholic due to his largely unorthodox Anglican beliefs, including the true presence of Jesus in the Eucharist (which he referred to as the “Blessed Sacrament”) his belief in (and attendance of) auricular confession (confessing one’s sins to a priest, who has the power to absolve in the name of God), and his certainty that he was destined for purgatory.
He advocated especially for an ecumenical approach to faith, writing a book called Mere Christianity, where he described the core beliefs tying all Christian denominations together as filling a large hall, and that the specific denominations were like doors one entered through from the main hall. He disliked the official worship of the Anglican Church, initially only attending in order to receive Communion and repelled by the music and the low quality of the sermons; instead, he found companionship with the working men who came in work boots and sang all the verses of the songs.
Lewis never became a Catholic, which many see as an extension of the deep-seated anti-Catholic prejudice he grew up with in Belfast. But his conflicted, complicated relationship with God and the Church can teach us so much about the coexistence of God and suffering, and serve as a beautiful reminder of the reality of faith as a work in progress for each one of us.
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
We’ve spent the last six weeks reflecting on the scientific evidence, or “proof” for God, and trying to show that religious and scientific beliefs can be held in conjunction with one another. We’ve looked at Nobel Prize-winning scientists, researchers whose discoveries shaped the thinking of modern science, and even people who’ve dedicated their lives to teaching others about the intrinsic connections between science and religion. They all have one thing in common: their Catholic faith and belief in Christ.
In our new series, we’re going to explore the rational basis for our faith in Jesus (and why we believe what we believe about him). It’s going to give us the tools to talk about faith in different settings, and help us to share our beliefs with people around us who might not have the same religious background.
For these articles, we’ll explore the lives of people who converted to Christianity later in life, just like the man we’re going to talk about today. Born in France in 1915, Thomas Merton had a rather rambunctious youth. Reports from his peers note his love of being out at the club all night long and his less than enthusiastic engagement with schoolwork. He had to be bailed out of jail several times and even fathered a child outside of marriage.
But while studying at Columbia University in New York, where he had moved to study languages, he attended a Catholic Action meeting and began to feel inspired. He stumbled across the story of Gerard Manly Hopkins’ conversion to Catholicism (an English poet turned Jesuit priest), and could not shake the feeling that he was being called to do likewise.
Although he initially wanted to be a poet himself, Merton grew increasingly interested in Eastern religions. He eventually met and developed a great admiration for a Hindu monk named Mahanambrata Brahmachari. To his surprise, the monk told Merton that he should read more in the Christian tradition. He especially recommended Saint Augustine’s Confessions and Thomas à Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ, and insisted that he read them both.
Merton plunged into Catholicism and was baptized in 1938. In October of that same year, Merton told his closest friends of his desire to become a priest. In 1941, he arrived at the Abbey of Gethsemani, a community of Trappist monks, the most ascetic order of monks in Roman Catholicism.
Merton spent 27 years at the Abbey, where he wrote The Seven Storey Mountain, his critically-acclaimed, world-famous autobiography. He became especially interested in issues of religious tolerance, interfaith cooperation, and racial justice. The Dalai Lama said that Merton had the most profound understanding of Buddhism of any Christian he’d ever met. Active in his support of the Civil Rights movement, Merton was called “the greatest example of Christian faith in action in the social history of the United States.” At the time of his death in 1968, Merton was one of the most prominent Catholic social teachers of all time.
Like many, Merton’s spiritual journey ultimately led him to Christ, where he rendered a true verdict in the “The Case for Christ.”
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
We’ve spent the last several weeks talking about lots of incredible contributions to science made by Catholic thinkers, clergy and lay people alike. All of this is great, but some people might still be unsure of the Church’s position on science and religion. They might say that the fact that there were some Catholic scientists who made some incredible discoveries doesn’t necessarily back up the fact that the Church is supportive of scientific exploration. That’s a really valid concern, so the story of the person we’re talking about today will hopefully help to address it.
Father George Coyne is a mathematician and astronomer who was the director of the Vatican Observatory for almost thirty years. The Observatory, which was first established in 1582 after Pope Gregory XIII helped to reform the world’s calendar, traces its “modern” roots to 1891 — needless to say, it’s been around for a long time! In the late 19th century, Pope Leo XIII declared that a papally-supported scientific research lab was needed, “so that everyone might see clearly that the Church and her Pastors are not opposed to true and solid science, whether human or divine, but that they embrace it, encourage it, and promote it with the fullest possible devotion.”
Made up of a headquarters near Rome and a dependent research arm in Tucson, Arizona, the Observatory leads studies focused on everything from stellar astronomy and planetary sciences to cosmology and the exploration of exoplanets. For his doctoral work, Fr. Coyne led a spectrophotometric study of the lunar surface; since then, he’s done research on cosmic dust and high-energy interactions between stars — he even has an asteroid named after him.
The Observatory helps to educate the public on issues of science and religion not specifically related to astronomy. Their website has an entire section dedicated to “science and religion frequently asked questions,” and their explanations for the intersection of faith and religion are some of the most informative and most delicate out there. It’s an excellent resource for explaining the Catholic church’s very pro-science position to naysaying family and friends.
For example, they explain what the Church teaches about creation. As Catholics, we reject a literal interpretation of the Bible; we instead acknowledge the Bible as a timeless document whose messages mean different things over time. Certainly, we take the Bible seriously, as it teaches that the universe was made by God, “in an orderly fashion, who found that his creation was good, and indeed so loved the world that he sent his only Son.” By studying the physical universe, we become closer to God, who did the creating. The Bible teaches us who made the universe; the science explains how.
