Nick O'Demus and perpetual students

I heard a very fine sermon today, related to the gospel where Nicodemus (the educated, upper class Pharisee who could hardly be seen as an intimate of a Galilean peasant carpenter) learns he is not far from the kingdom of heaven. I smiled at one of the worst jokes I've heard in weeks. The homilist mentioned that an elderly, Irish Catholic lady, his neighbour as a child, was inclined to tell him many religious tales intending to have him pass them along to his parents. (Though this priest did not mention this, I knew intuitively that Mrs Dougherty would have wanted to influence this nice boy and hopefully have his parents, who were among those referred to as 'them' - Anglican, which is not quite as bad as Cromwell's lot - return to the throne of Peter*. As a small child, before I knew who Oliver Cromwell was - and Lord knows he was a scary enough character - I thought that Cromwell was some sort of demon or bogeyman who would snatch me away during the night. Oddly enough, the Irish Catholics who left me with this fear of "Cromwell," which didn't die out until I found out he was a human being and had been dead for centuries, never did mention that he didn't like Anglicans any more than he did RCs.) Mrs Dougherty told the boy-o that Nick O'Demus was the most prominent and important Irishman in the gospels.

And here I thought that, in Jesus' time, Ireland was still ruled by faerie kings - who wouldn't disappear until the Christian missionaries made some sort of deal with the Druids, around the time Patrick kicked out the snakes. :)

Today, in the midst of what actually was a deep and moving sermon (I wish I could quote lines from memory, but I was a bit sleepy, since I walked miles yesterday to go to a Saint Anthony feast... not realising yesterday was not the 13th of June until I heard a radio mention the D-Day commemoration...), I had an utter fit of laughter. The homilist, who is the retired headmaster of a prominent public school, now is doing some teaching for graduate students in divinity. He mentioned, with hilarious accuracy (which, perhaps, only a perpetual graduate student such as myself could fully appreciate), the sort of dialogue that takes place in lectures, tutorials, or seminars (take your pick) with students and professors. They fall into two major categories. The first (which, in my experience, is far more common) is when the student has to show off his knowledge (for example, were it the gospel for today, he'd go off on all sorts of revisionist exegesis and treatment of obscure Greek terms), and the professor responds in the same fashion, the result being that no one really learns anything. The second (...one in which I found myself on all too many occasions, truth to tell) is when someone has the courage to ask the 'stupid' question - the answer to which actually can be very helpful and enlightening. No one wants to ask, of course, lest one appear dim-witted. Nicodemus has the courage to ask the 'dumb' questions!

For all my love of humour, I rarely laugh aloud, but it is fortunate that I was sitting in the back, behind a pillar - and not only because not everyone at the church may have appreciated that a woman of mature years was wearing a tie-dye top and shorts for services. No - I didn't laugh aloud about Nick O'Demus, since I've heard that 'corny' Irish humour for so many years that I'm immune. (Something made me recall such tired lines as those about Martin Luther having a 'diet of worms,' or "she was only the stableman's daughter, but all the horsemen knew her" - say that last one quickly.) But the treatment of the 'showing off in graduate school' was so vivid that I was falling over with laughter - unusual for me, but... well, just not done. I don't know if this was coincidence, or whether my cracking up gave him the courage, but a gentleman seated near me was also caught in uncontrollable laughter - and, by some quirky chance, when the preacher finished that little tale, we both applauded!

It is fortunate that I have no children - and not only because Lord knows what sort of eccentricity I might have reproduced. (I am a perpetual student, and rather a good one if one does not mind it's always being a 'tortoise and hare' race. The trouble is that I'm not one to accomplish anything else, though my display of diplomas and certificates [I had written 'diplomae,' but the spell checker didn't like that one] is a triumph of avant garde interior decorating.) Were I a mother, the combination of my thinking it was the 13th yesterday, and forgetting it wasn't the 14th today despite recalling the D-day broadcast and having the blister from the endless walking to feasts that don't exist this week, and howling at a highly dignified service, and applauding during a sermon in a low-key upper class church, I probably would be en route to 'assisted living' by now.

When I was working towards my Bachelor of Arts degree (which I was awarded during the 1970s), I attended a relatively small college staffed largely by brilliant Dominicans. One 'blessing and curse' (blessing as a student - curse for a few years afterwards, because none of us could keep our mouths shut for ten minutes) was that, with such small classes and so many discussions, at least some of our professors gave us daily grades for participation. Now, I am not one who is uncomfortable with asking questions or contributing to discussions (...even if, deep down, I'd rather be delivering the lectures...), but the problem with that setting was that one had to find a reason to say something - even if, consequently, one was more or less saying nothing.

I remember, many years later, reading a book written by a religious Sister. I was unfamiliar with her congregation, but her descriptions led me to believe that they were intellectual sorts and 'classy' (a neat enough way of describing the Dominican Sisters I was privileged to have provide eight years of my own education.) She was saying that, among other little rules for getting along in this world which the unusually wise Sisters told their novices, two were "don't think you always have to say something brilliant," and "don't think you always must be witty." Excellent, though I naturally keep hoping I'll do both. I'd amend that to include "remember it's all right to say nothing at all" (unless, of course, one is receiving a daily grade for participation...)

