Francis, poor and humble, enters heaven a rich man

Click the link in the title to read my essay about Francis

From the Rule of Saint Francis, 1982 revision, Prologue:
"In the Name of the Lord!

All who love the Lord with their whole heart, their whole soul and mind, and with their strength, and love their neighbour as themselves, and who despise the tendency in their humanity to sin, receive the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and bring forth from themselves fruits worthy of true penance."

The rule of Saint Francis is very short, and half of its content is comprised of quotations from the scriptures. Francis, as is true of many great saints, had no idea he was special in the least. His rule is simple (I am not suggesting that means 'easy'!), though it never occurred to him that those less saintly than himself may be puzzled by exactly what it was saying. Consequently, the Franciscan Order is distinguished in church history - it has the most canonised and beatified saints, and the highest number of splinter heretical groups.

Love the Lord with one's whole heart, soul, and mind - no easy task, that (and loving one's neighbour may be harder still.) Despising the tendency to sin is quite difficult as well, because, for those of us less humble (that is, truthful) than Francis, the most insidious aspects of our personal sinfulness seem harmless or even attractive. Indeed, the more devout we become, the more likely we are to mistake our biggest distractions for heroic virtues.

It is a shame that the lovely word 'penance,' which I would define as 'seeking to place one's life back in line with the gospels,' has fallen out of favour. Perish the thought that we should think we need transformation, now that 'self-esteem' is far more valued than grace. Essentially, it means accepting that our actions have consequences - spiritual ones, even if there are no natural ones in some cases.

Francis indeed kissed the leper - but it is easy to forget that, between that 'conversion' and his total commitment to Christ, years elapsed. I have seen no indication that Francis was wicked, weak and prone to excess though he was. Yet he faced that the sinfulness in his own life was keeping him from 'the fragrant words of My Lord.'

I wish I could quote from Francis' writings at length here, but I had a distressing incident today - I could not find my Omnibus of Sources. I must pray to Saint Anthony about that - I never would have disposed of it, certainly, but it must have been misplaced when I moved. (Please excuse the personal comments - perhaps you could pray for me about this, and about my sadness, because I am spending the feast alone.)

Francis was a young man at the time of his conversion. (He, of course, never was an old one - he was dead at 42.) It is possible that his pilgrimage at the time may have been an imposed penance, or a penitential act taken on freely.

Now, in middle age, I know that it is unlikely that anyone (who has reached my age or older - and some much younger) who is committed to the spiritual life has not had times of major conversion. All of us (yes, even those who were in monasteries at 16) have had times of facing our own sin and its effects - on our relationship with Christ, on others, on our own fragile selves. Penance, then, is a treasure. Times of conversion are not sweetness and light! In the recognition of the wrong, there often is a certain relief - rather like locating the source of an infection, when one cannot understand why one feels chronically ill. There is joy of a sort in recognising divine forgiveness - but a long period of healing, getting back into the correct frame of mind, acceptance of one's brokenness, does ensue.

It is difficult - and one may feel bereft. We may be spiritually weak - to the point of feeling paralysed. Yet the Lord is quite gentle in leading us back to him.

When I entered the Franciscan Order (unaware, of course, of any sinfulness in myself), the formula was to 'beg for a life of penance.' Granted, there are times I wish that prayer had not been answered quite so frequently! Yet penance is transformation - and that, I hope, I shall learn to embrace with ever increasing tenderness.

Quite a few commemorations in October

Be forewarned: I have spent this week intensely studying liturgy, church, and ministry in the (sigh!) first century AD, and my brain is not exactly in top working order (if indeed it ever has been during the past ten years.) I'm mad about liturgical studies, and had hoped that this term's work would be about the 'early church' in the sense of 'first four centuries.' I was wrong... the syllabus was revised. Honestly, if I read speculation about what happened at baptisms in the days of Paul once more...

I think a digression is in order. October has a host of feasts and commemorations. The feast of Francis of Assisi; guardian angels (a topic I'd best not develop, because I'm still trying to discover how they communicate... I'm on a theophany kick this year); the rosary - it's a great month for the devotional.

Oddly enough, considering I have never had a devotion to her, Thérèse, whose feast is this week, is on my mind today. I could write reams on Carmelite spirituality, yet what is on my mind is Thérèse's strong and tenacious temperament. (...I must be getting old and tired... it just struck me that someone who was dead before she was half my age hardly had time to be tenacious...)

I have no idea why devotion to Thérèse is so popular - I would say that, next to Anthony of Padua, there is no saint to whom there is greater devotion, and I'm wondering how word of a contemporary saint went out so quickly. :) There are many Internet sites on which one can obtain much biographical information about her, yet there is one question that goes unanswered, and which one may not dare ask the devout lest they take it as a slight. Why was everyone associated with Thérèse, save for the priest superior of the Carmel, so totally dedicated to storming heaven to getting this 15-year-old to enter right away? (Please - don't tell me 'it was God's will' - that line is reserved to Pope Leo.) I shall not be noted for having much of an emphasis on obedience, yet it would seem to me that I would have told this kid that waiting a year (16 being still quite a tender age to enter into such an austere life) would be a nice opportunity to practise obedience and patience.

Knowing that Thérèse had a very appealing spirituality - and one in contrast to that of much of 19th century France, and drastically differing from that of her own mother - it warms my heart to realise that she not only could be quite a brat (I think her father was too worn out to correct a daughter by the time Thérèse arrived), but that she struggled not only with spiritual 'dark nights' but with nervous problems. (Devotees should be no more offended than are those of us who admit that Francesco and Caterina had their share of pathology.) Anyone who has had a breakdown is likely to see just about anything - including a smile on a statue of Mary.

There is one episode in Thérèse's life, which she describes in some detail in her autobiography, which I find perfectly delicious. Thérèse describes her 'conversion' (one quite heroic in the telling), when, as a teenager, she managed to smile despite the heartache of hearing Papa comment that the rituals of Pere Noel were very babyish for such a big girl. This amuses me all the more considering that, just at that time, Thérèse was avidly trying to enter one of the most austere Orders in the Church. I suppose a part of Thérèse would always remain childlike - considering she includes this gem in her writings as an adult. God grant us all the capability for such simplicity. (Don't tell anyone, but I, a far from childlike or sweet sort, always wish that Father Christmas would leave a few things for me till this day.)

Thérèse was a fascinating blend. She was so timid that, unlike most of her sisters, she was not able to bear attending school. Yet, despite all directions to the contrary, she asked Pope Leo himself to give her permission to enter the Carmel at 15. I, of course, am wondering why this was in her favour - in most religious Orders, then or now, questioning the rules or not being 'community minded' would be the ultimate black mark against one.

Some of the great trials (I do not mean tuberculosis or the genuine dark night - I mean things such as having water splash on her while washing her handkerchiefs) indeed make one smile when Thérèse describes them. Just how very spoilt she must have been at home comes through - during my days in working with the homeless, for example, I'd have been delighted if all with which I'd had to deal was some splashing water. But I am not laughing in mockery, only with warmth.

Thérèse would become famous for her 'little way' - taking whatever one has at the moment, and offering this to God. I may not care for her manner of expression, but her wisdom in this is phenomenal. Making the little offerings seems almost quaint, yet she reached heroic sanctity, despite horrid illness and spiritual emptiness, using that same principle.

Thérèse was a great lady. My imagery shall never be hers, but I hope that I come to the realisation of that 'little way'.

Edge of a precipice

Quote I had not read in some time, which was e-mailed to me today - from C. S. Lewis' The Weight of Glory:

“I think it important to try to see the present calamity in a true perspective. The war creates no absolutely new situation: it simply aggravates the permanent human situation so that we can no longer ignore it. Human life has always been lived on the edge of a precipice. Human culture has always had to exist under the shadow of something infinitely more important than itself. If men had postponed the search for knowledge and beauty until they were secure, the search would never have begun. We are mistaken when we compare war with "normal life." Life has never been normal. Even those periods which we think most tranquil, like the nineteenth century, turn out, on closer inspection, to be full of crises, alarms, difficulties, emergencies. Plausible reasons have never been lacking for putting off all merely cultural activities until some imminent danger has been averted or some crying injustice put right. But humanity long ago chose to neglect those plausible reasons. They wanted knowledge and beauty now, and would not wait for the suitable moment that never comes. Periclean Athens leaves us not only the Parthenon but, significantly, the Funeral Oration. The insects have "chosen" a different line: they have sought first the material welfare and security of the hive, and presumably they have their reward. Men are different. They propound mathematical theorems in beleaguered cities, conduct metaphysical arguments in condemned cells, make jokes on scaffolds, discuss the last new poem while advancing to the walls of Quebec, and comb their hair at Thermopylae. This is not panache: it is our nature. . . ."

I should like to write perhaps two paragraphs of the quality of Jack's before I die... unlikely, but one may hope. I studied his works intensely in my day - and he was such an intriguing personality as well as an exceedingly insightful writer.

I often have been irritated with myself, knowing how a desire for security kept me from being adventurous. I wonder if what troubles the believer most in this life is knowing that everything is always uncertain - we have no control over many events in this life.

I was speaking, earlier this week, of my dabbling in excessive charismatic pursuits and some of what today would be termed "New Age" in my young adult years. Another group with which I was acquainted - mostly priests and young religious - became very involved with Silva Mind Control. I was never as 'into it' as some of the others, but some of the ideas were dangerous, as I can see with hindsight.

Certainly, some of the Silva method, such as rejecting negative thoughts, can be valuable. How little we really do know of the mind - and I have no doubt that it can effect us physically as well. Focussing, cultivating the memory, discipline of thoughts (though, for my money at this point, I'll take John Cassian...), all are valuable. Yet there was another side - appealing, exciting, and, if I recall correctly, based on that we use only a certain, small percentage of our brain power normally. (It did not occur to me or any of the others to question whether it was possible to harness the rest of the mass and develop a super-brain. None of us were scientists, but all were intellectual sorts... Lord have mercy, if I could have ten time the brain power... what I could accomplish. But I digress.)

