Some years ago, I remember enjoying two books by author Marie Killiliea, both of which centred on her family and their efforts to find proper treatment for their daughter, Karen, who has cerebral palsy. The books were written with great flair and wit. The first book, Karen, focussed mainly on Karen herself. In the second, With Love from Karen, much of the emphasis is on the Killilea's (apparently) adopted, older daughter, Gloria. Gloria was a convert to Catholicism, very staunch in beliefs, and much of the action refers to how Gloria and her husband waited seven years for an annulment of his first marriage in order to marry.
The books are far from ponderous, dull, or depressing! Both are filled with accounts of varied activities amongst all family members, and contain an ample dose of humour. Of course, there are themes which undoubtedly cause the books to have a bit of a slant. My impression is that Karen had a dual purpose - to emphasise the potential of people who are disabled, and to show Karen herself as the perfect Catholic who never complains, always sees God's hand in her suffering, and the like. With Love from Karen is great fun in many aspects, but here Gloria is the major saint - through Karen's influence in part. The latter book is a 'happily ever after' story, where the couple who remained faithful to Church teachings are settled in a charming red farmhouse with their two beautiful new daughters.
When I stumbled upon a Yahoo discussion group about the Killileas (which I do not recommend - one must spend hours sifting through tens of thousands of messages to find the 1% that have any relation to the topic), I was surprised and saddened to read that, not long after Marie's second book became a bestseller, there was an electrical fire in Gloria's house, which caused the death of her two eldest daughters and a niece. I also learnt that, though the Killileas had been public figures for some time, with Marie's being highly involved in organisations related to cerebral palsy (and the lot of them avidly involved with exhibiting their show dogs), in recent years they have carefully guarded their privacy. (Marie and her husband, Jimmy, are long dead, and Gloria and Russ have died as well. The family members who are still living are not public in the least.)
This seems perfectly understandable to me, as I get out Ockham's razor. In Marie's second book, she mentions receiving massive amounts of correspondence, daily, from readers. I'm sure that, with readers having no way to know of the fire, Marie must have received many letters enquiring about what the (dead) girls were doing now. In later printings of Marie's books, the latest being, I believe, in the early 1980s, though she includes a preface with information about cerebral palsy work and a brief reference to both Karen and the show dogs, there is no update whatever about the family. Perhaps the pain would have been too intense to be displayed, though the fire happened long before then. As well, considering that part of the charm of the later book was in seeing the faithful couple in a near-storybook life, presumably blessed for their fidelity to the Church, for readers to know what utter tragedy awaited Gloria and Russ not long afterward (the picture book house burnt to the ground, the two blonde angels in the grave) well might spoil the effect of the writing.
On another note, the more because I myself am a private person, I would imagine it is extremely difficult for anyone to be featured in a book. I'm sure that Marie's books were highly valuable and instrumental in educating the public about cerebral palsy, and indeed they are quite delightful by any standard. Yet I would shudder to imagine, at any time but perhaps all the more in childhood and adolescence, having details of my life available for the mass market.
It must have been all the more difficult for Marie's children because all books where authors write of their families seem to be half fact, half fiction. I'm not suggesting that the authors are writing what is not true, but such works must be highly selective. (Who would find the bare facts of any family's existence to be entertaining, let alone inspiring?) I am sure it was trying at times, because, unlike some authors who are, for example, merely looking to write humorous stories of family life (and being featured in those must be quite hard enough!), Marie was also carefully emphasising her kids as the amazing daughter who overcame disabilities (Karen ends with Karen's confident assertion that "I can do anything!"), and the perfect Catholic family.
There is no slur in these reflections of mine. I am only imagining how hard it must have been to live one's life in a fish bowl, and also to have to remain true to themes, as it were. Had I grown up in such a situation, I'd probably be digging holes and crawling in beside the hedgehogs. Marie mentions that, when she appeared at autograph sessions, television interviews, etc., she never brought Karen - too easy to become prideful. Yet I am wondering if another element existed. Perhaps Karen was more noticeably disabled than the books show, for example. Since some other characters in the books (already adult when Karen was a child) are totally extraordinary (for example, a young woman with cerebral palsy whose achievements as a lawyer, though she could not even write and her speech was slurred, would match those of any famous figure in law), even if Karen were highly functioning she would have to be a superwoman to fully back up the image that disabled people can 'do anything.'
Which brings me to the matter which is title of this post. I was appalled to see that those contributing in the discussion group, once they learnt of the Killileas desire for privacy, assumed sinister elements. For example, since the Killileas were devout Catholics, and numbered many priests amongst their friends, various contributors assumed (for no discernible reason except that the media paints the clergy black these days) that their children must have been sexually abused!
Don't many of us prefer to not have our lives broadcast from the housetops? I know, in my own life, that though there are no details that would interest tabloids, much is either painful, or of a nature where I would prefer to forget, or, let us say, an untrue family myth which I don't want shared with friends because they well might believe it rather than the truth. I learnt, painfully, that, though most people in such situations not only have done nothing immoral but are exemplary, the moment anyone hears that anyone was dismissed from a religious Order, the immediate question is "With how they need people today, what could she have done?"
Just to use my own situation as an example, when I was forced out of convent life, I was in emotional pain so intense that I was utterly shattered. It was all the worse because it could not be shared - everyone I knew was glad I was 'out,' and quick to 'diagnose' my continued devotion to consecrated life as 'clinging to the convent,' or 'mourning the convent,' or, supposedly, some delusion where I was assumed to still think I was a member of the congregation. No one was supportive - in fact, they wanted to help me 'snap out of it,' and I often was assured, for example, that I still could catch a husband if I were slender. This, and other elements of my own life, I did not discuss - because others' reactions only intensified the pain.
Never having been a mother, I cannot imagine the agony it must have been for Gloria to watch her children die in a fire, or how painful it must have been for Marie to receive enquiries about children who had perished. Why would it be surprising that they did not care to be high profile?
There is too much stress on child abuse, particularly sexual, today. I noticed, in the forum I mentioned and elsewhere, that it is immediately assumed that anyone who values privacy is a victim of molestation. Yet it is ironic that those who share every detail of their lives for all and sundry normally have a degree of self absorption which could try the patience of Job.
Friday, 19 October 2007
Thursday, 18 October 2007
For the scientific among you - just this once :)
One of the areas which I've been pursuing, now that I've plunged into the deep waters of the philosophy of religion, has been arguments for an intelligent designer of the universe. (Yes, I knew about William Paley long ago... it always seemed sloppy to me that he didn't refute David Hume's much older writings, but be that as it may.) Now, I certainly believe in a Creator, but my concept of a 'designer,' for reasons that must be obvious, always leant towards the artistic. After all, I can design clothing, Internet sites (well, back in the days when they were beautiful), calligraphic manuscripts.
Unlike my co-contributors, I have no aptitude whatever for higher mathematics or science. My total grasp of the latter is that I so love dinosaurs that I'll endure being in the company of children (quite a penance, that) in order to view their skeletons, and that I am sent into one of my minor ecstasies when I see representations of the DNA molecule. I therefore was pleasantly surprised today, when I read an essay, in the Peterson anthology to which I've provided a link above, entitled The Anthropic Teleological Argument, by L. Stafford Betty and Bruce Cordell. It presented a strong and fascinating argument, on grounds of both physics and mathematical probability, for an intelligent Designer of the universe. This theory seems to far outweigh the possibility of, for example, the Big Bang's having been totally random.
Those of you who enjoy religious philosophy, and also can wade through the intricacies of quantum theory and the like would undoubtedly enjoy the article immensely, the more because it contained quotations from many contemporary scientific studies. Even I followed most of it - though, where physics is concerned, I doubt my brain capacity exceeds the size of a proton. Yet I had to share a marvellous quotation from the end of the essay, which I found nearly courageous for scientists to make. :)
The authors conceded that, in itself, the teleological argument shows a good case for an intelligent designer, rather than the random, but that it obviously would not show us precisely what characteristics God would have. (They then went on to explain generation of amino acids... but I 'came back' with the next paragraphs.) They did not see that there wasn't a hint of a Creator being far more than a 'supermind.'
I don't think this passage is long enough to violate copyright, so I present it for your reflection. They first commented on how the significantly greater cannot evolve from the significantly less. :
"Would it not be a violation of this law if so much moral goodness as appears in this world were to exceed the goodness of the supermind? ... We occasionally meet Mahatmas, more frequently little old ladies who unfailingly greet us with cheerful smiles in spite of severe arthritis. Not only is there much nobility and goodness in our own species; there is also a reverence for truth and a love of beauty. Beauty, truth, and goodness - those three fundamental values of the Greeks. Do large numbers of human beings significantly surpass the supermind in these 'constraints of the spirit'? This would have to be so if the supermind were merely a mind... It would have succeeded in creating a good of which it knows nothing...