Last week, I happened to attend a lecture which was part of a series on Joseph Butler. (I like the lecturer - but not his topic. Yes, I know that, not so long ago, every Anglican clergyman had a copy of Butler on his shelves, probably next to the works of Hooker which are a far better read. Butler bores me to death, but I wouldn't have been likely to admit that in public any more than I'd confess to that I didn't understand a word of Teilhard de Chardin thirty years ago and still do not - though at least Teilhard, who my co-contributors might understand since they are of scientific bent, can't be called boring.) The lecture that week was about 'love of God and neighbour,' which certainly can be a most intriguing topic, the more because it's boundless. Unfortunately (and I'm blushing... this is almost like admitting that I don't like Jane Austen, which her devotees would think meant I was too stupid to catch her wit, or that I thought Citizen Kane was the most boring film I've ever seen), I really disliked Butler's means of expression. He seemed to have been (and indeed may have been) addressing a crop of deists or churchgoing agnostics who OD'd on the Enlightenment. Not that this doesn't have potential for being an interesting exercise, but it came across as too 'careful.' For some bizarre reason, I remembered when I saw the totally forgettable musical "1776." John Adams comments, during debates about the declaration, "It's a revolution, damn it! We're going to have to offend somebody!"

I rarely contribute to discussions at 'adult education,' not only because there are people there who have far more fondness for hearing their own voices than I do (yes, such do exist), but because I don't want to fall into the 'showing off' mode. (Actually, at this point in my life that is not likely. The advantage of being a student for a hundred years is that one realises, first, that one sadly has forgotten more than one knows, and, second, that one has only scratched the surface of knowledge of anything.) Yet I did make a careful, highly respectful comment last week. It seemed to me that Butler was skirting around the matter of "virtue," and treating the term "benevolence" in quite a different manner from my old friend Thomas Aquinas. Virtue seemed to be a vague commitment to the good of society (...that the upper class sorts he was addressing might define how to attain such good in a somewhat different manner than would I, and probably hadn't thought about Francis of Assisi any time soon, is purely coincidental). Though God was mentioned, in rather an off-hand manner, my impression was that Butler (who, unlike Francis, Jesus of Nazareth, or even John Adams in a non-religious sense, clearly had no interest in being militant - this wasn't a man who was in any danger of stigmata, crucifixion, or being hanged for treason if the militia didn't whip the British army) was presenting a sort of philosophical argument. We all tend to the good of society - it is rational for some of us who do to allow for that there may be a God behind this.

When I had the courage (being in the second category mentioned above - not wanting to look dim-witted) to mention this, a gentleman seated near me, whom I've heard lecture on English literature in the past (I only trained to be a professor - he actually had the chance to be one), said outright, "Where is God in this?" I then had the courage to say, "Thank you!" I had been thinking that exactly, but didn't want to seem stupid (which I'm not - it takes time for things to sink in, but they sprout well once they go to seed) or cheeky (especially when that is perfectly true.)

Well, I must be careful on one matter - it is best not to applaud out of season. :) But it's not quite so silly as last week, when I uncharacteristically attended the early service (which had few worshippers.) Since I sometimes attend weekday services at a small parish, with sparse attendance and mainly a baby boomer population, if we aren't sitting near each other the instruction to share a sign of peace often leads to our flashing the 1960s peace sign (which we tend to give a somewhat different meaning than Churchill probably intended when he made a like gesture). I was sleepy last Sunday as well, and, forgetting where I was, flashed the peace sign at all and sundry.

Flashing the old peace sign and fits of the giggles probably are very good for the soul... but I suppose that, deep down, I remember some of the 'decorum' the nuns from Cork taught me in my earliest days. Retaining composure was presented as a commandment. I haven't thought of this in at least forty years but, since we made confession monthly in preparation for First Friday (a nice break from the act of contrition we made daily in case we dropped death or, better still, had Cromwell send us to the gallows - preferably because we kept his pack from toppling the tabernacle), and I wasn't one to lie, steal, eat meat on Friday or miss Sunday Mass, my usual self-accusation was "I laughed in church." Today, I would end that same sentence with, "thank God!"

*Footnote: During my childhood, classrooms often had 'intentions' posted on the walls. One was for the return of the heretics to the throne of Peter. Mrs Dougherty was not far from the kingdom of heaven.

The link in the title to this post is to Brush Up on Butler, an academic site about Joseph Butler whom I referenced in this post. It is a service of All Butler, All the Time . Even if Butler has not been a favourite of mine, any friend of John Henry Newman's is a friend of mine - and how could I resist a site which states that: 'The members of the Bishop Butler Society are all sentient beings, living or dead, who have or who would like to have an association with Butler' ?