In the Mind Control training (as I noted, I had less than the others - today, I am grateful), there were several techniques which were supposedly able to counteract illness. Cancerous cells could be wiped out by the proper brain usage, in this presentation. I loved this prospect... until one of the lovely young priests who taught Mind Control was dead, of cancer, before he was 40. I am not about to discount mind-body connexions beyond anything of which we may be aware. Yet I believe I was not the only one who was somewhat shattered at realising that even those most trained in the method were not immune to agony.

One exercise in which I never participated (and never would) involved 'putting on another's head' and exploring what thoughts the other had. I have no notion of whether the impressions one receives are the others' true thoughts - and am more inclined to think that one can mistake one's intuitive sense for such 'insights.' If it were possible, I would think it totally invasive of another's privacy and highly dangerous. Yet if, as I suspect, it was not, how much more dangerous to believe we can see inside of another's mind.

None of the people I knew had anything but kind, loving motives. Those who wanted to see inside another's mind, or know the other's problems, believed that their own thoughts could, for example, wipe out another's disease, or that they could be available to others by knowing their needs. Satan is always that angel of light (and, when I say "Satan" here, I am not suggesting that anyone there was wicked! I mean the Accuser, the Tempter - the one who cleverly deceives. In fact, I think that I am talking more of the distractions of our own minds than of any wicked spirit in this context.)

I had another e-mail today, from my spiritual 'Abba,' who is poles from the sort of romantic, dryad and faun imagery that tends to keep me chasing after charms. He is a very blunt sort (...essential in a spiritual director... though I must admit that I sometimes wish I could have a little 'stroking'... which of course would not do the job...), and reminded me to stop with the interior monologues in order to be open to the dialogue with God that is the essence of my life of prayer. He reminded me of what he termed the 'Virtue of Surrender.'

Not terribly romantic - but it is Truth. Those of us who wish to have control we cannot have (and here I am not referring to the twisted use of power by the wicked, but the fairyland excursions of prayerful lovers who are afraid) ultimately must rest in the divine Heart. I have been most fortunate in having someone to help me 'see straight' - maybe, now at around the half century mark, there is hope for me. (If I take after my father's family, when I am 80 or so my heart will stop. If I take after my mother's, I'll be 104, wishing it would stop... so I should have some time ahead.)

It will never be easy for one like myself - I wonder if it ever will be accomplished. C. S. Lewis knew that struggle. He was multi-dimensional in his own personality - the sober and rational man who spoke, with seemingly great detachment, of suffering (until he faced intense suffering of his own) - the writer who could present 'mere Christianity' and the insights of Screwtape - but also one who wished to fall through a wardrobe and end up in Narnia.

San Gerardo mio, prega per me

The title of this post is a mere invocation asking the intercession of Saint Gerard Maiella, though there is a song with those very words as its refrain. Processions of people in southern Italy will be singing it - some in wonderful voices, others dreadfully but with fervour - a few weeks from now. My mother (and many of her relatives and friends) had a very deep devotion to Gerardo, an 18th century saint who was from the diocese neighbouring on her own.

Gerardo is the patron of expectant mothers - which may seem an odd situation for a Redemptorist lay brother. The reason is that he was unjustly accused (by a young woman whose affair with a prominent man could not be divulged) of fathering a child. This created quite a scandal, not only, of course, for Gerardo himself, but for his community. His superior, the great moral theologian Alphonsus Liguori, was unaware of Gerardo's innocence, because Gerardo would not inform him of the injustice of the accusation. The Redemptorist rule instructed brothers not to defend themselves if they were corrected wrongly... Gerardo was a very simple man, who would not have grasped that there are times when unjust accusations need to be refuted. (He also is patron of the unjustly accused.)

What distinguishes Gerardo from most modern (as opposed to mediaeval) saints is that he was known for being a channel of miracles during his lifetime. Some verged on the bizarre - my favourite being when he accidentally dropped a key into the well, lowered a statue of the Christ Child into it, and found, when he retrieved the statue, that it was holding the key. Much as my intellectual side makes me want to scoff at such tales, I'm afraid that I see another side. Perhaps, in a time and place (this is a region not that far from where Januarius' blood liquefies) where people are open to such manifestations, they can and do occur.

Gerardo was sickly and died before the age of thirty. There are no intellectual or ministerial achievements for which he is noted. But he is valued as a powerful intercessor, which I am sure is why he is such a well-loved saint (in many lands, not only Italy.)

The communion of saints, which has powerful theological aspects which I am not going to treat today, also reminds us that we, the Church, are 'all in this together.' The days when saints were widely invoked (and anchoresses pestered and remembered in wills) were those when people did not want to be alone with their fears, guilt, worries about family, concerns about their eternal happiness.

I wish I had my mother's simplicity in prayer. She would turn to Gerardo (her paisan, after all - those from the same region are especially likely to be invoked) as one would to a good friend, confiding worries and having them lessen by the mere fact of being shared.

Elizabeth Gerarda asks now: San Gerardo mio, prega per me.

When I was young and Gnostic

There has been an odd blend for me this weekend. I attended a discussion group for which the topic was Benedict VXI's "Eschatology," about which I've been rambling so much recently. I then put on one of my tie dye shirts and attended a street fair. One of the entertainments offered was an 'oldies' rock band - indeed a very good one - to my delight, even if the young going by were commenting "but they're old." However much the rest of the lyrics may not fit my situation, I found myself joining in as the band sang, "But I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."

Quite. Were I to lapse into the astrology and such which we all referenced when I was a young woman, I would remind others that I, as a double Capricorn, was born old and am living backwards. But I shall refrain, considering that I have since learnt that New Age (as it would be called today) dabbling is quite a serious distraction in the spiritual life. It tends to lean towards wanting to acquire special knowledge, or to have control over this earth to a degree that one cannot. Neither tends to lead one to true adoration.

I should like to preface my comments to follow with a 'disclaimer.' If, as Thomas says, the gift comes according to the manner of the recipient, I am not about to criticise the manner in which any Christian prays. Pentecostal glossalia may well be helpful to many - and the New Testament would make it appear that such always was the case. However, for me (and I'm sure for many others), the excesses of the charismatic movement during the years when I first loved tie dye shirts left much spiritual confusion to be undone.

With the virtue of hindsight, I can see several deficiencies which were quite common. There was no theology of discernment (if, indeed, there was much attention to theology at all, back in those days when most of us thought we had an individual, direct line to the Holy Spirit.) Emotion was mistaken for inspiration. Many of us did not hesitate to speak whatever thoughts came into our minds - thinking we were speaking in prophecy. Those who decided to engage in instant exegesis (...I was far too shy for anything such as that - I only tried to cure the sick) based the interpretation of scripture on impressions and emotional reactions.

It was rather thrilling to hear all of the 'testimonies.' Seldom did a week pass when there were not reports of physical or mental healing, relationships mended, God's having led someone who just knew he had a mission to the very people or places that made this possible. I would say that was what I found most appealing.

I was devout from childhood, and did not deny any doctrine - indeed, I said the Office and attended the Eucharist nearly every day. Yet I was sick to death of the image of a God who offers us only suffering in this life. (Yes, I have theological deficiencies here, but if Augustine can talk about his pears, I can talk about my ephemeris and so forth. I never could deal with evil and suffering, either.) I had a vague view, which at least seemed in accord with what I'd heard in sermons and classes, that God, for example, wanted Bernadette only to be happy in the next world, and wanted the poor little children in Fatima to have horrid sufferings (little Jacinta begging not to die all alone still makes me shudder.) He could do all things - perform any miracle - but was only inclined to do so (as far as temporal pains or needs are concerned - I'd grant he did give us grace to repent, even if, at that age, I was not aware I had to repent of anything) if he was on earth and trying to prove his divinity or in heaven and wanting to confirm who should be raised to the altars.

As far as I know, none of us young charismaniacs denied the Incarnation or thought that creation was the work of a Demiurge. Yet indeed we did tend towards gnosticism. We believed that we were superior to other Christians - that we had a knowledge and insight that had been infused and ways of defeating illness, pain, whatever. It was very comforting to me.

I have read and heard many excellent works about how, in Christ, death was defeated - the fear of death erased. Yet I was not, and still am not, afraid of being dead. If my religious beliefs are true, I shall be closer to God - if they are not, I'll be gone, and the sufferings of this life ended. (I do hope there is no reincarnation...) My fear is of suffering here, which I know God does not alleviate. My generation, even those of us who were working class, did not have the hardships our parents had known, but we were born after such occurrences as Auschwitz and Hiroshima. (I used to have nightmares of being in concentration camps.) For all the wonderful benefits of technology, mankind also had gained an unparalleled capacity for destruction. As well, for all that medical advances meant that life could be improved or lengthened in some cases, it terrified me (then as now) to know that one's agony could be prolonged.

Without going into detail, I shall add that my health was not the best. God had not yet healed me, but I knew he would once I asked in the right way, brushed up on my healing abilities, or showed him enough faith. (I was by no means the worst. I knew a few people, including one priest, who tried to raise the dead... even when they already were embalmed.)

Today, I am grateful to God that a combination of grace-filled situations during my middle age cleared up the remnants of the faulty theology and practise. (I have the same fears I had then - and still wish that I could find a way to have control over pain - but the gnosticism passed.) Laughing at myself for a moment, in a way I miss the romantic flavour.