If such a law (significantly greater not evolving from less - EGM) holds, then it would follow that the supermind must be superior to us, not only with respect to intelligence... but in every other important way as well. That mind must be characterised by knowledge, power, beauty, goodness, and love to a degree not known to us mortals. If so, it must be in some sense 'personal,'... for such traits as goodness and love would seem to ahere only in that which is at least analogous to persons. Whether or not the supermind has these perfections to an infinite degree... cannot be predicted by our argument. Nonetheless, it is clear that we are not far away from a God whom we can at least admire. And if admiration should grow to love - a not unnatural progression - then the God of the great theistic religions is not far away. Religion and science will have joined hands."
"
Wednesday, 17 October 2007
The more bizarre in the miracle department
(The link in the title is to a previous post about devotion to Saint Gerard, whose feast day was on the 16th of October.)
Frequently, I am 'torn in two directions' in my religious faith. My faithful readers will recall that I currently am studying the philosophy of religion in depth. Two of the areas which this involves are related to miracles and to prayers of petition. Neither, even if they were taken to be valid (which I certainly believe), could be presented as proofs for divine creativity in this world - I rather like John Hick's apt comment that, were God to make his presence clearly, much less majestically, clear, our response could be that of those in awe or fear of power, rather than one of trust and love.
Saint Gerard, who was a favourite saint of my mother's, was one of those saints who it would be wonderful to honour, but generally a poor idea to imitate. He was a very simple man, excessive in penance and devotion, one to take things far too literally. Unlike most post-Reformation saints, he was known for miracles of all sorts, some quite strange, during his lifetime. As a child, he had the Child Jesus (in the form of a statue which periodically came to life in Gerard's presence) for a playmate. Said Child also provided Gerard with loaves of bread. In later years, Gerard was known to fly through the air, appear and rescue a ship in danger, use his old friend the Child Jesus statue to retrieve a lost key from a well, and so forth.
This is unrelated, but permit me a loose association. David Hume, who was Gerard's contemporary (not that they'd ever have met or known of each other...), raised questions which did need to be asked about miracles. Hume also was a total snob and fashionable atheist / sceptic. I would be the first to have reservations about reports of miracles. I firmly believe that, when what is not miraculous is reported as such, or when (as stories of Gerard would appear to those unfamiliar with the overall picture of the man) odd happenings seem holy in direct proportion to their element of the bizarre, the well intentioned can find that they detract from, rather than enhance, understanding of a God who is not only creator but active in his creation for always. Yet I think Hume was very wrong on two of his snobbish ideas. First, he assumed that believers who report miracles generally know them not to be true, but will not compromise lest they spoil the 'good cause' in which reports of miracles are supposed to encourage faith. Second, he believed that tales of miracles were common to uneducated, lower class people who were very open to 'wonder' but not likely to consider the unreality.
I'm wondering how many lower class people Hume actually knew. (I'm lower class but educated - those of us who are highly educated in any area other than sciences are sadly addicted to 'wonder' in many cases.) I could understand how, for example, an intelligent, prominent writer such as Arthur Conan Doyle (and this in a period of bereavement) could be ready to accept the photographs of the Cottingley faeries as genuine. (Granted - my medieval background gives me an image of faeries as rather less benevolent and sweet than the Victorian standard, but I'll blush and admit that I'd read a report of faeries sightings with great interest.) Were I to replace the 'subject' with, let us say, my father and his brothers and friends, I know it would be more likely that they'd consider such photographs to be, at best, nice liners for the cat box. I could far more easily see some great 1st century intellectual, filled with philosophy, literature, Plato's ideas of the soul, whatever, believing a man rose from the dead than imagine such a far fetched idea being congenial to Mediterranean peasants such as the apostles.
Returning to Gerardo and other souls disposed to the oddly miraculous: For all my romantic side, I am very wary of miracles, much as I believe they are possible. Yet there is an element in 'miracle stories' which those too ready to scoff often forget. First off, miracles (including those of Jesus) normally involve expressions of faith, personal conversion, and reconciliation to a community. Second, far more miracles have to do with one's already having been disposed to prayer, trust, and awareness of divine providence than with demonstrations of power to prove anything!
I would not care to have experienced having a statue come to life as a playmate, or flying sans aircraft, or commanding a demon to lead my horse when I was lost. Fortunately, I am caught in the banality of orthopraxy, largely saying Offices, rather than in manifestations which (given my own temperament, dispositions, and the like) would have landed me in a bed in Bedlam. Yet I am not ready to rule out that such things, possibly, could happen in cases where one's dedication and faith were such that one was open to, indeed expected, divine providence.
Hume assumes defiance of the laws of nature in reports of miracles. Far more often, at least in common parlance, 'miracles' do not involve the sun and moon standing still in the sky, or anyone's amputated leg growing back, but in a sense of providence. I'm too intellectual, and never had such tender and trusting faith. I'd fear seeing God's work in my life as providential, because I'm too aware of the wickedness in this world, and what horrid suffering is part and parcel of a majority of lives on the planet. Yet I sometimes wonder if prayers of petition (whether they led to the result for which one prayed, or changed one's life and attitudes, whatever) might be far more effective only if one already had embraced a life of metanoia, prayer, conversion already.
Cautious though I am about reports of miracles, the fact remains that my own faith is basically constructed on reports of 1st century peasants who saw a man who had risen from the dead.
Frequently, I am 'torn in two directions' in my religious faith. My faithful readers will recall that I currently am studying the philosophy of religion in depth. Two of the areas which this involves are related to miracles and to prayers of petition. Neither, even if they were taken to be valid (which I certainly believe), could be presented as proofs for divine creativity in this world - I rather like John Hick's apt comment that, were God to make his presence clearly, much less majestically, clear, our response could be that of those in awe or fear of power, rather than one of trust and love.
Saint Gerard, who was a favourite saint of my mother's, was one of those saints who it would be wonderful to honour, but generally a poor idea to imitate. He was a very simple man, excessive in penance and devotion, one to take things far too literally. Unlike most post-Reformation saints, he was known for miracles of all sorts, some quite strange, during his lifetime. As a child, he had the Child Jesus (in the form of a statue which periodically came to life in Gerard's presence) for a playmate. Said Child also provided Gerard with loaves of bread. In later years, Gerard was known to fly through the air, appear and rescue a ship in danger, use his old friend the Child Jesus statue to retrieve a lost key from a well, and so forth.
This is unrelated, but permit me a loose association. David Hume, who was Gerard's contemporary (not that they'd ever have met or known of each other...), raised questions which did need to be asked about miracles. Hume also was a total snob and fashionable atheist / sceptic. I would be the first to have reservations about reports of miracles. I firmly believe that, when what is not miraculous is reported as such, or when (as stories of Gerard would appear to those unfamiliar with the overall picture of the man) odd happenings seem holy in direct proportion to their element of the bizarre, the well intentioned can find that they detract from, rather than enhance, understanding of a God who is not only creator but active in his creation for always. Yet I think Hume was very wrong on two of his snobbish ideas. First, he assumed that believers who report miracles generally know them not to be true, but will not compromise lest they spoil the 'good cause' in which reports of miracles are supposed to encourage faith. Second, he believed that tales of miracles were common to uneducated, lower class people who were very open to 'wonder' but not likely to consider the unreality.
I'm wondering how many lower class people Hume actually knew. (I'm lower class but educated - those of us who are highly educated in any area other than sciences are sadly addicted to 'wonder' in many cases.) I could understand how, for example, an intelligent, prominent writer such as Arthur Conan Doyle (and this in a period of bereavement) could be ready to accept the photographs of the Cottingley faeries as genuine. (Granted - my medieval background gives me an image of faeries as rather less benevolent and sweet than the Victorian standard, but I'll blush and admit that I'd read a report of faeries sightings with great interest.) Were I to replace the 'subject' with, let us say, my father and his brothers and friends, I know it would be more likely that they'd consider such photographs to be, at best, nice liners for the cat box. I could far more easily see some great 1st century intellectual, filled with philosophy, literature, Plato's ideas of the soul, whatever, believing a man rose from the dead than imagine such a far fetched idea being congenial to Mediterranean peasants such as the apostles.
Returning to Gerardo and other souls disposed to the oddly miraculous: For all my romantic side, I am very wary of miracles, much as I believe they are possible. Yet there is an element in 'miracle stories' which those too ready to scoff often forget. First off, miracles (including those of Jesus) normally involve expressions of faith, personal conversion, and reconciliation to a community. Second, far more miracles have to do with one's already having been disposed to prayer, trust, and awareness of divine providence than with demonstrations of power to prove anything!
I would not care to have experienced having a statue come to life as a playmate, or flying sans aircraft, or commanding a demon to lead my horse when I was lost. Fortunately, I am caught in the banality of orthopraxy, largely saying Offices, rather than in manifestations which (given my own temperament, dispositions, and the like) would have landed me in a bed in Bedlam. Yet I am not ready to rule out that such things, possibly, could happen in cases where one's dedication and faith were such that one was open to, indeed expected, divine providence.