Questions ranging from why the Church cares about astronomy and planetary research to suspicions that the Church is using the Observatory to look for extraterrestrial life (spoiler alert: they’re not) are answered by their work — an incredibly concrete example of the Church’s intense commitment to scientific advancement.
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
If you’ve ever taken (or taught) a high school freshman biology class, you’ve definitely heard of our Catholic scientist for this week. Living in an Augustinian monastery in the Czech Republic, his meticulous research methods and discovery of the “invisible factors” of pea plants make him the father of modern genetics. Though Gregor Mendel only gained posthumous recognition for his contributions to science, his work has influenced thousands of other scientists and their work in genetic science.
Born in 1822 in a small village in what was then the Austrian empire (now part of the Czech Republic), Mendel was one of three children and the only boy, sandwiched between his older sister, Veronika, and his younger sister, Theresia. His young life was not without hardship, as his family struggled to make ends meet on the farm they’d worked for over 130 years. As a teenager, illness forced him to leave school for months and years at a time.
He became a friar because it enabled him to gain an education without having to pay for it himself. The monastic life, he wrote, “spared [him] from the perpetual anxiety about means of a livelihood,” and he joined the Augustinian friars when he was about twenty-five years old.
Mendel began working as a high school substitute teacher while in his training for the priesthood. Unfortunately, speaking in front of a classroom was not Mendel’s strong suit, and he failed the oral part of the teaching exam — twice. Being a high school teacher was just not in God’s plan for Mendel, who eventually returned to the monastery and began his work in the garden.
We know today that genetic traits are passed down to us from our parents, and from our grandparents to our parents. Things like our eye color, hair color, and height are all determined by the expression of one or more genes in our bodies. The predisposition for each trait depends on a specific mathematical modeling system, wherein “dominant” and “recessive” genes are expressed in a certain ratio. That’s why we have blue eyes or brown eyes, and not some mixture of brownish-blue eyes.
Mendel discovered all this with the pea plants he used in the garden. Though he had no idea what DNA was, he knew that somehow, information was being passed down through generations of plants, making them look like their parent generations. He meticulously recorded certain traits of the pea plants and eventually established a mathematical model predicting what the offspring of two plants would look like.
He published his work in 1866, astounding the world and shaking up the scientific community. But his work was soon lost, until two other scientists accidentally duplicated his experiments and rediscovered Mendel 40 years after his death. His notes made them realize the significance of their findings.
Because of Mendel’s work, we can say to a new baby, “Oh, you got my eyes!” or “Oh, you’re going to grow up to be tall and lanky like your dad!” His work is very much alive, as scientists increasingly focus on genetic answers to treat the diseases that plague us today.
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
Catholic scientists didn’t just live and work in the Renaissance. Dozens of contemporary Catholic scientists are doing incredible work in mathematics, biology, physics, astronomy, and other disciplines. These men and women have been responsible for advancement in medical technology, a deeper understanding of the galaxy, and even a human-centered model for determining earthquake strength.
This week’s scientist passed away a few decades ago, but you can credit him with KOIT 96.5 playing Christmas music nonstop (starting soon!) and the invention of distress signalling for maritime vessels. Guglielmo Marconi, an Italian inventor and electrical engineer, did such pioneering work in physics and radio transmission that he is widely recognized as the father of the radio.
Born into a wealthy family in Bologna, Italy in 1874 (his mother was Annie Jameson, heiress to the Jameson whiskey fortune), Marconi never attended school nor went on to higher education. He was instead educated by a series of tutors, and largely self-educated following his teenage years. He befriended a professor at the University of Bologna, who allowed him to sit in on lectures and let him use the university library, though he was never enrolled as a student.
At the age of 17, Marconi began exploring ideas of “wireless telegraphy.” Wired telegraph was a common method of communication in the 1890s, and he wondered why there shouldn’t be a wireless alternative. In 1888, another scientist, Heinrich Hertz, had demonstrated the concept of radio waves (the production and detection of electromagnetic energy), an idea which had captured the attention of many in the scientific community. But none of the scientists interested in radio waves were talking about applying their knowledge for a practical purpose. Marconi had found his niche.
Through a series of different experiments with radio waves, Marconi invented a storm predictor and portable transmitting and receiving systems (early walkie-talkies), among other things. He struggled, though, because his systems were limited to communication and detection in a half-mile radius. Without expanding that radius, radio wave communication could never be harnessed into an effective replacement for the wired telegraph.
His breakthrough came in 1895, when he was just 21 years old. He discovered that, by lengthening the receiving antennas on his devices, he could vastly expand the accurate communication radius. Using Morse code, he could send messages wirelessly between locations approximately 10 miles apart. In a series of further experiments, he discovered the optimal conditions for sending messages back and forth thousands of miles, finally making his work a potential competitor for the trans-Atlantic telegraph wires and a feasible communication option for ships and others out of reach of the wired telegraph grid.
Marconi’s was a true lifesaver in disaster — when the R.M.S. Titanic sank, its wireless operators were able to send out the distress signals that told other ships of their plight. Without wireless transmission, it is likely that no one would have survived the disaster. Marconi was a devout Catholic during his young life, and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics with Karl Braun in 1909 for their “contributions in the field of wireless technology.”
--Claire Kosewic, Staff Bulletin Writer
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