Earlier this week, I promised you a story, so I shall deliver one now. There is an Italian legend that, when Peter and Paul were arriving in Rome, the god Pan sounded his horn, signalling to the old gods that they were to fade into the background - the new God was now going to reign. (I understand that a similar event caused the wee folk to become small, perhaps around the time that Joseph of Arimathea planted trees in Glastonbury.) The old gods (I remember an exquisite passage in Morris West, where he speaks of young lovers telling each other the old secrets of the dryads and fauns) are still there, though they accepted that their reign, as it were, had ended.

Well, this is not a part of the legend, but how very often we do worship the old gods (unaware, of course)! They were mankind at its worst with gruesome powers. They needed to be placated. They wanted all sorts of sacrifices.

We can see that this is not true of God. Yet it is very hard to believe that one who is omnipotent cannot (or will not) help us in temporal needs. And that, I am sure, is a pain that every believer, especially those who have persevered in prayer, faces eventually.

Middle age can mean finally admitting that there are no answers. Not much, perhaps - but I suppose an improvement over thinking I had them all, by direct inspiration of the Holy Spirit.

The value of 'story'

This is on my mind today, oddly enough, because it is the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. Loving popular devotions as I do (however weird - not that I embrace all of them myself), I still do regret that the images from sermons aimed at fostering such devotions often took on a life of their own, and the essential truths could be lost. Yet, equally, I think that the sort of devotions, grotesque though some of them were, which flowered in the Middle Ages have great value - because one could internalise truths which may have not matched the scriptural image but could have important implications in one's own life.

Moving from the sublime to the irritable for a moment, I well remember (this on the 'story' topic I hope to develop) a highly annoying girl with whom I attended college. I have never found a solid definition for what a 'jerk' is, but, were there a contest, I know she would have taken the grand prize. Her 'humour,' which she thought rich, was as stupid as it gets - but she never noticed that no one else laughed, because her priceless lines ("Did you hear Bing Crosby died?" "No, when?" "He froze to death singing White Christmas.") were followed by a cackling laugh on her part. It was a flat "Ha! Ha!" (short A), which gave no impression of mirth but much of derision.

S., for reasons that shall immediately become puzzling, was studying English literature, and had aspirations of becoming a writer. It is no wonder that she did not complete the course, and that the stories and plays she wrote were utter nonsense. In any discussion, in class or out, of any work of literature, woe to the person who uttered a word about theme, plot, characterisation, or any of the other elements to which one normally refers in such a setting. S. immediately would cackle, "It's only a story!," and this was followed by her dreadful, scornful laugh. One professor was quite noted as a teacher of creative writing, but S. could learn nothing in her class. When this professor handed back any of S's work, with the sort of comments most would find highly useful (...normally about theme, plot, characterisation and the like), they were wasted - cue for the cackling laugh and "it's only a story!"

As anyone (with this single exception) who has any interest in literature is well aware, there is no decent fiction that does not contain powerful truth. As well, legends, which are based on true events but have, shall we say, fictional embellishments, can contain more truth than the bare 'facts.'

In relation to the scriptures, may I say that I by no means think of the New Testament as 'fiction.' Yet I have learnt (I whose proficiency with hermeneutics required great practice - I keep slipping away into meditations) that it is quite important to consider what is happening in each account 'as story.' What truth was the author seeking to express? And of what value to his particular local church?

I remember chuckling over an Internet site's proclaiming RC scholar Raymond E. Brown a heretic because he denied the literal truth of the visit of the Magi. Those who condemned this great man apparently could not see that, if indeed the story of the Magi is not literally true, its essence is exquisitely powerful. The Gentiles gave homage to the King of Kings, after all.

Raymond Brown (a favourite of mine - and will those who love private devotions please recall that I value him for his expertise as a scripture scholar) makes an excellent point in his detailed commentary on the Infancy narratives. Too much popular devotion has focused on these events with an emphasis on Mary's psychological dispositions. For example, the Finding in the Temple becomes a study in how Mary felt when this cheeky kid disappeared for three days - and just what did she ponder in her heart afterwards? I am not knocking such speculation - indeed, I am sure that many a mother has found comfort in knowing that Mary herself had a child who could be a handful. Yet the essence, that Israel (Simeon, Anna, Zechariah, Elizabeth) had recognised the Son of God, and that now Jesus, just entering manhood, refers to 'his Father' and therefore acknowledges that status himself, can disappear as one wonders how on earth Mary got this formidable child to be obedient to her.

I am not one for pictures of swords passing through hearts - though a number of sermons, as far back as Anselm or more, were quite colourful in their treatment of those swords. Yet Mary's 'seven sorrows' are valuable, even if such an emphasis does not have to do with exegesis. They can remind us of Jesus' humanity - and of the sort of sufferings, common to the human lot, which both he and his mother would endure because of his vocation to proclaim the kingdom.

I am embarrassed of my own peasant dialect, yet how I should love (were I able to understand, of course) to have heard Jesus' salty Aramaic - or Peter's preaching in the slur of Galilee - or Paul's Greek with the flavour distinct to the Jew. I was trained to a certain refinement (much of which did not take, as I'm sure is obvious... but the Sisters from Cork did try their best), and love the openness of these great story tellers. Jesus' parables have the flavour of the pub and market - he had the gift, genius though he was, for reaching people 'where they were.' He was perfectly capable of engaging in the fiery debates of the synagogue - heavens, even at 12 he was amazing. Yet he was equally comfortable with those of his own class - speaking in vivid, earthy dialect and images.

Why do many fear allowing for literary forms and story in the scriptures? Oh, I'm perfectly capable of writing an historical treatment of this - but I'm using my pub and market voice today. To know that admission of 'story' is no threat to doctrine involves two important elements, I would say. First, the language of doctrine was born in doxology - and, indeed, much of it is perfect in that context and confusing otherwise. (I'm not about to explain the Trinity - yet I invoke them in every one of my prayers.) Second, and some of you will dislike this one, we need to remember that the scriptures were not the 'end' - that Christ, by the power of the Holy Spirit, speaks through his Church. I am not about to define just how this comes about, but tradition (in the true sense) is essentially exegetical. (I know, I know... when I was younger, I too pictured that Jesus told the apostles, "Happy Easter - I'm the Second Person of the Trinity" - then spent the next fifty days giving them an intensive course in theology, perhaps even in rubrics. I still am sad at times to think that "Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations," was an inspiration of the church rather than Jesus' own words...)

I think I may tell all of you a few stories in the days to come. Blessings for now. Blessed may He be.

Behold the Cross of the Lord

..flee, bands of enemies. The Lion of the Tribe of Judah, the Son of David, has conquered.

I suppose one could ponder the mysteries of the triumph of the Cross till doomsday - at which point one may finally have the answers. I love this feast, and only noticed today that the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows is the next day. Franciscans, of course, always think of Jesus' humanity - and of his being part of a family. :)

Previously, I mentioned being engrossed in Benedict XVI's "Eschatology." In quite an interesting treatment of the Litany, he mentions that 'evil' is not merely wickedness, but all that mankind fears (and this with good reason - certainly, if there ever were popes who doubted all of the misfortune in this world, let alone all the evil, it would not have been the past two.) Pestilence, famine, war - well, you all know the words.

Though I have not seen the film, nor do I intend to do so, I noticed on Yahoo today that yet another exorcism film is making box office records. What is the reason that so many are fascinated by exorcism? I do applaud William Peter Blatty's novel (of 30 years ago), but his book had theological depth. It explored faith, despair, and various other important points. It is quite different in some other treatments. People who may believe in nothing much seem very fascinated by the thought of demonic possession.

Myself? I am deathly afraid of the Evil One - and all the more ashamed to admit this. The last thing about which I care to think is demons. I remember a dear friend of mine, Tom, who was a Franciscan friar. He often read of exorcisms, and would become absorbed in Malachi Martin's book on that topic. Tom scoffed at my fear, reminding me that the power of Christ would protect us. Nonetheless, when an excited woman from the church brought in her nephew, who she thought was possessed (he was not - he had Tourette's Syndrome) and asked Tom to exorcise the demon, Tom moved the vestment rack to bar the door of the sacristy where he was seated a moment earlier.

I do not wish to give the Evil One too much credit. As mankind has proven since Cain and Abel were young, we are perfectly capable of every sort of violence on our own. I read an interesting passage recently regarding the Black Death, and the latter part was quite telling. The author said that the Plague was terrifying for how it could wipe out entire populations so quickly... where, in the twentieth century, mankind had the technology to do that for himself.

Most of our sins are from weakness and self-deception - indeed, needing divine grace to be overcome, but not true evil. Evil always involves deceit, violence, a thirst for power. It not only means a turning from the divine ways, but a hardening of basic human inclinations. It means reaching a point of having no conscience.

I suppose because my own life is centred on liturgical prayer, for some reason I am thinking of the Cross tonight in the context of public worship. Baptism - Eucharist - blessing of the dead - absolution, and so forth all bring in the Sign of the Cross. Interesting how, in our worship, the great High Priest's glory and suffering (the former my preference - I love the gospel of John) are constantly there. 'Take this cup away from me - this is my blood of the new testament.'

This is probably my worst post to date - mea culpa. Christus vincit - Christus regnat. More soon - pray for me. :)

Forgiveness

The readings at the Eucharist today, regarding anger and forgiveness (seventy times seven - surely a feat for the volatile Peter), impressed me deeply. I have no notion of how one truly goes about granting forgiveness, but perhaps one can begin by adapting Thomas Aquinas's definition of love: willing the best for the other.

Just this week, I was reading Papa Benedict's brilliant work, "Eschatology." (I'm sure you'll be hearing more about that from me soon.) For now, I'll mention one lovely sentence - he mentioned how "forgiveness turns guilt into love." I would say, with people that I love, that nothing reminds me of Christ more than forgiveness. But the definition there is sadly limited. Indeed, being granted forgiveness from another is one of life's greatest graces, and I believe strongly that the love we mortals have for one another is sacramental in a powerful sense. Yet the only time we tend to want or to grant forgiveness is if the incident which requires this involves a relationship we genuinely value.