Hume assumes defiance of the laws of nature in reports of miracles. Far more often, at least in common parlance, 'miracles' do not involve the sun and moon standing still in the sky, or anyone's amputated leg growing back, but in a sense of providence. I'm too intellectual, and never had such tender and trusting faith. I'd fear seeing God's work in my life as providential, because I'm too aware of the wickedness in this world, and what horrid suffering is part and parcel of a majority of lives on the planet. Yet I sometimes wonder if prayers of petition (whether they led to the result for which one prayed, or changed one's life and attitudes, whatever) might be far more effective only if one already had embraced a life of metanoia, prayer, conversion already.
Cautious though I am about reports of miracles, the fact remains that my own faith is basically constructed on reports of 1st century peasants who saw a man who had risen from the dead.
Thursday, 11 October 2007
What would you do before the end of the world?
The link in the title to this entry is from a recent survey: "An asteroid is on a collision course with the earth and you have one hour left to live. What would you do in your last 60 minutes?"
Vaguely, this reminded me of a survey I saw, perhaps twenty years ago. That one asked people, if absolutely nothing were an object (money, talent, whatever), what would you be doing that you cannot do now?
This, I shall caution you, will not be one of my more insightful posts. I happened to read the news story I linked this morning - and it got me to thinking. I'd prefer to expand it a bit. Were it only one hour till the world was destroyed, I imagine that there would be such total panic that the earth would be pandemonium, and I would be in shock, as would everyone else. But what if I knew the earth would be totally gone in one week?
I'd love to say that I would spend it all in prayer, but, though my life centres on prayer, such a response would be a lie, and I do not lack candour even if I lack holiness. The fact is that I would try to enjoy that last week, more or less partying with dearly loved friends. Frankly, it would be a relief to know that my death would come from the world's being obliterated. I shiver, often, fearing that my last days will be like those of my parents - suffering, lengthy hospitalisations and the like. I'd rest more easily knowing that none of that would be ahead (I'm neither a hypochondriac nor any form of health freak - in fact, I miss the fun one might have had before the health obsession became popular, but one does fear a lingering death at my age, perhaps the more if one's parents had these.) It would be a relief, as well, to know that the world would be gone - that I would not need to fear living after, let us say, devastation from nuclear war.
Unlike many people, death is not at all my biggest fear. At best, death would mean closer intimacy with God. If my religious beliefs are incorrect, my existence (and all the suffering of this world) would merely be ended. (Of course, I hope to heaven there is no reincarnation.)
So, what would I want to do that last week? The answer is "enjoy myself." No need to fear for tomorrow! I'd want to spend it with the friends I love best - eat and drink whatever I wish, listen to music, laugh, reminisce, smoke three packs a day, watch a sunset with no fear of tomorrow... or, better, watch a sunrise because I'd be enjoying myself all night.
I'm not referring to doing anything wicked. But what freedom, with no tomorrow to fear, I would experience! Struggles with money, and with battling a lifelong weight problem, have made me miss a great deal of enjoyment in this life. Even in youth, I missed many social events because I always had to be on diets - and one had to eat just this at just this time... How wonderful it would be to have prime rib, chocolate cheesecake and the like, with no fear of gaining weight or of wasting money. I can promise I would not spend one minute in a gym. And I would have a Starbucks cappuccino twice a day, not needing to fear that spending extra money would mean I could not pay my electric bill next month.
I would not need to pray any more than usual. I don't think that God needs to be placated, and I believe in cosmic redemption, so I wouldn't be begging him for my fate and that of others.
Of course, I'd have to find a friend with some deep pockets, to have those wonderful meals before we go. :)
Vaguely, this reminded me of a survey I saw, perhaps twenty years ago. That one asked people, if absolutely nothing were an object (money, talent, whatever), what would you be doing that you cannot do now?
This, I shall caution you, will not be one of my more insightful posts. I happened to read the news story I linked this morning - and it got me to thinking. I'd prefer to expand it a bit. Were it only one hour till the world was destroyed, I imagine that there would be such total panic that the earth would be pandemonium, and I would be in shock, as would everyone else. But what if I knew the earth would be totally gone in one week?
I'd love to say that I would spend it all in prayer, but, though my life centres on prayer, such a response would be a lie, and I do not lack candour even if I lack holiness. The fact is that I would try to enjoy that last week, more or less partying with dearly loved friends. Frankly, it would be a relief to know that my death would come from the world's being obliterated. I shiver, often, fearing that my last days will be like those of my parents - suffering, lengthy hospitalisations and the like. I'd rest more easily knowing that none of that would be ahead (I'm neither a hypochondriac nor any form of health freak - in fact, I miss the fun one might have had before the health obsession became popular, but one does fear a lingering death at my age, perhaps the more if one's parents had these.) It would be a relief, as well, to know that the world would be gone - that I would not need to fear living after, let us say, devastation from nuclear war.
Unlike many people, death is not at all my biggest fear. At best, death would mean closer intimacy with God. If my religious beliefs are incorrect, my existence (and all the suffering of this world) would merely be ended. (Of course, I hope to heaven there is no reincarnation.)
So, what would I want to do that last week? The answer is "enjoy myself." No need to fear for tomorrow! I'd want to spend it with the friends I love best - eat and drink whatever I wish, listen to music, laugh, reminisce, smoke three packs a day, watch a sunset with no fear of tomorrow... or, better, watch a sunrise because I'd be enjoying myself all night.
I'm not referring to doing anything wicked. But what freedom, with no tomorrow to fear, I would experience! Struggles with money, and with battling a lifelong weight problem, have made me miss a great deal of enjoyment in this life. Even in youth, I missed many social events because I always had to be on diets - and one had to eat just this at just this time... How wonderful it would be to have prime rib, chocolate cheesecake and the like, with no fear of gaining weight or of wasting money. I can promise I would not spend one minute in a gym. And I would have a Starbucks cappuccino twice a day, not needing to fear that spending extra money would mean I could not pay my electric bill next month.
I would not need to pray any more than usual. I don't think that God needs to be placated, and I believe in cosmic redemption, so I wouldn't be begging him for my fate and that of others.
Of course, I'd have to find a friend with some deep pockets, to have those wonderful meals before we go. :)
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Powders, pills... and pests
No, this is not a tribute to the cockroach or fly. The pests to whom I refer in the title are those who, on seeing anyone else's situation (preferably problem), just have to make 'sage' contributions which will only make things worse. Of course, I've never understood the kind of 'curiosity' (I cannot think of a better term, though I sense that one is inadequate) which makes some people relish others' misfortunes. Perhaps it is fear - if I "know it all," then similar misfortune cannot come to me. In other cases, it may be that it gives someone a sense of being important.
One of few rules in my own life is that, if anyone has any sort of major misfortune (perhaps illness, being sacked from a job, being victim of a crime, losing one's home), a close friend may make an 'ear' available, but there should be no questions, much less any unsolicited "advice." Yet ask anyone who has been in such situations! Even vague acquaintances will be looking for details, asking for more information, "instructing" the other in what s/he should have done...
I was performing an Internet search today, and, though my search had not the slightest relation to health, the side panel of the screen yielded an advertisement for a prescription drug. I've noticed these in abundance recently. (Worse yet, I've also noticed many a 'know it all' on Internet fora with "health advice" - and this might not seem surprising unless I note that none of the ones I'm likely to visit has any relation to health!) I am not opposed to disinterested, purely factual information being available about health care, nor to people sharing their own experiences (though they should save the 'health' experiences for a forum on that topic only.) Nor do I have any inherent problem with advertising - though I handled capital purchasing long enough to forget that not everyone views advertising with discrimination (where I know all the tricks, often joined in the game for the sake of the sport, but never mistook advertising for fact.)
I feel very strongly that advertising for prescription drugs is highly dangerous. It doesn't matter that one needs a prescription - doctors often are inclined towards believing claims as well. Ask anyone with a chronic condition. A heart patient, for example, may finally find the drug that is genuinely helpful to him - and, next visit, the doctor wants to change it for another just because the latter is "new." Someone with anxiety disorders will have a doctor want to change the (finally!) useful drug because 'it's too sedating.' (Wasn't that the point?) I shudder when I read of how some doctors think nothing of how a drug may have been found to have side effects that can be deadly.
But there are two other reasons I object. If the Internet is any indication, people have become utterly obsessed with "health" in recent years. (If someone has a multiplicity of conditions, all of which could have been fatal, and it is a miracle that she is alive... if she isn't ready for the Olympics this week, or even has a bad day, pests will be upon her, insisting she doesn't have the right drugs, shouldn't be on medications at all, needs to see a nutritionist, needs vitamins, should be on a macrobiotic diet, doesn't go the right doctor...) People are so used to information (it may be misinformation! but those who are hounds for it think they are very well informed) related to 'health' that they may not step back and recognise advertising for what it is - mistaking it for a news report or scholarly study (in effect.)
I would think it tragic if someone who is ill saw an advertisement which gave him unrealistic expectations of what effects he could expect. Perhaps just as sadly, if someone has a condition, and is doing well all things considered, a relative or acquaintance could see, let's say, the drug which makes it appear that depression will disappear, or the one that will give someone the sexual potency of Casanova, etc., and think that the person who is ill "refuses to be helped" - or could be with the advertised drug.
