"They're kissing the feet!"

Recently, I have been studying the Victorian era in great depth, as I've mentioned in other entries on this blog. (It indeed is quite fascinating... though even a virginal hippie has to admit that she would have found the rogues and rakes of the 18th century to be far more fun. Human nature is rather constant, of course - the Victorians had to be either pompous, self-righteous, undercover, guilty rogues and rakes, or perpetual adolescents wrapped up in sports, hero worship, soppy words about marriage, and 'all for queen and country.) Being of the working class, yet having had the good fortune to have more education than the norm (...slight pause for others of my class to comment that theology 'will never get you bread and cheese'... and they are correct, though I do not regret how I live in the least), I smile at much of what I read. The oh-so-devout (translation: "respectable") middle class and wealthy of the Victorian times shook their heads at the 'wicked' poor (and by this I do not at all mean criminals.) I cannot recall the author (indeed, it may have been anonymous), but I read a delicious statement (off the mark, but still worth a note) about how all the poor wanted, as regards worship, was penny pamphlets and high Masses.

There is some truth to that, I am sure - though many of the poor had no pennies to spare, and little time or energy for Mass at all. But one misconception, which I say as one who sees deep faith in the sort of folk religion which was my own mother's mainstay, was in the wealthier sorts thinking the poor had only superstition, not real faith. (I'll save my comments about whether obeisance before one's mother and father, an Evo speciality in that era, is faith anyway.) One interesting study, of such spots as Southwark and Bermondesey, presented by Sarah Williams did not surprise me in the least. The poor may not have been crowding the churches (most who were thought that God had blessed England with special protection and prosperity post-Waterloo - poor in any era know better), but they did want the church to mark special occasions of their lives - did value their being part of the Church - and often expressed blessings and gratitude in the very actions which the highbrow would have classed as superstitious.

With this being Good Friday, any Franciscan is entitled to ramble a bit. Of course, the flaw in Franciscan preaching is and was that, vivid though the images of Jesus and his poor family are in relation to his birth and death, the divine and resurrected Logos can get lost somewhere. I understand this, of course. Many of the poor, and a substantial number of those of any class who are not given to contemplative ways, cannot identify all that well with anything as impossible to describe as the resurrection. Struggle, suffering and the like - in some way a part of every life - make Jesus seem far more a part of one's life.

My mother, a lady of extreme devotion, did attend Sunday Mass, but was not one for any services during the week. (It is possible she might have made sacramental confession had she ever had anything to confess... which, as she told me more than once, she never did.) Yet, on Good Friday, she did want to know the local church's schedule for when "they're kissing the feet." I doubt my mother could have sat through the lengthy Good Friday liturgy, but she was one of many for whom 'kissing the feet' was of great value. (Indeed, there were, and I believe still are, some churches where one may come to do precisely that, outside of service times or the main church.)

I kiss relics, my bible or Prayer Book after reciting the Offices, and my profession ring which was blessed by John Paul II. Yet I never was one much for 'kissing the feet.' I always found it vaguely embarrassing, perhaps because the very thought of kissing anyone's feet is totally revolting to me. It also seldom seemed all that reverent. The priests would walk about the altar rail, presenting the crucifix for kissing - it was wiped directly afterward. I might have been more comfortable with a profound genuflection.

Heavens, am I rambling today! Well, I attended a service (from noon to 3:00) of the Seven Last Words of Christ. (I love how, on this blog, I never give a hint of locations - I therefore can have a candour I could not have elsewhere.) The church which I attended has outstanding music and impeccable liturgy - yet this service was vaguely disappointing. There was no wonderful choral liturgy - just the sort of hymns which the Victorians love.

The preacher was one I'd hoped would be outstanding. Since he is a professor of homiletics in a very prestigious university, I had imagined deep exegesis, thought provoking reflections and exhortations... where he was one whose style centres on "as my friend Suchandsuch was telling me." I am not one for the anecdotal in preaching - nor am I much one for Good Friday sermons that seem centred entirely on 'us,' and on forgiveness. Most of the talk was about our reconciling with others, though there was a reference to Mary's constant worry about her son which almost reminded me of my friars.

On another note - what has happened during the past 25 years or so? Previously, if anything western preaching centred too much on Jesus' Passion (to an extent where the resurrection seemed an afterthought.) Yet I would see, in my adult years, evidence that we are rather afraid of looking at the Passion at all. (I suppose when the slogan "we are an Easter people" became fashionable, it became de rigueur to bypass that he had to be dead first.) Oh, I remember the arguments! Morbidity had to be avoided. Sin must be ignored lest self esteem be damaged (though those on the pop psychology crazes conveniently ignored that our internal recognition of moral difficulties, which one may learn to gloss over 'in therapy,' must be faced for any sort of health, spiritual or psychological.) Various books popular in my young adult years emphasised that 'guilt and worry' were 'useless emotions' - though it is my observation that those totally free of both are likely to be serial killers. I have had people complain to me about Julian of Norwich's writing vividly of the Passion - and, in the next breath, disliking her 'all shall be well.' (I'd best write an entry on the parousia, just for them...)

We must face the Passion of Christ - and not only to share in his pain, or to think 'my sin caused this.' Jesus' crucifixion came about through conflict, and that related to his vocation to preach the kingdom. The 'players' in the drama were not puppets, nor were they wicked. They were motivated by fear, or intolerance, or jealousy, or various other very common human traits. Recognition of that is something from which we shrink - because, created though we are in God's image, and deified though we were in the Incarnation, we still have that tendency towards violence, and always have.

The earliest Christians were all too well acquainted with the horror and shame of crucifixion. Yet the primitive church was built on the memory of a crucified man who rose from the dead. There is nothing else which is totally distinctive. It is amazing how the faith would spread, and in little time, on the memory of an executed criminal and his resurrection.