I am of both working class and southern Italian background. I cherish many of the qualities which one gets from both - but sadly have to comment that neither fosters a forgiving attitude. Perhaps because the labouring classes are so often treated with contempt and injustice, the sort of vulnerability that comes with forgiveness is not a high priority. In fact, it often is taken to extremes. Even in cases where a problem may have resulted from a misunderstanding and could be resolved, acquaintances or even good friends can be 'shelved' for any slight. (My dad used to say, regarding those by whom one was wronged - even if they were not fully aware of having done the 'wronging' - 'bag'm!' How one 'bags' people is beyond me - but his years in the grocery business must have led to this term, much as I just found myself saying 'shelved.')

I am immensely proud of my Italian background - as certainly a musician, poet, artist, writer, and fervent Catholic would be. (Don't be put off by my leanings to the English Church - Italian Catholicism is very much like the C of E, as I'll develop in later posts. A land which had that many popes has no illusions about perfection at the top. We're anarchists, anyway.) Overall, I would say that it is a culture with a degree of responsibility (for family in particular - but close friends are also in that category), politeness, generosity, hospitality, and devotion to those in need (witness the societies formed to care for the poor and ill during the Counter Reformation) which is extraordinary. Yet honesty compels me to admit that forgiveness is not a strong point. (Some, here and there, are quite vindictive. For several millennia, the defence for murder was 'he had it coming to him.')

What family has not seen arguments or disagreements tear an extended family apart as everyone takes sides? What parish, or other religious institution, has not had times when the sense of community was torn to pieces in much the same fashion? And half the time no one even remembers how it all started. I am tempted to use the cliché "that is how wars start," but shall refrain because I just noticed the date of this post, and to do so would be quite tacky.

Forgive my playfulness, please. Yet I see a common thread. Forgiveness means vulnerability in cases that are not horrifying. (In those that are, it can mean horrid victimhood.) As I learnt (it takes nuns a while, but they normally catch on after being badly burnt), seeking to practise humility, charity, and acceptance often can make one known for weakness.

I hesitated to write this post, because so many nuts on the Internet spend too much time on the 'self help aisle,' and my ire is stirred when I receive e-mails from those who have 'guessed my secret.' (There are no secrets here - my life has no colourful traumas. But the readers of the self help crap take everything to mean what... it well might not.) On one occasion, I mentioned how my own 'principal defect' is anger (I'll not get into how this came up, but it was quite innocent, when I was reassuring someone who was terrified by her own weaknesses.) The ridiculous e-mail I received in response, where the assumption was that all anger comes from sexual abuse, made me hit the delete button quickly before I answered with excessive sarcasm. (It was the biggest online annoyance since I posted a silly comment about the reserve at Anglican coffee hours, by contrast with my Italian Franciscan days, and some self centred fool wrote me scads about her 'journey with Prozac,' and her conclusion that this drug could relieve me of the idea of 'imagined slights.' Get a life!)

With those who have hated us, or who have been cruel, it is very hard to think of how they never gave a care for the effect their actions would have. We do not value them personally - but we've suffered immensely from how they have used us. It's hard not to wish they'd burn in some version of Dante's Inferno. (And Lord did he target those who wronged him in mentioning who was in Hell...) Yet a betrayal from a trusted friend is perhaps ten times as painful.

We are aching for love - but, of course, cannot admit this today lest the self-help crowd think we are trying to manipulate them or indulge their lectures on how people hate 'the needy.' How much of my own rage is centred on my desire for love, acceptance, encouragement! Before my brain fizzled out in middle age, I spoke four modern languages (plus Latin), yet, for all of my verbal ability, I could never seem to get through to people whose love I dearly wanted, but who would not 'hear' me because they already had preconceived ideas of what I 'really' meant. (The line from Ecclesiasticus about forgiving ignorance was a balm... after the condemnation of rage.)

If we consider the full scope of what Jesus of Nazareth endured, his "Father, forgive them" becomes more powerful with each thought.

I could have written a meditation on forgiveness of which 'my mystics' would have approved. Yet I have shared this bit of disjointed rambling because, for all that we may struggle with anger, we can feel guilty about admitting this.

Thomas Aquinas left many a marvellous legacy to the Church. Cranmer left us with a daily admittance of the need for divine forgiveness - and that was not placed in the Prayer Book for decoration. So, as I recite my daily words of contrition, it often is a comfort to me to know that, according to the Angelic Doctor, just willing the best for the other will be a good beginning. :)

If we remember that there is much 'death' in this world beyond what that normally means, perhaps these words, again from Benedict, can be a useful meditation.

From Benedict's 'Eschatology':
'How can we describe that moment in which we
experience what life truly is? It is a moment of love,
a moment which is simultaneously the moment of truth
when life is discovered for what it is. The desire for
immortality does not arise from the fundamentally
unsatisfying enclosed existence of the isolated self,
but from the experience of love, of communion, of the
Thou. It issues from that call which the Thou makes
upon the I, and which the I returns. The discovery of
life entails going beyond the I, leaving it behind. It
happens only when one ventures along the path of
self-abandonment, letting oneself fall into the hands
of another. But if the mystery of life is in this
sense identical with the mystery of love, it is, then,
bound up.. with the Cross, with its interpretation of
life and death... Death is ever present in the
inauthenticity, closedness, and emptiness of everyday
life..(The failure to be with our true being) allows
the promise of life to evaporate, leaving only
banalities and leading to final emptiness...

(Benedict includes a section about how pain and
illness force us to face that existence is not at our
disposal, then continues.)

The same thing happens in the central region of the
human landscape: our intimate ordination towards being
loved. Love is the soul's true nourishment, yet this
food which of all substances we most need is not
something we can produce for ourselves. One must wait
for it. The only way to make absolutely certain one
will not receive it is to insist on procuring it by
oneself.. This essential can generate anger...
Conversely, we can accept this situation of
dependence, and keep ourselves trustingly open to the
future, in the confidence that the Power which has so
determined us will not deceive us.

And so it turns out that the confrontation with
physical death is actually a confrontation with the
basic constitution of human existence. It places
before us a choice: to accept either the pattern of
love, or the pattern of power. Here we are at the
source of the most decisive of all questions. This
claim of death upon us which we come across time and
again in media vita - are we able to receive it in the
attitude of trust which will usher in that fundamental
posture of love?...

The uncontrollable Power that everywhere sets limits
to life is not a blind law of nature. It is a love
that puts itself at our disposal by dying for us and
with us. The Christian is the one who knows that he
can unite the constantly experienced dispossession of
self with the fundamental attitude of a being created
for love, a being that knows itself to be safe
precisely when it trusts in the unexacted gift of
love. Man's enemy, death, that would waylay him to
steal his life, is conquered at the point where one
meets the thievery of death with the attitude of
trusting love, and so transforms the theft into
increase of life.'

How VERY unspiritual I can be...

I suppose that every blog needs some posts which are purely personal. I've decided to oblige, lest my readers think that I am in a perpetual haze of seeking Light and floating on the ceiling or something. The fact is: life in the anchorhold just is. Prayer, mostly liturgical - long hours at the books - manual labour (my least favourite part) - and trying to cherish the solitude while, at least sometimes, inwardly wishing the loneliness would ease.

As those following my saga are aware, I moved into a new flat on the 24th. It's adequate for one person, certainly (three rooms, not a studio), and I'm gradually getting used to that, if I sit back in the computer chair, I may tumble into the bed. The location is good - bus and train nearby, stores walking distance. For a Franciscan, this is nearly a palace. It is a late Victorian building, once a home for a family and their servants, now split up into six flats. I have what probably was the servants' quarters (though, when I commented about this to the man who fixed the faucet, he said "it was probably just the cellar.")

But I'll reveal that I do have to whinge a bit. I'm not all that fond of housekeeping, but am meticulous about the cleanliness of kitchen and bathroom. It is taking me some time to adjust to that I must share the latter with the cat, who tends to need the loo just when I'm about to relax in a hot tub. Talk about destroying the one sensual moment of most of my days... The bathroom/toilet is directly next to the kitchen, and neither have windows, so I have this odd feeling that I am spending half my life either dumping the cat's box, sponging the floor, or burning incense (it is lavender or vanilla, but, somehow, in the close quarters, has a scent which makes it seem I'm smoking cannabis.)

Between all the lifting, carrying, and climbing up and down the back stairs, my back aches and my feet are badly blistered. Which makes me want to sink into a hot tub full of aromatherapy oils... which serves as the cue for the cat to need to crap once again.

The 'absent-minded professor' is no myth, as I've proven countless times during my life. I celebrated my first night here by setting off the smoke alarm - I'd put in toast, accidentally hit a button that cancels the toasting with my elbow, then absently just pressed the toast down again.... Later, I knocked over the cat food when I plugged the nice little canister vac I just bought into the outlet I did not realise was quite so near the canister. After a long struggle with dust pan and vac, I went to put the vac away... accidentally grasping, not the handle, but the part that releases the rubbish. So, back to the floor, which was now decorated not only with about a week's worth of cat food but all the dust and such that I'd picked up in the first place.

Lest anyone think I am unaware of the problems in this world, I not only most definitely am, but spend part of my day holding them close in prayer, whether war in the East or water devastation in the far West. I am fully aware that much of the world would be delighted to have what I do, and I am indeed very grateful. Were I doing as I was trained, and 'setting a good example,' I'd say that silly things such as those bothering me do not matter. Yet I think it is important to admit that often they do! The adjustment is hard, and I'm exhausted, depressed, and anxious. So, if anyone has read this far, I ask for your prayers.