There also are manufactured needs which those in the overall "health" business could seek to cultivate, when we're talking of advertising rather than disinterested information. As a simple example, menopause is a perfectly normal, natural process - yet I've seen advertising for everything from acupuncture to nutritional consultations to alternative therapies presented as a vital "management programme." Of course, I'm aware that some women have serious problems at that time of life, but I doubt they are anything but a small minority. By taking a natural process and turning into a 'condition' to be monitored, some controlling character will create a false need - and laugh all the way to the bank.
The paradox is tragic. The "information" (which is either advertising or the smug assumptions of pests) can lead people to the modern versions of snake oil - make those who genuinely are ill have false expectations of what can be done - or can make relatives and friends shrug off, or misjudge, the genuine suffering a loved one endures.
One of few rules in my own life is that, if anyone has any sort of major misfortune (perhaps illness, being sacked from a job, being victim of a crime, losing one's home), a close friend may make an 'ear' available, but there should be no questions, much less any unsolicited "advice." Yet ask anyone who has been in such situations! Even vague acquaintances will be looking for details, asking for more information, "instructing" the other in what s/he should have done...
I was performing an Internet search today, and, though my search had not the slightest relation to health, the side panel of the screen yielded an advertisement for a prescription drug. I've noticed these in abundance recently. (Worse yet, I've also noticed many a 'know it all' on Internet fora with "health advice" - and this might not seem surprising unless I note that none of the ones I'm likely to visit has any relation to health!) I am not opposed to disinterested, purely factual information being available about health care, nor to people sharing their own experiences (though they should save the 'health' experiences for a forum on that topic only.) Nor do I have any inherent problem with advertising - though I handled capital purchasing long enough to forget that not everyone views advertising with discrimination (where I know all the tricks, often joined in the game for the sake of the sport, but never mistook advertising for fact.)
I feel very strongly that advertising for prescription drugs is highly dangerous. It doesn't matter that one needs a prescription - doctors often are inclined towards believing claims as well. Ask anyone with a chronic condition. A heart patient, for example, may finally find the drug that is genuinely helpful to him - and, next visit, the doctor wants to change it for another just because the latter is "new." Someone with anxiety disorders will have a doctor want to change the (finally!) useful drug because 'it's too sedating.' (Wasn't that the point?) I shudder when I read of how some doctors think nothing of how a drug may have been found to have side effects that can be deadly.
But there are two other reasons I object. If the Internet is any indication, people have become utterly obsessed with "health" in recent years. (If someone has a multiplicity of conditions, all of which could have been fatal, and it is a miracle that she is alive... if she isn't ready for the Olympics this week, or even has a bad day, pests will be upon her, insisting she doesn't have the right drugs, shouldn't be on medications at all, needs to see a nutritionist, needs vitamins, should be on a macrobiotic diet, doesn't go the right doctor...) People are so used to information (it may be misinformation! but those who are hounds for it think they are very well informed) related to 'health' that they may not step back and recognise advertising for what it is - mistaking it for a news report or scholarly study (in effect.)
I would think it tragic if someone who is ill saw an advertisement which gave him unrealistic expectations of what effects he could expect. Perhaps just as sadly, if someone has a condition, and is doing well all things considered, a relative or acquaintance could see, let's say, the drug which makes it appear that depression will disappear, or the one that will give someone the sexual potency of Casanova, etc., and think that the person who is ill "refuses to be helped" - or could be with the advertised drug.
There also are manufactured needs which those in the overall "health" business could seek to cultivate, when we're talking of advertising rather than disinterested information. As a simple example, menopause is a perfectly normal, natural process - yet I've seen advertising for everything from acupuncture to nutritional consultations to alternative therapies presented as a vital "management programme." Of course, I'm aware that some women have serious problems at that time of life, but I doubt they are anything but a small minority. By taking a natural process and turning into a 'condition' to be monitored, some controlling character will create a false need - and laugh all the way to the bank.
The paradox is tragic. The "information" (which is either advertising or the smug assumptions of pests) can lead people to the modern versions of snake oil - make those who genuinely are ill have false expectations of what can be done - or can make relatives and friends shrug off, or misjudge, the genuine suffering a loved one endures.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
Loving what a motley crew we all are
Admittedly, my scope of reference here includes mainly those who are devout in some sense, and also hopelessly intellectual. I enjoy how even those who are brilliant and/or perhaps in the category of saintly can see things very differently. I am not a member of either set, but let's just say that there's enough of an element of 'longing from afar' to make me love the diversity of God's human creation when I see how we vary in approach.
I shall ask my readers to bear with me, because, since I so cherish creativity (not a common property, since conformity is more profitable in many senses), I've been rather staggered by what I consider unwise use of same. My studies take up much time, and I've tried to unwind with watching such films as I can see on the television. Now, isn't trying to improve on Shakespeare a bit much? I was not exactly thrilled by a version of As You Like It (one of my favourite plays), which I turned off after ten minutes of seeing it begin with violence in 19th century Japan. (Huh?) But my just finding a film advertised which embellished on Othello (another favourite) by creating a version where the main character is a black basketball player in an all-white US school that I had to turn from television to blog.
Anyway, back to our merry Church situation. I've always enjoyed seeing how those, well grounded in theology and dedicated to the faith into the bargain, can have totally different perspective on details. For example, a liturgical scholar will applaud common themes in a lectionary, where the specialist in scripture will protest (often quite correctly) that the set of readings has no exegetical basis in common. A sociologist and a moralist, though their pastoral practise may be the same, will express very different bases for their versions of 'family values.' Those whose lives have been devoted to educating children will often see the very liturgy which I'd consider to be an aesthetic and intellectual wasteland as what would bring families into the church.
I believe I've mentioned that I'm avidly preparing for my exam in Philosophy of Religion. (It is not till next May - but, since it's an area I find rather difficult, I cannot store up my avidity until later.) I naturally am hopeless, since my own emphasis (however accidentally) has so been either cultural (doctor of humanities, after all) or in ascetic theology. I realise, of course, that no theist thinks he can prove divine existence or describe the godly essence - and no atheist philosopher can show there is no god. (Don't be offended - atheist philosophers are speaking of a 'god,' not the Christian God. And no theist worth his salt would presume to explain all the attributes of the Christian image of God.) It is mainly a matter of asserting or challenging that an attribute, or worldly condition, whatever, is or is not logically feasible.
I am no lover of Anselm - his 'atonement' makes me cringe, even if he wrote some very lovely words about prayer - but I'm afraid I'm a little too far removed from Greek thought of Anselm's day to think that what one can imagine has to be true - much less that the ultimate in what we can imagine is divine. (As one with a passion for the medieval, I have seen Hildegard of Bingen, in her noted work on medicine, describe the humours of the unicorn and gryphon. Hildegard may be forgiven for lack of scientific method, having lived in a day when zoology was studied in libraries, and she presumably had it on some testimony that the gryphon's feathers alleviated hay fever or something along those lines. But let us say that I have some reservations about how what we can imagine points to its being true.)
I'm growing a little bored with all the readings about whether God could create a stone too hard for him to lift. My all too practical side (yes, it's there under the romanticism) wonders why a being who is pure spirit would be lifting rocks in the first place. I also doubt that Jesus of Nazareth, even if he had to fall into certain feats such as walking on water to get his message through the thick skulls of the apostles, would have been lifting Gibraltar.
Today, I devoted hours to study of the 'problem of evil,' the particular unit which I've been pursuing this week. (I'm not referring to the massive pastoral problem of evil, but entirely to the philosophical problem of whether the existence of evil means there can be no omnipotent, all loving God.)
Of course, no one has the answer to evil, but the efforts to show it is compatible with theism yield interesting results in the works of many authors, ancient, medieval, or modern. I did enjoy John Hick's "Irenaean theodicy," which he develops on the concepts Irenaeus had of our being an immature creation with glory in the future. (I'm drastically over simplifying, of course, but, coming from a western Christian tradition so focussed on 'the fall,' punishment, and salvation as the end of punishment - even if one must either roast in purgatory for a time if one is Catholic or be obliterated till the last Judgement if Calvinist - I love the Eastern emphasis on constant creation, growth in this life and beyond, deification, and, ultimately - how we cannot imagine - sanctification of the cosmos.)
Yet something occurred to me when I was reading some of the philosophers who are theists, including Hick. They are working not only from the assumptions that a Creator God remains active in his creation, but, seemingly, from a perspective which assumes that spiritual considerations are foremost in people's thoughts and actions. Had I spent my life in the anchorhold, without my long exposure to parish work and the like (not to mention 'the world,' but I cite parish and diocesan work specifically because it involves people who are both believers and seeking to practise Christianity), I might not have grasped that, for example, many people are 'moral' because a lack of the appearance of respectability could damage them socially or financially.