Late have I loved Thee..

"O Lord, do I love Thee. Thou didst strike on my heart with Thy word and I loved Thee.... But what do I love when I love Thee? Not the beauty of bodies nor the loveliness of seasons, nor the radiance of the light around us, so gladsome to our eyes, nor the sweet melodies of songs of every kind, nor the fragrance of flowers and ointments and spices, nor manna and honey, nor limbs delectable for fleshly embraces. I do not love these things when I love my God. And yet I love a light and a voice and a fragrance and a food and an embrace when I love my God, who is a light, a voice, a fragrance, a food, and an embrace to my inner man.... This it is that I love when I love my God...

That same voice speaks indeed to all men, but only they understand it who join that voice, heard from outside, to the truth that is within them. And the truth says to me: "Neither heaven nor earth nor any body is thy God." Their own nature says the same They see that the substance of a part is less than that of the whole. And now I speak to thee, my soul. Thou art my greater part, since thou quickenest the substance of my body by giving to it life, which no body can give to a body. And thy God is the life of thy life to thee....

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new! Too late have I loved Thee. And lo, Thou wert inside me and I outside, and I sought for Thee there, and in all my unsightliness I flung myself on those beautiful things which Thou hast made. Thou wert with me and I was not with Thee. Those beauties kept me away from Thee, though if they had not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break down my deafness. Thou didst flash and shine on me and put my blindness to flight. Thou didst blow fragrance upon me and I drew breath, and now I pant after Thee. I tasted of Thee and now I hunger and thirst for Thee. Thou didst touch me and I am aflame for Thy peace...."

Undoubtedly, I shall be writing more of my good friend Augustine in honour of his upcoming feast. For today, I (who only read this passage 100 times a year for the past three decades) am thinking that Augustine captured the essence of detachment in this passage. I'm sure it would have occurred to him that Jesus of Nazareth's curing the blind and deaf on earth, wonderful though it was, was an action more pointing to how divine grace can remove our own, figurative inability to hear and to see.

(Slight diversion which a medievalist cannot resist: Augustine would say that the Incarnation came about through Mary's hearing. Those more literal than Augustine would adapt this into fanciful and delightful pictures of the tiny Jesus-foetus sliding down a beam of light into Mary's ear as she encounters Gabriel... so, now we know how the virginal conception was managed...)

Now, shall I detach myself from mediaeval fancies. :) The very word 'detachment,' which was stressed by every great spiritual writer since the catacombs, always made me shiver a bit. Candidly, I have known a few religious in my day who used 'detachment' as a way to glorify their own coldness and indifference to others (God protect anyone from superiors who brag of their detachment... and indulge their cruelty saying it is 'good for the soul.') Far more commonly, and as anyone who's spent time in convents knows, the concept as explained in noviciate was (in practical application, not necessarily 'text') likely to produce a wimpled Stepford Wife. None of us had the slightest concept of detachment then - and my earlier confession about Augustine's words shows that, well into middle age, I'm only beginning to 'get it.' It seemed to mean that one loved no one, and insisted that one's own family did not really matter (even if we made the sacrifice, for their edification, of seeing them on visiting day.) It meant living with raging hunger yet pretending one did not want the apple - being dead on one's feet, and making sure one signed up to sit the vigil from 3-4 AM - of having an expressionless face that was supposed to be recollected but made one look more like a frightened, prissy little fool.

(By now, it is probably apparent that I was never the darling of novice mistresses, but that is another topic for another day.)

My own spiritual director (who shall have a seat in heaven next to Francis of Assisi for not giving up on me) speaks of detachment as being freed from distractions. "Late have I loved" even making the effort of being freed, though this is the true ascetic life. Ever since Satan whispered to Eve, "is it true you cannot eat of any tree in the garden?," distortion and fear are the main distractions. I know that I can be sent into a near panic, whilst offering prayers of gratitude for my solitude, fearing that no one will ever love me because God wants me behind a grille (of sorts), or that I'll lose my warmth and caring for others...

My rare display of humility this evening (...please, don't be so literal... I know full well that humility is not my strong point...) is intended for those readers (who write the loveliest e-mails) who are just getting past their honeymoon period in the life of prayer. (Don't think I should not like to recapture mine! However, I have had a sense, from dealing with my married friends, that honeymoons do fade, and that anyone seeking a perpetual one is soon acting like a half-wit. In the end, it is all about covenant and responsibility.) I can write of 'my' mystics, and of Francis, et al, see their insights, and believe every word. (That anyone, knowing Francis, could think that one's warmth, love, or passion will fade with growth in the spiritual life is amazing. I just hope, with all the sad state of the Near East at the moment, I do not take Francis' tack and try to convert modern day equivalents of the Sultan...)

Why is what is simplest beyond us? The best capsule course in ascetic theology which I have seen was Margaret Mary Funk's "Thoughts Matter in Practising the Spiritual Life." Using John Cassian's principles, she explains the gentle moderation that actually underlines clearing us from distraction. (Fledgling religious may skip this sentence: I am only beginning to see that it is work for three lifetimes. I have this vivid mental picture of how people who are drowning will struggle in such a fashion that they sometimes need to be knocked out for a companion to save their lives...)

Augustine always pined for the control of reason and will mankind would (in his estimation) have had in Eden. He ached for that intuitive longing for God's will, knowing how much we do fall short. The error which we all tend to make is to believe that there was a Paradise (in the sense of perfect bliss on earth.) We long for that form of Paradise - believing that a world without pain, suffering, evil, and so forth would make us respond to God's will. (Didn't work too well with Adam, did it?)

Sigh... I'm going nowhere, or perhaps in too many directions. "Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped..." Perhaps Augustine, even as early as the Confessions, had the inkling that (as Thomas Aquinas would later well express) it is the will which can choose and love. I'm only beginning to truly see this - and it is off-putting. God seems vague, remote, so incomprehensible that all there is can be silence.

...Silence is hardly my natural state. Quiet until tomorrow...

The Sound of Music

Clearly, the sound of music is something which I could not go without for a day... but this post, uncharacteristically, refers to the dreadful musical "The Sound of Music." I appeared in a production of this play, as the Mother Abbess, some years ago. It was not the easiest role for me, given that the nuns in this show are along the lines of cartoon characters. During both "How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria?" and "My Favourite Things," I felt my dignity was severely compromised. But the director wanted an operatic singer for the "Climb Every Mountain," and I was happy to oblige.

The theatre company's director also happened to be a teacher in a Catholic, women's college, of which I was a graduate. As a treat for the nuns there, she had invited all of them (and it was quite a large number) to be guests at the first performance. They were lovely ladies - but led to two of my most uncomfortable 'stage moments'!

The first was during the scene where the stern Abbess is reminding Maria that disappearing on the mountain (...I'd like to see a convent where that could even happen, let alone be tolerated...) had caused great worry to the nuns. I am very short, have the cheeks of a cherub, and was perhaps 23 at the time, and it indeed was quite an effort to get my pint-sized self into the demeanour of an aged Austrian Benedictine. (As well, though any child could see that I am a marshmallow in ten seconds, I am somewhat stern looking now and then.) Well, when I (as the Abbess) informed Maria that she was going to be the Von Trapp governess, Maria's response was, "A Captain in the Navy? Oh, Reverend Mother, he'll be very strict!" The audience of nuns roared with laughter.

Yet the worst was yet to come. Silly though this show can be, it is far from that in the climactic scene where Maria speaks with the Abbess and acknowledges her love for the Captain. For those who have not seen the play, I'll mention that, at that point in the action, Maria has left the Von Trapp home, with no explanation, and has been at the abbey for several days, refusing to speak to anyone. (As is sadly the case with adaptations of the life of Christ and other historical incidents, the impact can be slightly less than adequate because everyone knows how this story turns out.) When the Abbess questions her, Maria, who still intends to be a nun, speaks of how her conflict is "torturing" her. Maria mentions that she would be "ready at this moment to make the vows..." The nuns in the audience broke into such uproarious laughter that I think both the actress playing Maria and I were a bit thrown!

To prevent this entry from being purposely useless, I shall add: it is a good idea to remember that perspective colours everything. :)

Group reunions

This shall be one of my more frivolous posts, though I'm sure I'll manage to tie it into some relevant matter along the way. I am at the age where thinking of the past generally falls into three categories. The first, which I call 'rose coloured glasses syndrome,' paints a vivid picture of one's earlier days as a time of esteem from others, happy times, and successes of every variety. I suppose this is all right, provided it does not make one's life seem either to have been a string of failures since or lead to the creation of a world where everyone whom one once knew is sitting in the evenings, reminiscing about how wonderful one was and what influence one had.

The second is regret for the past and all of one's mistakes. Oh, some of this is quite useful, in the appropriate dosage - I think even the general confession has its uses. But this approach tends to either cast one in the role of a villain when this was not the case - or to fill one with regret for missed opportunities which, in all likelihood, did not exist.

The third is nostalgia, which I'm sure was characteristic of mature years, and not a problem in itself, since shortly after mankind left Eden. (Pining for Paradise is an unequalled regret which, most fortunately, few of us, except for Augustine, would have imagined since.) There are many changes in the world which I sadly, even bitterly, regret, and I'm sure I am not alone. The only danger in nostalgia, when not taken to extreme, is that one may believe one could recapture the happiness by re-creating the circumstances of 30 years ago.

I have often said that, where many people in middle age and beyond have memories that are in 'photograph mode,' my own mind is a video camera. It is possible to look at a picture of a 'senior party' and remember it as an enchanting occasion - a prospect which is impossible if a video captured the image of one's having been in tears or telling jokes which one thought hilarious at the time.