Hick, in speaking of natural evils as opposed to those rising from moral choices, gives a detailed presentation of how living in a world with its own laws, and one which is no paradise, fosters responsibility, maturity, and compassion. (Not necessarily... but he makes a good point overall. I'm not going to go on in great detail, but it was superbly presented.) He notes that there would be no morality if no evil action could cause harm. I need to step out of my normal mode to understand and discuss philosophy! My immediate thought (which is pastoral, not philosophical - Hick is not addressing pastoral cases, but showing that evil does not make theism implausible) is that no real virtue exists if one's concern is avoiding consequences alone.
Perhaps I'm just refreshing my weary memory, but, in the same unit on the Problem of Evil, David Pailin, whose approach is highly scientific rather than what might be termed the more mystical approach of Hick, made an excellent point. The problem of evil makes moral evil seem as if God were manufacturing humans as one might make a drinking cup, or is fostered by a non scientific approach where everything is as we find it because God fashioned it precisely that way. (God could not have made dinosaurs, or they would have survived...) Pailin's fine point was that we cannot understand fully what "God is Creator" even means! How can we say that an omnipotent, all good, God would have done things differently, when we cannot begin to understand what creation fully entails? (Though Pailin dislikes Hick's idea of the earth as a proving ground for maturity, Hick actually is not beyond the scientific - because he depicts a God who is always creating, not one who created a perfect world, had his plans botched by a fallen angel and two humans, and then had to go to plan B.)
Here's a quote from David Pailin that I found interesting. It was presented in acontext of showing that evil does not make a god logically impossible, and that speculations (by atheists) about what God 'might have done' were the will to do it there imply "a transcendental understanding which it is hard to render credible". (One of the amusing parts of my study of philosophy, Lord forgive me, is noticing how atheists implicitly seem to believe they have the greatest knowledge of what omnipotence, beneficence, goodness, whatever, would be if only there were a god.) He notes first, and aptly, that atheists who go on about how a god who permits evil is not omnipotent, all good, and so forth, ignore that "It is far from certain that we are sufficiently clear in our apprehension of the nature of divine power to be able to warrant the implications of 'omnipotence'".
"Theism sees God as deeply involved, as One who experiences all suffering produced by human evil... and seeks, by love, to draw us from perverted conduct arising from our sense of unimportance into acts of creative love made possible by the self-respect that comes from knowing their total acceptance by God."
I'll never be a philosopher, and, unlike my co-contributors, all I know or understand about science is that I love dinosaurs, the DNA molecule, and the planets. (Pailin is superb on showing how images of God which present faulty theistic arguments often are based on "certainly pre-Darwinian, perhaps pre-Copernican" images of creation.) Yet that last paragraph I quoted was as powerful a meditation for me as anything I've read at my orisons.
I shall ask my readers to bear with me, because, since I so cherish creativity (not a common property, since conformity is more profitable in many senses), I've been rather staggered by what I consider unwise use of same. My studies take up much time, and I've tried to unwind with watching such films as I can see on the television. Now, isn't trying to improve on Shakespeare a bit much? I was not exactly thrilled by a version of As You Like It (one of my favourite plays), which I turned off after ten minutes of seeing it begin with violence in 19th century Japan. (Huh?) But my just finding a film advertised which embellished on Othello (another favourite) by creating a version where the main character is a black basketball player in an all-white US school that I had to turn from television to blog.
Anyway, back to our merry Church situation. I've always enjoyed seeing how those, well grounded in theology and dedicated to the faith into the bargain, can have totally different perspective on details. For example, a liturgical scholar will applaud common themes in a lectionary, where the specialist in scripture will protest (often quite correctly) that the set of readings has no exegetical basis in common. A sociologist and a moralist, though their pastoral practise may be the same, will express very different bases for their versions of 'family values.' Those whose lives have been devoted to educating children will often see the very liturgy which I'd consider to be an aesthetic and intellectual wasteland as what would bring families into the church.
I believe I've mentioned that I'm avidly preparing for my exam in Philosophy of Religion. (It is not till next May - but, since it's an area I find rather difficult, I cannot store up my avidity until later.) I naturally am hopeless, since my own emphasis (however accidentally) has so been either cultural (doctor of humanities, after all) or in ascetic theology. I realise, of course, that no theist thinks he can prove divine existence or describe the godly essence - and no atheist philosopher can show there is no god. (Don't be offended - atheist philosophers are speaking of a 'god,' not the Christian God. And no theist worth his salt would presume to explain all the attributes of the Christian image of God.) It is mainly a matter of asserting or challenging that an attribute, or worldly condition, whatever, is or is not logically feasible.
I am no lover of Anselm - his 'atonement' makes me cringe, even if he wrote some very lovely words about prayer - but I'm afraid I'm a little too far removed from Greek thought of Anselm's day to think that what one can imagine has to be true - much less that the ultimate in what we can imagine is divine. (As one with a passion for the medieval, I have seen Hildegard of Bingen, in her noted work on medicine, describe the humours of the unicorn and gryphon. Hildegard may be forgiven for lack of scientific method, having lived in a day when zoology was studied in libraries, and she presumably had it on some testimony that the gryphon's feathers alleviated hay fever or something along those lines. But let us say that I have some reservations about how what we can imagine points to its being true.)
I'm growing a little bored with all the readings about whether God could create a stone too hard for him to lift. My all too practical side (yes, it's there under the romanticism) wonders why a being who is pure spirit would be lifting rocks in the first place. I also doubt that Jesus of Nazareth, even if he had to fall into certain feats such as walking on water to get his message through the thick skulls of the apostles, would have been lifting Gibraltar.
Today, I devoted hours to study of the 'problem of evil,' the particular unit which I've been pursuing this week. (I'm not referring to the massive pastoral problem of evil, but entirely to the philosophical problem of whether the existence of evil means there can be no omnipotent, all loving God.)
Of course, no one has the answer to evil, but the efforts to show it is compatible with theism yield interesting results in the works of many authors, ancient, medieval, or modern. I did enjoy John Hick's "Irenaean theodicy," which he develops on the concepts Irenaeus had of our being an immature creation with glory in the future. (I'm drastically over simplifying, of course, but, coming from a western Christian tradition so focussed on 'the fall,' punishment, and salvation as the end of punishment - even if one must either roast in purgatory for a time if one is Catholic or be obliterated till the last Judgement if Calvinist - I love the Eastern emphasis on constant creation, growth in this life and beyond, deification, and, ultimately - how we cannot imagine - sanctification of the cosmos.)
Yet something occurred to me when I was reading some of the philosophers who are theists, including Hick. They are working not only from the assumptions that a Creator God remains active in his creation, but, seemingly, from a perspective which assumes that spiritual considerations are foremost in people's thoughts and actions. Had I spent my life in the anchorhold, without my long exposure to parish work and the like (not to mention 'the world,' but I cite parish and diocesan work specifically because it involves people who are both believers and seeking to practise Christianity), I might not have grasped that, for example, many people are 'moral' because a lack of the appearance of respectability could damage them socially or financially.
Hick, in speaking of natural evils as opposed to those rising from moral choices, gives a detailed presentation of how living in a world with its own laws, and one which is no paradise, fosters responsibility, maturity, and compassion. (Not necessarily... but he makes a good point overall. I'm not going to go on in great detail, but it was superbly presented.) He notes that there would be no morality if no evil action could cause harm. I need to step out of my normal mode to understand and discuss philosophy! My immediate thought (which is pastoral, not philosophical - Hick is not addressing pastoral cases, but showing that evil does not make theism implausible) is that no real virtue exists if one's concern is avoiding consequences alone.
Perhaps I'm just refreshing my weary memory, but, in the same unit on the Problem of Evil, David Pailin, whose approach is highly scientific rather than what might be termed the more mystical approach of Hick, made an excellent point. The problem of evil makes moral evil seem as if God were manufacturing humans as one might make a drinking cup, or is fostered by a non scientific approach where everything is as we find it because God fashioned it precisely that way. (God could not have made dinosaurs, or they would have survived...) Pailin's fine point was that we cannot understand fully what "God is Creator" even means! How can we say that an omnipotent, all good, God would have done things differently, when we cannot begin to understand what creation fully entails? (Though Pailin dislikes Hick's idea of the earth as a proving ground for maturity, Hick actually is not beyond the scientific - because he depicts a God who is always creating, not one who created a perfect world, had his plans botched by a fallen angel and two humans, and then had to go to plan B.)
Here's a quote from David Pailin that I found interesting. It was presented in acontext of showing that evil does not make a god logically impossible, and that speculations (by atheists) about what God 'might have done' were the will to do it there imply "a transcendental understanding which it is hard to render credible". (One of the amusing parts of my study of philosophy, Lord forgive me, is noticing how atheists implicitly seem to believe they have the greatest knowledge of what omnipotence, beneficence, goodness, whatever, would be if only there were a god.) He notes first, and aptly, that atheists who go on about how a god who permits evil is not omnipotent, all good, and so forth, ignore that "It is far from certain that we are sufficiently clear in our apprehension of the nature of divine power to be able to warrant the implications of 'omnipotence'".
"Theism sees God as deeply involved, as One who experiences all suffering produced by human evil... and seeks, by love, to draw us from perverted conduct arising from our sense of unimportance into acts of creative love made possible by the self-respect that comes from knowing their total acceptance by God."
I'll never be a philosopher, and, unlike my co-contributors, all I know or understand about science is that I love dinosaurs, the DNA molecule, and the planets. (Pailin is superb on showing how images of God which present faulty theistic arguments often are based on "certainly pre-Darwinian, perhaps pre-Copernican" images of creation.) Yet that last paragraph I quoted was as powerful a meditation for me as anything I've read at my orisons.
Tuesday, 4 September 2007
Hazardous hagiography
This past week, I've noticed some brief news reports about how Pope Benedict needs to reassure the flock that Mother Teresa's book, in which she writes of struggle, pain, and doubt, does not show an unusual situation for a saint. On the contrary, many of the greatest saints lived for years with darkness, a sense of aloneness, confusion, an idea that they were not genuine and the like.
God leads us to him in ways that differ greatly. For example, were someone to have been a spiritual director for forty years, he may never have met anyone who went through the "Dark Night" which John of the Cross describes - yet there indeed are cases where that total emptiness, complete awareness that one cannot know God's essence, is a means to sanctity. Teresa of Avila, despite huge physical sufferings and troubles with the Establishment, was a Carmelite of another flavour. Her own prayer was filled with consolations - and she saw them more as distractions than as helpful. There is no one mould for the making of saints!
One of my favourite quotes is from Dermot Quinn: "History as Revelation is seldom very revealing, and histories of holiness are full of holes." I shall refrain from writing a dissertation on church history for the moment, because, in the context of the thought I'm developing today, I wish to focus on the blessings and curses one finds in 'lives of the saints' - while noting that hagiography was the largest portion of most young Catholics' exposure to church history in any sense. The very young were given the impression of saints as obedient children (though saints tend to be controversial, and many were far from meeting the standards of obedience in their day.) Adults were presented with the "martyrdom with no trace of self pity" image - saints could see five of their kids slaughtered and remain peaceful knowing God works through all things. I suppose the underlying idea was to give an example, though it often distorted the entire picture and stripped saints of their humanity.
There was no question that the saints suffered, but we were given a vague idea that their opponents (who could not deal with seeing holiness before them) were responsible, or that God sent the saints suffering because His grace can't work unless evil is instrumental... The 'good' around them were perpetually edified, in awe of their wonderful temperaments, perhaps overwhelmed by their shining virtue.
It is very common for saints to have suffering of quite another source - the silence of the Beloved in response to the burning desire for intimacy with Him. Often, those who have reached a point where God is their only treasure are faced with a sense of total desolation. Images of God are always inadequate - but the sense of passion for one who now seems totally unknowable, which for many saints is the road to a greater maturity, causes intense emotional pain.
Inadequate though it may be, I think an example from the life of a very popular saint may shed some light on this. Thérèse of Lisieux, living in an era when too much French spirituality was focussed on suffering, had an amazingly positive spirituality. Her Little Way continues to be an inspiration for many, and certainly has no element of morbidity or negativity. Yet, during her short life, she went through years of having no consolation at prayer.
This analogy is far from perfect, but it may go some ways towards an illustration. Thérèse often was very childlike in her imagery - herself as a plaything for the Child Jesus, God and Mary as tender parents. Of course, her early love for Jesus was fostered in a family where she was a very well-loved child, with a doting father and sisters who supported her in her vocation from the earliest inclinations. There is an unusual, moving tenderness in Thérèse's writings about God, and she was of a sensitive, delicate temperament.
Keeping all of this in mind - her empty, dark years at prayer must have been emotional torture. For one whose images of God were initially of loving parents, it must have been horrid to be calling out, as she might have to the earthly father she loved so as to call 'her King,' and have him seem to be unresponsive, silent, cold. During the time when her body was wracked with agony from tuberculosis, Thérèse had no solace from consolation in prayer.
I'm sure no one had any illusions that Mother Teresa's work for the poor of Calcutta was any joy ride, but I suppose, based on images from past (and poor) hagiography about other saints, people assumed that Teresa was universally loved and totally peaceful and trusting in her faith. I wonder if the poorer grade of hagiography, which eliminated the possibility of adoration for an unknowable and silent God, is considered 'safer' because, otherwise, people might fear approaching the true God.
God leads us to him in ways that differ greatly. For example, were someone to have been a spiritual director for forty years, he may never have met anyone who went through the "Dark Night" which John of the Cross describes - yet there indeed are cases where that total emptiness, complete awareness that one cannot know God's essence, is a means to sanctity. Teresa of Avila, despite huge physical sufferings and troubles with the Establishment, was a Carmelite of another flavour. Her own prayer was filled with consolations - and she saw them more as distractions than as helpful. There is no one mould for the making of saints!
One of my favourite quotes is from Dermot Quinn: "History as Revelation is seldom very revealing, and histories of holiness are full of holes." I shall refrain from writing a dissertation on church history for the moment, because, in the context of the thought I'm developing today, I wish to focus on the blessings and curses one finds in 'lives of the saints' - while noting that hagiography was the largest portion of most young Catholics' exposure to church history in any sense. The very young were given the impression of saints as obedient children (though saints tend to be controversial, and many were far from meeting the standards of obedience in their day.) Adults were presented with the "martyrdom with no trace of self pity" image - saints could see five of their kids slaughtered and remain peaceful knowing God works through all things. I suppose the underlying idea was to give an example, though it often distorted the entire picture and stripped saints of their humanity.
There was no question that the saints suffered, but we were given a vague idea that their opponents (who could not deal with seeing holiness before them) were responsible, or that God sent the saints suffering because His grace can't work unless evil is instrumental... The 'good' around them were perpetually edified, in awe of their wonderful temperaments, perhaps overwhelmed by their shining virtue.
It is very common for saints to have suffering of quite another source - the silence of the Beloved in response to the burning desire for intimacy with Him. Often, those who have reached a point where God is their only treasure are faced with a sense of total desolation. Images of God are always inadequate - but the sense of passion for one who now seems totally unknowable, which for many saints is the road to a greater maturity, causes intense emotional pain.
Inadequate though it may be, I think an example from the life of a very popular saint may shed some light on this. Thérèse of Lisieux, living in an era when too much French spirituality was focussed on suffering, had an amazingly positive spirituality. Her Little Way continues to be an inspiration for many, and certainly has no element of morbidity or negativity. Yet, during her short life, she went through years of having no consolation at prayer.
This analogy is far from perfect, but it may go some ways towards an illustration. Thérèse often was very childlike in her imagery - herself as a plaything for the Child Jesus, God and Mary as tender parents. Of course, her early love for Jesus was fostered in a family where she was a very well-loved child, with a doting father and sisters who supported her in her vocation from the earliest inclinations. There is an unusual, moving tenderness in Thérèse's writings about God, and she was of a sensitive, delicate temperament.
Keeping all of this in mind - her empty, dark years at prayer must have been emotional torture. For one whose images of God were initially of loving parents, it must have been horrid to be calling out, as she might have to the earthly father she loved so as to call 'her King,' and have him seem to be unresponsive, silent, cold. During the time when her body was wracked with agony from tuberculosis, Thérèse had no solace from consolation in prayer.
I'm sure no one had any illusions that Mother Teresa's work for the poor of Calcutta was any joy ride, but I suppose, based on images from past (and poor) hagiography about other saints, people assumed that Teresa was universally loved and totally peaceful and trusting in her faith. I wonder if the poorer grade of hagiography, which eliminated the possibility of adoration for an unknowable and silent God, is considered 'safer' because, otherwise, people might fear approaching the true God.
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
How's that again?
My readers, I am sure, shall indulge me once again as I present my periodic silliness in what seem to be disassociated thoughts. This is illustrative of a tendency one often finds in people who not only spend too much time in prayer (consequently thinking, for example, that everyone is pining for ascetic theology - where the man in the next pew may be there because he's a minor politician and having parishioners see him at church may mean votes) but have studied too much theology (and assume 'motivation' for certain church matters which are so weird that we cannot see what would be glaringly obvious to anyone with an IQ above that of Lucy from the British Museum.)
Just to use one example, I recently read a book selection (from a book I'd not recommend, so it does not get a link) penned by a laicised Roman Catholic priest. (He clearly ignores that, as anyone in the Orthodox Church, Church of England, or Eastern rites would know, that having to sexually please a wife is not a guarantee of priestly sanctity.) Now, as far as I'm concerned, if he wanted to argue against mandatory celibacy for RC clergy, there is plenty of historical material with which to back this up, and he's welcome to do this till the cows come home. (Male cows are noted, I must add, for dispensing what seems to be this highly intelligent and learned man's current speciality.) But his premise, that he was released from active ministry to marry because he and others who did the same have a higher, 'new' theology of marriage, making them more advanced that priests who did not, is unlikely to impress anyone - and seemed pointed at self congratulations which would raise the eyebrows of most.