I suppose that part of the reason I can miss things about the past without glorifying my youth is that my areas of special interest (humanities, music, theology and so forth) require many years to develop. I doubt I'll ever acquire wisdom, being far too romantic at heart, but know that those who do are only getting started at age 50. I valued maturity and still do, so I was spared the pain of weeping for my lost youth at 20, then living in a state of anxiety, at 40, that I may have lost my youthful beauty and charm.

I have never attended a group reunion, but know many people who have. It does contain an element, normally reserved to one's young adulthood today but nobly enshrined in the courtly love tradition of the Middle Ages, where the anticipation far exceeds the fulfilment. I'm sure we all remember the formal affair, masquerade party, whatever, which we so eagerly awaited at 16. I have noticed that reunions give promise of a delighted time with old friends (and rekindling of old friendships for today), seeing one's school chums share one's delight in what has transpired in one's life since, and, best of all for those with minds which are not only 'photographs' but taken with a series of complex filters, being reminded of how much one was admired by the others.

When others who have attended reunions tell me of it later, the most common comment is along the lines of 'after five minutes' (sufficient time to show photographs of one's children and grandchildren, and to perhaps mention one's current address, occupation, or cat's name) 'there was nothing to say.' I've known cases where, if "Alice" is aglow thinking of seeing "Shirley," her closest friend at 15, again, Alice will later be saddened to realise that Shirley has not thought of her in years, and does not even remember the time they shopped for silver shoes together.

Of course, sometimes to have people barely remember one is quite merciful. All too often, one indeed shall be remembered... and the memories consist of whatever one would most like to forget (and, indeed, probably did manage to forget.) I have no answer for this one, though it is a topic worthy of pursuit should I ever fully develop my philosophical sense: people not only tend to remember the worst of things about others, but seem to assume that the other will greatly enjoy being reminded of them. Memories of the more positive matters often backfire as well. One lady I knew, who was quite a beauty in her youth but is not particularly attractive today, was saddened at how several people said she 'used to be so pretty,' made the worse with the comment about 'how did she let herself go.'

Perhaps it does happen, but, to date, I have yet to hear of a reunion which led to joyous resumption of past friendships. (Cases where people actually have been in touch over the years, or have had continued involvement with a school, are in another category.) I suppose that, by the half century mark, we should be resigned to that, even when we liked people and enjoyed their company immensely, often our extensive social contact was an indirect result of being involved in the same school, organisation, or other pursuit. Yet I have known those who had such experiences as having a brief hello from a girl to whom they once proposed marriage.

Some of the people who were considered 'winners' during their youth (or who no one would ever have admitted were trying, given the need for group approval at that age) would be exasperating today, assuming they still are as they were then. I remember one fellow, actually quite a good comic actor, who could be hilarious to watch on stage. In social settings, he was always 'on,' and it was de rigeur to rave about just how much he was the best thing about a party. I am sure I am not the only one who found him tolerable for about five minutes. Every other person, it seemed, was merely a starting point for his ridicule, and perish the thought he was not at centre stage for every moment. Heaven knows what he is like today - but one can only hope that he is not still the sort who, during a performance of Frank Langella's 'Dracula,' would shout (at the critical climax when Dracula hurls an object and breaks the mirror in which his reflection cannot be seen) "Seven years bad luck!"

Much as we'd hate to admit it, we really never did know what others thought of us at that age. (We may not now, but that is another topic.) The devoted friends we try to remember from our teenage years were far more likely to be a fickle bunch. The obligatory laughter at the sort of clown I mentioned in the previous paragraph would turn to discussions of what a fool he was in a later conversation. My generation was not one for Victorian traditions of introductions, 'beaux,' and dance cards - and one knows full well what was said about the girl who was 'popular.' This is a mere fact of life, also as old as the earth, but, where we would not be likely to be surprised at this action in our friends' teenaged children, recognition could be sad if, since we were that age, we thought we'd had undying admiration and loyalty.

A few years ago, I saw an Internet discussion forum for 'baby boomers' advertised. I paid the site a visit, imagining fun in sharing memories of the Beatles, fashions, films, and the like. The reality was a collection of frumps, discussing such exciting and fun topics as 'preventative health care' and saving for retirement. I'd be totally out of place at a reunion. I tend to inwardly laugh at people who are trying to be impressive in any case, but would not be able to dispense the expected applause to anyone whose 'accomplishments' had to do with developing hypochondria, exploring the 'self help' aisle, or deciding to wage war against the evils of asparatame. Anyway, even assuming anyone had memories of when I was, for example, a very promising musician would be far more likely to either comment on how fat I am or (based on reunion stories I have heard from friends) remember the time I cried after a performance far more than the performance itself.

Lest this silly entry not contain at least one religious reference, I shall add that, one of these days (probably within a century or two), young scholars will be looking over accounts of things liturgical (or otherwise churchy) and wishing they'd been around during the 1970s. And well they might have such a feeling - because there indeed can be benefits from even the weirdest situations that are recognised only with hindsight. I wonder what they'll be thinking in 500 years? I've studied the mediaeval period in far too much depth not to wonder why people, much later, had happy dreams of knights and ladies... no Plague, no peasants' revolt, no sewage in the street...

Yet another silly fashion observation

Bear with me once again. :) Occasional lapses into the realm of silly are quite necessary to the spiritual life and any other, a fact sadly neglected since the demise of the miracle play and 'boy bishop.' I am in the midst of having a marvellous laugh at the concept of Wait Wear, of which I'd seen mention on another site. (Don't miss it - it should be your best laugh in weeks.) Apparently, many of the young interpret chastity in quite another manner than was traditional. Not that anything about lapses in chastity is new - but I do not recall, in my youth, that the version of not having sex that is ... similar to that used by Bill Clinton was considered particularly pure. Many of my generation - post-contraception, pre-AIDS - laid everything but the Channel Tunnel, but at least called a bonk a bonk.

"Wait Wear" is a selection of knickers with a message. What a fool I am... here I would have thought that women who were silly enough to think it appropriate to broadcast chastity (don't read my words here with uplifted eyebrows - see the Wait Wear site first) would equally broadcast such ... messages. Innocent that I am, I would have thought that those trying to be chaste would not have had anyone reading their underpants in the first place.

My love for fashion is no secret, even if my own sense is totally centred on personal style (which I'm sure, in my case, some would think weird - I know not all women my age would cherish the tie-dye velvet I'm wearing in the photograph.) My sense of justice also reminds me that comments from the middle-aged on the fashions popular with youth, which never were accurate, are particularly inappropriate from those of my generation. (I suppose I could sub-title this post "brought to you by the makers of 'evening hot pants.') Yet I have noticed a very recent and apparently popular trend, I'm sure encouraged by the fashion industry, that has me exceedingly puzzled. Though I doubt advertisements for this style use the phrasing that I shall employ, why is it suddenly considered attractive, and presumably alluring, for young women to walk the streets in their underwear? I saw a group of pretty young things this week, wearing underwear for a blouse and making certain that observers also had a clear view of their thongs.

This does not happen to be an expression of outraged modesty. Modest I am indeed - and I'm romantic enough to think that modesty would have the potential to be quite alluring properly used, not that I would have that goal. :) It is a sigh from an outraged fashion sense.

I am far from being any authority on things romantic, and such knowledge as I may possess is purely theoretical. It is my theory that silks and laces for lingerie could have great potential for making a woman feel more attractive, sensual, whatever. (Oh, good heavens, don't shake your head so! There is more than one meaning of sensual - and the sensual is important in any life. For those of us in 'anchorholds,' it centred on classical music, paintings, and aromatherapy baths.) I have the idea that such items as a pretty chemise can, in the appropriate circumstances, be quite valuable in the manner in which presenting a gift is all the more delightful when it is in lovely wrapping. (I have a vaguer sense that the male will have the exact same attitude towards the gift wrapping that people have towards the wrappings on other gifts, and use precisely the same action, but am not qualified to expound.)

Somehow, the gift wrapping loses its appeal when it is ten for a penny. The present then is placed on a level with the free samples of cheap bath gel that are passed out in front of stores.

I weep for this generation. It is not their morality that brings the tears, but the sad conviction that they have no style. ;)

A most valuable Assumption

That pun is one of my worst, but I shall let it stand. I'm a bit worn - moving house is exhausting for the best of us, and the 'advice' (...that is, gloom of the 'always expect the worst' school, which people somehow so love to dispense) is more exhausting yet. I'm sure I shall be forgiven if I get a little creative in my thoughts about the feast of (take your choice) Saint Mary the Virgin - the Assumption of Our Lady - the Dormition. By all means, see Father Gregory's very insightful words on the subject. They are relatively brief, but capture more about what is essential in the ascetic vocation than I normally manage to fit on a ream of paper.

For all my love of the patristic writers, I know relatively little about Orthodoxy. (Most of that I learnt from Gregory, but that's another topic for another post. If I ever should drop out of minor stiff upper lip mode and decide to become totally Italian for a few posts, I'll undoubtedly start blubbering about my two co-contributors and how valuable they have been in my spiritual life to a degree that would be quite excessive - unless I chose not to write in English.) Yet a few things do strike me. In the western Church (Roman Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, and whoever else is Catholic out there), somehow the ascetic vocation is slightly embarrassing. :) I'm not about to expound here on the history of this (though, fear not, snippets will appear in later entries), but our preoccupation with original sin and fallen nature tends to bring images of hell and punishment. The East has an advantage in another area as well. I do not sense the uncomfortableness with the physical aspects of creation (the Incarnation at the top of the list) which always dims the Western perception of the Light of the World. (I cannot imagine that, were Edward Schillebeecx Orthodox, he'd ever have been acclaimed for reducing the Resurrection to the disciples' 'experience of forgiveness,' for example. But I don't want to be unkind... I've disliked his 'disincarnation' views ever since he said that monastic life could die out with a proper understanding of the theology of marriage... Get me another gin!)

For all my deep affection for Augustine, his preoccupation with our fallen nature left the western church with an uneasy approach to creation. (I'm not referring only to Augustine's using sexual images to illustrate just how far we had fallen. Unlike Augustine, that area is not what the mediaeval theologians would have called my 'principle defect.' However, I suppose Augustine's longing for a world where he'd have total control over his sexual urges, thereby not having passion compromise his use of reason and will at any time, is not so far from my own version, where everything is Victorian, romantic, tea gowns and champagne - no sweat, grunts, or the nuisance of such things as menstruation and labour pains. It is fortunate we both ended up celibates.) We believe creation is good, indeed, but that it could have been perfect - no pain, no earthquakes, etc. - had we not fallen. Thomas Aquinas (and don't think I don't love him) gave an impression that mankind, in falling, messed up the original plan, requiring the Creator to move to an alternate...

The Dormition, as Father Gregory explained, does not need to be connected to original sin, and to death as some sort of failure. All right, blame the Franciscans (my own Order) for the Immaculate Conception... got Aquinas on that one, did they not? :) But Franciscans, awkward though their preaching could be in catering to the popular market, always did emphasise the Incarnation (and our deification) more than concepts of atonement. They glorified Mary as one whose body was a tabernacle, and connecting the Dormition with the Immaculate Conception would not have had the element of salvation from hell fire and the like. (Be kind to Francesco in calling his body 'Brother Ass.' He was preoccupied with his sins, often excessively so, and was concerned with how he'd misused his own temple of the Holy Spirit.)

In all Marian devotion, there are two elements which must be considered. First, all beliefs about Mary are connected directly with Christology. Second, Mary represents the Church. This is not to say that I disbelieve in the literal truth of such dogmas which date from the early centuries of the Church. Yet I believe they have their depth only when we recall how Creation, magnificent but glorified all the more in Christ's assuming the nature of a creature, can be (I'll borrow this from the Orthodox, perhaps wrongly) an icon. Truths which are beyond us can be made clearer, with allowance for our human limitations, when expressed in the physical.

Mary's perpetual virginity, an embarrassment today to those who want to blame the doctrine for every sexual hangup and act of misogyny in history, is very powerful, if we remember that virginity (of the perpetual and committed, not 'true love waits' variety) is eschatological, pointing to that there is more to our existence than what is on earth alone. I'm not suggesting, of course, that belief in this dogma is essential in the manner that truths about Christ and the Trinity are - nor is it part of our creed. Yet what a wonderful image! In this virginity, Mary (who, you'll recall, always is an image of the Church), reminds us of the Church in eschatological expectation, waiting for all to be glorified at the parousia.

I cannot hope to match what Gregory wrote of the Dormition. However, it moves me deeply to think of Mary's being an icon yet again - a reminder of what is eternal, how we all can expect the resurrection, how our bodies shall be glorified in Christ.

I'm getting too disassociated here, so I suppose it is best to stop for the moment. Yet, when I get to the Eucharist next, I'm going to call the Dormition to mind when I recite, (I believe) "in the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting."

Awkward and brief tribute to Lady Poverty

Happy, indeed, is she to whom it is given to share this sacred banquet,
to cling with all her heart to Him.
Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts admire unceasingly,
Whose love inflames our love,
Whose contemplation is our refreshment,
Whose graciousness is our joy,
Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing,
Whose remembrance brings a gentle light,
Whose fragrance will revive the dead,
Whose glorious vision will be the happiness of
all the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem.
-Clare of Assisi

Indeed, this life is unpredictable. I had fully intended to develop a (long overdue) essay on Clare, or, at the very least, to prepare a meditation for the blog. Yet my mind is rather muddled today. The strain of moving house is exhausting, but nothing compared to the images in my mind after watching today's world news, and wondering if a certain world leader is about to seek to use atomic warfare to prove how powerful he is.

I'm too weary to develop a full reflection, but, ever since Michael ('who is like unto God?') cast Lucifer from the heavens, why has the nature of created, intelligent beings always been twisted by the desire for power?

I remember, some years ago, some creative ramblings (the name of the book I do not recall) to the effect that Francis and Clare were rebellious kids, somewhat on the order of 1960s protesters. (That I should like to see more spirit in protest, and not on 'safe' topics such as eliminating smoking, I shall save for another thread.) Though both, to borrow the apt words of Mother Mary Francis ("A Right to be Merry"), walked at right angles to the world, my inclination is to think that Clare, like myself, was quite a sanitised hippie. :)

Clare's embrace of poverty, at first glance, can seem chilling to most. I did not grow up in extreme poverty (though my parents had), and always had necessities of life - though I dare say not what those from more prosperous homes would have considered 'necessary.' I suppose I always was puzzled by those who devote themselves to the pursuit of wealth - they never seem satisfied, and will make anything take second place to having more material goods. But poverty, even when one was not dying in the street, had a bleak side. It meant having no choices - even those like myself, with university degrees, seldom had the ability to use true gifts, because of the pressing need to take any job just to survive. It too often became just working and working and working - not in a creative or satisfying mode, not even with avenues for service. Everything was sheer survival.

The core of vowed poverty is eschatological - with the lives of those so consecrated as icons to the oft-forgotten truth that there is more to creation than this earth. The poverty of the Poor Clares was (and is) beyond that which most would care to embrace. My own convent days (though I was not cloistered), for all of their good aspects, nonetheless involved constant, ravenous hunger - weakness and fatigue - taking three times as long to complete (for example) simple household tasks because, by the time a cloth was granted the high status of 'rag,' it was transparent.

Sorry to make this post so miserable - that is not my intention. I am trying to express that Franciscans really do 'live poor.' At its best, this is very liberating.

The 'other side' of poverty, and one which can grow only quietly (extremes destroy it), is gratitude. It tends to foster an awareness of all of the good of creation, and thankfulness for the simple things we do have.

I am beginning to see that gratitude is the way to the sort of detachment that is holy. That is a topic I must pursue... but, again, that may take another quarter century (if I live that long.) The convent version of detachment meant pretending that the bit of time with family on visiting day was a sacrifice for their sake - excessive rigidity and formality - cultivating the expression of a sphynx to give the impression of being 'recollected.' May I know what any of that means before I die! (And know all the more afterward.)

Blessings for the feast of Clare.

Argue 'by the rules'

I was looking at Father Gregory's blog today, and would encourage those who wish to see an Orthodox (capital O) viewpoint regarding the C of E decision to ordain female bishops to visit.

There are many reasons why one might support the ordination of women or not (and since priesthood is an extension of episcopate rather than vice versa, it follows logically that, if women can be priests, they can be bishops). The path of this argument, which position one chooses, is well worn, so I'll not explore it today. My 'topic' is two-fold. First, by all means argue any theological point in creation - but use the proper basis. Second, do not hide behind my 'old friend' Freud and decide that those with a point of view differing from one's own are using their contrary position as a 'subconscious' cloak for a defect on their part. (Positions on the order of 'Suchandsuch surely would agree with me were s/he not flawed' are odious.)

Individuals who support or oppose the ordination of women may have perfectly solid theological grounds (based in sacramental theology, ecclesiology, or both). I myself have never seen a reason that women could not be ordained, though priests, of either sex, need to be accepted as such by the Church - there is no 'right' to priesthood. (I mention this only because I read something by Andrew Greeley, an occasional bag of wind who is intelligent enough to know better than to make such statements, which pleaded that the reason US nuns cannot be priests is that they cannot violate the sacred 'separation of church and state' and sue their employer for discrimination...) Yet I find it highly irritating when anyone who opposes women's ordination is tarred with a brush of 'he uses theological grounds - but they are only rationalising - he subconsciously is a mysogynist.'

As I've treated of in other posts, I believe that self-deception is the key reason that any one of us falls short of virtue. Indeed, we do need to explore our personal motives for our actions. Yet deciding what is going on in another's 'subconscious' (is that possible? not that I really care) is nonsense.

I frankly am sick to death of quasi-theological arguments which fit everything into one mould. For example, the Roman Catholic positions on contraception, priestly celibacy (in the Latin Rite), the ordination of women, and divorce all have different reasons - they were not cooked up in a vicious kettle of 'let us see what we can do to oppress women today.' (I am a mediaevalist and have studied the patristic era in depth, so this must not be taken to mean I am ignorant of misogyny. But it must not be assumed that Rome opposes divorce because patristic hermits, who had complex ideas about our growing closer to God if we only could be like angels, saw women as a threat. You'll ask what the logic is in that... my point is that there is none.)

It is fine with me if the last sound on this earth before the last judgement is that of well-reasoned theological arguments. (At the general judgement itself, I suppose, the last words will be largely either "but the bugger had it coming to him," "I thought I was justified," or "but we didn't really do it.") Yet I wonder if my own purgatory would be to sit in the company of those who play to the popular 'market' - spouting political correctness, pious sentimentality, or clichés. Using the words of the Bible to justify what the Bible says - using 'fidelity to the magisterium' to justify the same - tucking controversial issues (and I mean 'issue' in the true sense, not as the current and annoying euphemism for 'problem') into a package of "oppression of women" or other politically correct jargon.

If one's actions indeed make one guilty of oppression, it does not matter whether the one oppressed is male or female. Cruelty is not less so because the target has light skin. The poor do not suffer less because of their race or sex. Critical (or fatal) diseases are not less important, or less the reason for compassion and service, if they do not happen to be breast cancer.

Hating or oppressing another for any reason is deplorable - please do not think that I am minimising the evils of true racism, sexism, and the like. But such hatred must not be assumed because one's views do not coincide with what is currently considered 'inclusive.'