In the same book, the author comments about the decline in the use of sacramental confession. He sees this as positive, not only because the inferior beings who remained in active ministry therefore cannot indulge a need to control the laity, but because it shows a higher awareness of theology on the part of the flock than the pastor. Supposedly, those who no longer use sacramental confession have grasped, where the inferior clergy have not, that Vatican II teaches that the primary source of forgiveness is the Eucharist.
I could write a ream on the value I find in sacramental confession - and a library on Vatican II - but I'm not so inclined at the moment. My point is one quite different. This priest, during his time of active ministry, was an academic - and, like myself, probably often had times when he could not breathe in the breezes of good sense because too much dust from library stacks were crowding his lungs already. Yet I have a few advantages - one, that my family were the most pragmatic of people; two, that I spent much time in parish work and actually listened to the people around me.
To continue with his example - he's even more in outer space than I am if he thinks a decline in confession means a sophisticated theology of forgiveness through the Eucharist. (Another post I'll save for another day, but one dear to the heart of the medievalist, is how seeing Mass solely in relation to forgiveness caused some of the more regrettable excesses of the Reformation.) First off, as one who spends much time in churches on either side of the pond, I have observed that, in parishes which have the means to offer confession regularly / daily, such as Brompton Oratory, Westminster Cathedral, or Saint Francis in New York City, there is no lack of penitents on any day of the week. Many people clearly still find this sacrament to be very valuable, and one should at least admit the possibility that its availability affects the queues.
I've often heard the devout, quite rightly, be deterred from making their confessions because they've been discouraged (or even laughed at) in the past. I hope this has improved, but I can well remember when 'devotional confession,' which had been encouraged as a source of sacramental grace a year earlier, suddenly was discouraged. I also remember well when even one who made confession only once or twice a year was likely to be told 'nothing you are telling me is a sin.' (I think they must have only been hearing murder cases that year...) On a merely practical level, others complained that they needed to make appointments in churches where confession was not regularly available (that's awkward, especially in places where staff are trained to keep people from bothering clergy, or when one is embarrassed to approach a virtual stranger). Others wanted anonymity.
I'm not about to analyse any of these situations in any depth. My point is that anyone who is convinced that a 'theology of forgiveness' rooted in the Eucharist prevents confession is likely to be basing reasoning on a point which hardly enters most people's minds. (Of course, in the RC Church, anyone with a grave sin that is not confessed isn't supposed to partake of the Eucharist anyway... but people who know that probably listened in first communion class.)
On another note, I'm remembering when two friends of mine, in their 20s at the time, attended a meeting of a group forming in their parish. The group was intended for unmarried people in their 20s and 30s, and my friends, like everyone else who was interested, were hoping to meet new friends and possible spouses. For reasons that even my odd mind cannot fathom, the first meeting was introduced by a religious Sister, who spoke about how the Church had long neglected the 'single life as vocation.' It clearly had not entered her mind that the last reason anyone was in attendance was from having 'decided on a single life.' (Does anyone? It doesn't occur to those such as this speaker that, even if one regrets the choice one made, those who married or entered convents did make a choice. This should not be assumed of those who happen to be unmarried.)
I'm getting too prolix today - and prefer to save that for when I have more depth to the post. :) I'll just leave my readers with knowing that, just today, I received an email from Amazon.com, informing me that those who bought books on Walter Hilton (see my web site if you aren't acquainted with him) had also been interested in the early days of US television. (Must have been an odd key word search, because this is the oddest connection since I saw the works of Julian or Norwich classed as "New Age," or when "The Satisfied Life," a book on medieval mystics and concepts of atonement, was in the human sexuality section.)
Just to use one example, I recently read a book selection (from a book I'd not recommend, so it does not get a link) penned by a laicised Roman Catholic priest. (He clearly ignores that, as anyone in the Orthodox Church, Church of England, or Eastern rites would know, that having to sexually please a wife is not a guarantee of priestly sanctity.) Now, as far as I'm concerned, if he wanted to argue against mandatory celibacy for RC clergy, there is plenty of historical material with which to back this up, and he's welcome to do this till the cows come home. (Male cows are noted, I must add, for dispensing what seems to be this highly intelligent and learned man's current speciality.) But his premise, that he was released from active ministry to marry because he and others who did the same have a higher, 'new' theology of marriage, making them more advanced that priests who did not, is unlikely to impress anyone - and seemed pointed at self congratulations which would raise the eyebrows of most.
In the same book, the author comments about the decline in the use of sacramental confession. He sees this as positive, not only because the inferior beings who remained in active ministry therefore cannot indulge a need to control the laity, but because it shows a higher awareness of theology on the part of the flock than the pastor. Supposedly, those who no longer use sacramental confession have grasped, where the inferior clergy have not, that Vatican II teaches that the primary source of forgiveness is the Eucharist.
I could write a ream on the value I find in sacramental confession - and a library on Vatican II - but I'm not so inclined at the moment. My point is one quite different. This priest, during his time of active ministry, was an academic - and, like myself, probably often had times when he could not breathe in the breezes of good sense because too much dust from library stacks were crowding his lungs already. Yet I have a few advantages - one, that my family were the most pragmatic of people; two, that I spent much time in parish work and actually listened to the people around me.
To continue with his example - he's even more in outer space than I am if he thinks a decline in confession means a sophisticated theology of forgiveness through the Eucharist. (Another post I'll save for another day, but one dear to the heart of the medievalist, is how seeing Mass solely in relation to forgiveness caused some of the more regrettable excesses of the Reformation.) First off, as one who spends much time in churches on either side of the pond, I have observed that, in parishes which have the means to offer confession regularly / daily, such as Brompton Oratory, Westminster Cathedral, or Saint Francis in New York City, there is no lack of penitents on any day of the week. Many people clearly still find this sacrament to be very valuable, and one should at least admit the possibility that its availability affects the queues.
I've often heard the devout, quite rightly, be deterred from making their confessions because they've been discouraged (or even laughed at) in the past. I hope this has improved, but I can well remember when 'devotional confession,' which had been encouraged as a source of sacramental grace a year earlier, suddenly was discouraged. I also remember well when even one who made confession only once or twice a year was likely to be told 'nothing you are telling me is a sin.' (I think they must have only been hearing murder cases that year...) On a merely practical level, others complained that they needed to make appointments in churches where confession was not regularly available (that's awkward, especially in places where staff are trained to keep people from bothering clergy, or when one is embarrassed to approach a virtual stranger). Others wanted anonymity.
I'm not about to analyse any of these situations in any depth. My point is that anyone who is convinced that a 'theology of forgiveness' rooted in the Eucharist prevents confession is likely to be basing reasoning on a point which hardly enters most people's minds. (Of course, in the RC Church, anyone with a grave sin that is not confessed isn't supposed to partake of the Eucharist anyway... but people who know that probably listened in first communion class.)
On another note, I'm remembering when two friends of mine, in their 20s at the time, attended a meeting of a group forming in their parish. The group was intended for unmarried people in their 20s and 30s, and my friends, like everyone else who was interested, were hoping to meet new friends and possible spouses. For reasons that even my odd mind cannot fathom, the first meeting was introduced by a religious Sister, who spoke about how the Church had long neglected the 'single life as vocation.' It clearly had not entered her mind that the last reason anyone was in attendance was from having 'decided on a single life.' (Does anyone? It doesn't occur to those such as this speaker that, even if one regrets the choice one made, those who married or entered convents did make a choice. This should not be assumed of those who happen to be unmarried.)
I'm getting too prolix today - and prefer to save that for when I have more depth to the post. :) I'll just leave my readers with knowing that, just today, I received an email from Amazon.com, informing me that those who bought books on Walter Hilton (see my web site if you aren't acquainted with him) had also been interested in the early days of US television. (Must have been an odd key word search, because this is the oddest connection since I saw the works of Julian or Norwich classed as "New Age," or when "The Satisfied Life," a book on medieval mystics and concepts of atonement, was in the human sexuality section.)
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Talents and denarii
I'm sure I'll be forgiven for the dreadful pun. One of the discouraging parts of wishing to maintain a blog that has any potential for being of value is that, when one looks back over the past two years' entries, it seems the best to be said is already written, and too much already has been repetitive. So bear with me as I ravel some thoughts which struck me recently.
I'm studying two areas related to the Hebrew Scriptures, plus philosophy of religion, at the moment. Though I've had the good fortune to have a background in many areas of religious history, I need at times to have my memory jogged. I found Karen Armstrong's "The History of God" to be quite useful. I would not recommend it as anyone's sole source for references in the area - Karen, here as usual, displays some excellent scholarship and insight, while presenting ideas the greatest scripture scholars and theologians debate as if there were one, agreed conclusion. Yet I especially did enjoy this book, because it stresses the transcendence of God, and the limitations of our visions. It also explored aspects of mysticism (striking similar in many aspects) in various religious and philosophical traditions.