...sigh... Had God not placed certain gifts in a flawed vessel (I'm referring to health, not sex!), I might have been a wonderful priest... :) .... but I would never be envious of anyone who had the peculiar burdens of being a bishop.

I know you believe you understand what you think I said...

but I am not sure you realise that what you heard was not what I meant.

I cannot recall where I read the line I used to begin this entry - it sounds like the sort of thing I must have seen printed on a shirt or something. Yet, though it momentarily seems silly, it reminds me of a situation I have seen on countless occasions. People seldom really listen, and confuse 'listening' with just picking up on key words in order to share their response.

In "The Spiral Staircase," Karen Armstrong writes of symptoms she had during and after her time in convent life, and about which she consulted various psychiatrists. Karen is not mentally ill at all, but has temporal lobe epilepsy, and her symptoms were 'textbook' for that problem. Yet the psychiatrists, who undoubtedly could have spouted off the symptoms for temporal lobe epilepsy with no provocation, not only did not pick up on the ailment but would not let Karen discuss anything else of her choosing. Freud has been king for nearly two centuries (yes, often in the church as well - what on earth did this man do that made him so influential?). Since Karen entered a convent at age 17, and remained there for seven years, she was immediately 'boxed' as having problems stemming from childhood, etc., etc.. After all, what could be a greater symptom of mental illness than becoming a nun?

I am no expert on Freud, though, from what little I do know of him, I dare say he was more twisted than most mental patients. Who, for the past century, has been able to even write honestly of the human condition, without wondering what Freudian interpretation readers would give the words? Lord have mercy, I can just imagine if Julian of Norwich saw some shrink and spoke of her visions of Christ's blood. (Christ's blood, I must add, does not revolt me... besides its being a symbol of redemption, I recall that I just drank some this morning.)

Within the pastoral realm, it is most unfortunate that 'boxing' people, and deciding that 'this must mean that,' is no less common than it is elsewhere. Few people would understand my life of prayer - and, indeed, even the devout would see it as negative. After all, why would someone with my education not be after making the most money possible? It is assumed that celibates (well, when it is not assumed they are crazy - being a heavy woman, I've been asked if I'm hiding behind a wall of fat because I'd been raped - and there is not a word of truth in that!) have 'nothing to do' if they are not constantly chained to office desks. (Scholarly pursuits, apparently, are 'doing nothing.') Honestly, there are days when I think I'll spend forty years in purgatory if one more person tells me I need "something to do." (I dare say I 'do' more in a day than most in a week, even if it has not lined my pockets with gold.)

I apologise, dear friends, for the poor quality of my writing at the moment. I'm in the midst of moving to a new flat. Though I am quite satisfied with the place I found, the exhaustion of all that goes into moving is compounded by puzzlement over why so many people just love to see the dark side. I've heard, just this week, every possible thing that can go wrong. Pessimistic by nature, the last thing I need is fuel for the fire - but one question I'll take to the grave is why people take such pleasure in trying to make others more tense and worried.

I've been a scholar for many years, and there is nothing I have learnt more than that one never has all of the answers... more learning means more questions. I think, deep down, that those who do not listen but spout clichés, and those who love to trouble others, would like to be thought of as having superior knowledge. Why is the implicit condescension not apparent to them?

People who are trying to convince me that all sorts of catastrophes are ahead, or that the right doctor could cure me of my religious commitment, are an annoyance. I have stuffed none of them up the chimney, largely because I never did have a fireplace. Yet, again to refer briefly to the pastoral realm, it is extremely dangerous to make generalisations or 'box' people. All communication and understanding is cut off as a result.

Another 'film thought'

I love good dramas, and, as far as film versions go, I'd give "Vera Drake" five stars. It was totally absorbing - acting superb - excellent ensemble. Imelda Staunton was outstanding.

Obviously, film reviews are not what I provide here. :) Yet the character of Vera brought several points to mind. When Vera is 'helping girls in trouble,' one never knows whether, based on previous experience (her own?), she does not expect there can be dangerous effects, or whether she is aware of but chooses to ignore this. The girl who nearly dies as a result of the abortion is saved only because she was not alone when she began to convulse. Vera is totally distraught at the news - and it appears that such a possibility would never have occurred to her.

At first glance, Vera seems to be a good-hearted sort who would drop in on anyone with a problem - even if only to offer a cup of tea. (That in fact is Vera's suggestion in any circumstance - and, for all that my own cups of tea are highly therapeutic, and I can think of no situation where a cup makes things any worse, her involvement with others is peripheral. Perhaps her sister-in-law, who sees Vera more as a busybody than having a 'heart of gold,' would not be alone in that assessment.) Yet there is complexity here which reminded me of an attitude I've seen in many, including those within the church, who seek to be involved in others' lives - with good intentions but a lack of prudence. Vera chooses to ignore the underlying problems.

We see Vera perform several abortions before the one which nearly causes a death, and several of the ladies clearly are deeply worried about possible consequences, one actually amazed that Vera will not be returning to see if she is all right, another asking point blank if she can die. ("What you need now is a nice cup of tea, dear.") The question is unanswered. Is Vera narrow of vision, where her own experience is the boundary and no other possibility admitted? Or does she not care to look at gruesome alternatives?

I made mention, in another post, of how those within the church too often are ready to shrug off those in need with stock answers. Lesson one in pastoral care (in any sense) should be "do not assume you know others' experience."

Pax et Bonum... it is a bit too hot for me to develop this now but, be forewarned, it is a topic to which I shall return. :)

"That's all they're showing this year"

I happen to know two women, who have no connection with each other, both of whom are hairdressers. I would imagine that their customers go on about various details of their lives, and coincidentally both of them use the trite line I quoted as header for this post. Mention to either one that you painted your kitchen a particular colour, have a certain decor, are wearing a new outfit, whatever, and the inevitable comment will be, "That's all they're showing this year."

I suppose some people find that complimentary - I would not. Whether I have designed a room, a dress, curtains, or an Internet site, I value personal style and creative expression, not the opinions or trends which "they" would encourage "this year." I, in fact, would find it insulting that anyone would think my selections were based on trying to conform to some silly trend.

The hairdressers, of course, are using a stock line that is harmless. Yet it is unfortunate that, in my many years of church work, too many people, who were in positions that involved education or counsel, or who spoke or published for the masses, had a tendency to parrot trendy lines. For example, in answer to a serious question or criticism, I knew one Sister in a prominent position who would always say, "That's the way the church is moving." Another would respond, in similar situations, invariably with, "You have to be very open to change." That is not an answer - only a way to cut off a question.

In pastoral situations, it could be worse still. When I worked in a university campus ministry, one nun loved for people to confide in her, and indeed encouraged this immensely. Yet those who truly wished some sort of response or guidance would inevitably hear, "We like our lives tucked in neat little boxes."

No one loves words more than I, or clichés less. Most of the time, when another is troubled, there is nothing we can do - but, in such situations, listening in itself is preferable to cutting people off with a stock phrase. The latter only shows that one is not caring for the other, but just wishes to seem wise.

A wee tale of the value of casuistry

Between a question I was asked recently, and what I've been reading about the proper Victorians' shock at Alphonsus Liguori's casuistry, I wonder why 'Catholic guilt' is given such emphasis. Then again, my family is from the diocese which bordered on Alphonsus', and I have no genetic pre-disposition to excessive guilt. Our attitude was that God was, after all, our Father - and, anyway, we were very close with His mother. :)

If I were to be Thomistic for a moment, Thomas treated of grave sin as that which involved reflection and consent. In brief, casuistry admits that, if there is any doubt that gravity, use of reason, or consent of the will were deficient, such doubt cannot co-exist with certainty! I dare say that Alphonsus knew a person or two who would justify even murder, depending on the victim. (Of course, I think that, deep down, we know that the grave sins usually did involve reflection and consent... and the surest sign of certainty is when we are doing mental gymnastics to determine that we lacked use of reason or will in relation to our own sins... Alphonsus did not intend his instructions in moral theology to be a 'do it yourself' kit.) :) But I should like to share a little story I heard in childhood which is profound in its simplicity.

Terrence was the son of two thieves and, from earliest childhood, his parents had taught him the craft. One day, when he was sent out to pick pockets, a harsh rainstorm arose, and he ducked into the local Catholic church (where he'd been baptised - though he'd not been much of a visitor since) for shelter.

A group of children were gathered there, listening to a sermon explaining how to make one's first Confession, preparatory to their doing so that day. Terrence's interest was sparked, and he decided to join them.

Terrence confessed his disobedience, in that he had sat listening to the sermon when he'd been sent out to pick pockets.

Briefest of thoughts on the day that London was 'blasted'

To my knowledge, all of my friends are safe, and for that I am very grateful. When I am upset, I tend to (to quote my spiritual father) worship at the altar of fear, rather than that of the true God - and so it has been today. I therefore encourage my readers to visit Father Gregory's blog, where one may find a reflection that has wisdom spiritual and earthly! :)

There is little that I can say, because I shall never understand attacks of this type. Why, since Cain and Abel, has a desire for power or control tended to equate to violence?

God grant us peace. As shaken as I am by what happened today, I tremble the more to think of what certain world leaders (I'm thinking of one who used a terrorist attack a few years back as an occasion to threaten eleven nations, none of whom were even involved, with atomic bombs*) might use this as an excuse for unleashing.

Auschwitz and Hiroshima (just as two examples) indeed cured the world of the mindset of Victorian optimism (and God keep us from ever falling into that again, because we can only meet God and neighbour in the real world, however fallen.) It is a shame that it did not cure mankind of the desire to crush and kill and destroy.

*My mentioning that the nations were not involved in the attack is not to be taken to mean that I think atomic warfare is moral in any case!!