Occasionally, visitors to my web site (who often are surprised there is such a thing as Christian mysticism... no wonder Amazon classes Julian of Norwich's books as "New Age") are interested in mystic experience in their own lives. I am a doctor of humanities, however much I have specialised in theology, and, though I'll not deny my gifts for teaching, I am not qualified in spiritual direction, so I cannot provide the sort of guidance they desire. (Actually, in many cases I doubt they'd embrace genuine spiritual direction. Some writers seem to think that mystic experience is some sort of a 'high' - and that one can, perhaps, reach the seventh mansion of Teresa on a Concorde flight if they read the Cloud of Unknowing this Saturday.) I'm sure it's a disappointment when I admit, first, that I myself am not a mystic (for all my acquaintance with mystic theology), and that those who are such cannot have become so as a matter of achievement. Karen's book had a quote I found very apt - all of us have the longing for intimacy with our Creator in some fashion, but, as Karen mentioned, the mystics have a particular gift, much as one might have a gift for writing poetry.
(I shall pause for a moment to sigh, since most of my family would have considered a gift for poetry as a total waste, much preferring to urge one to civil service exams... but that is another topic for another day.)
Most of us who are committed to a life of prayer pursue, in one of my favourite new phrases, the banality of orthopraxy. For one it might be an orientation towards service, for another (as it is for myself) liturgical prayer and intellectual pursuits, whatever. One is not superior to the other - but this world, overall, would be boring indeed if there were only technicians and bankers and no poets or musicians.
I doubt I can express this well, but I shall make an effort. Those who do have the gift of mysticism (and who, in some cases, are not those with heroic sanctity) always needed the framework of daily worship, the scriptures, wise direction, and other practises that are far from exotic and exciting. Many saw God as essentially unknowable. Those who experienced 'consolations,' such as Teresa of Avila, were cautious about these expressions, and mainly considered them to be more distracting than helpful. Visions, for example, can illustrate a powerful drive to intimacy with the transcendent God, but always have a flavour of the individual's vision.
Francis of Assisi, a poet and man of passion if not the most emotionally stable of creatures, may have been excessive (by any standard) in his pondering Jesus' suffering and wishing he could have comforted him, or in dwelling on how our sins caused the crucifixion. Yet he'd reached a point of such love and self forgetfulness that the stigmata (surely a reflection of his inward pain) indeed was an icon of his intimacy with Christ. Catherine of Siena, whose mystical marriage involved seeing a wedding ring formed from Jesus' foreskin from the circumcision, and who gives many signs of having anorexia, also had reached a point of holiness where even her own oddness had the passion for intimacy which the great saints illustrate.
I love Francesco and Caterina, of course, but I'm ravelling a thread in another direction. They were unusual people, and some of the manifestations of their personalities and weaknesses (which will be part of any person's experience, but the more for mystics because their passion for God is so intense) might be judged pathological today. (Thank God they lived in the days before psychiatrists, or they might have been 'cured' by doubting their own integrity.) Very few people who are, for example, constantly dealing with emotional outbursts, fear, insomnia, and self hatred, as did Francis (those interested in this area may wish to consult some of Fr Benedict Groeschel's observations), could 'open the book' of looking for mystic experience, heightened meditations and the like. There is too much danger of having our inward sinfulness and weakness manifest itself - I do not doubt the evil in this world, but I believe that the overwhelming number of demons are projections of our own violence, jealousy, and so forth. It is too dangerous to pursue the desire for exalted emotion (when one is not at the point of self forgetfulness which Francis, John of the Cross, or Caterina would have reached), or our very weakness can disguise itself as special inspiration.
I had one other thought - perhaps a loose association, but one I shall include as a minor rant. Jesus is sanctifying the cosmos as a whole - we are a Church (and this applies whether we know it or not, because I'm of the mind that Adam and Eve were part of 'the Church.') It is not a contest for who is more important than another - those 'may we sit at your left and right' discussions are quite tiresome. However, if there is a 'poet' among us, if we have a desire to be special, and a jealousy towards the mystic, it can lead to spiritual avarice rather than growth.
One must totally disassociate one's perspective from the deplorable perspective of 18th through 21st century capitalism, which can infect the spiritual viewpoint. I loathe such clichés as 'you get out of life exactly what you put into it,' or 'practise makes perfect,' or anything of that sort. It is wrong, because it takes one aspect of achievement (though spiritual growth is a grace, not an achievement) - for example, that one greatly talented at the piano indeed needs years of training, practise, and the like to become a great artiste - and 'flips it around,' as if one without the talent who does not achieve such mastery just didn't work hard enough. (Never mind that I despise the 'get out of life what you put into it' crap because it's a wonderful excuse for the wealthy or powerful to despise the poor.)
We cannot decide to 'become mystics.' We are a whole - a Church - and those who carried Julian her food or carried away her waste were no less a part of this than was the mystic in the cell. It is not a 'course,' as if one who studies enough or engages in enough self hypnosis will be inspired by the Holy Spirit. (I suppose all of us have some inspiration now and then, but God protect us from thinking we can put in an order for take away at whim.)
I'm studying two areas related to the Hebrew Scriptures, plus philosophy of religion, at the moment. Though I've had the good fortune to have a background in many areas of religious history, I need at times to have my memory jogged. I found Karen Armstrong's "The History of God" to be quite useful. I would not recommend it as anyone's sole source for references in the area - Karen, here as usual, displays some excellent scholarship and insight, while presenting ideas the greatest scripture scholars and theologians debate as if there were one, agreed conclusion. Yet I especially did enjoy this book, because it stresses the transcendence of God, and the limitations of our visions. It also explored aspects of mysticism (striking similar in many aspects) in various religious and philosophical traditions.
Occasionally, visitors to my web site (who often are surprised there is such a thing as Christian mysticism... no wonder Amazon classes Julian of Norwich's books as "New Age") are interested in mystic experience in their own lives. I am a doctor of humanities, however much I have specialised in theology, and, though I'll not deny my gifts for teaching, I am not qualified in spiritual direction, so I cannot provide the sort of guidance they desire. (Actually, in many cases I doubt they'd embrace genuine spiritual direction. Some writers seem to think that mystic experience is some sort of a 'high' - and that one can, perhaps, reach the seventh mansion of Teresa on a Concorde flight if they read the Cloud of Unknowing this Saturday.) I'm sure it's a disappointment when I admit, first, that I myself am not a mystic (for all my acquaintance with mystic theology), and that those who are such cannot have become so as a matter of achievement. Karen's book had a quote I found very apt - all of us have the longing for intimacy with our Creator in some fashion, but, as Karen mentioned, the mystics have a particular gift, much as one might have a gift for writing poetry.
(I shall pause for a moment to sigh, since most of my family would have considered a gift for poetry as a total waste, much preferring to urge one to civil service exams... but that is another topic for another day.)
Most of us who are committed to a life of prayer pursue, in one of my favourite new phrases, the banality of orthopraxy. For one it might be an orientation towards service, for another (as it is for myself) liturgical prayer and intellectual pursuits, whatever. One is not superior to the other - but this world, overall, would be boring indeed if there were only technicians and bankers and no poets or musicians.
I doubt I can express this well, but I shall make an effort. Those who do have the gift of mysticism (and who, in some cases, are not those with heroic sanctity) always needed the framework of daily worship, the scriptures, wise direction, and other practises that are far from exotic and exciting. Many saw God as essentially unknowable. Those who experienced 'consolations,' such as Teresa of Avila, were cautious about these expressions, and mainly considered them to be more distracting than helpful. Visions, for example, can illustrate a powerful drive to intimacy with the transcendent God, but always have a flavour of the individual's vision.
Francis of Assisi, a poet and man of passion if not the most emotionally stable of creatures, may have been excessive (by any standard) in his pondering Jesus' suffering and wishing he could have comforted him, or in dwelling on how our sins caused the crucifixion. Yet he'd reached a point of such love and self forgetfulness that the stigmata (surely a reflection of his inward pain) indeed was an icon of his intimacy with Christ. Catherine of Siena, whose mystical marriage involved seeing a wedding ring formed from Jesus' foreskin from the circumcision, and who gives many signs of having anorexia, also had reached a point of holiness where even her own oddness had the passion for intimacy which the great saints illustrate.
I love Francesco and Caterina, of course, but I'm ravelling a thread in another direction. They were unusual people, and some of the manifestations of their personalities and weaknesses (which will be part of any person's experience, but the more for mystics because their passion for God is so intense) might be judged pathological today. (Thank God they lived in the days before psychiatrists, or they might have been 'cured' by doubting their own integrity.) Very few people who are, for example, constantly dealing with emotional outbursts, fear, insomnia, and self hatred, as did Francis (those interested in this area may wish to consult some of Fr Benedict Groeschel's observations), could 'open the book' of looking for mystic experience, heightened meditations and the like. There is too much danger of having our inward sinfulness and weakness manifest itself - I do not doubt the evil in this world, but I believe that the overwhelming number of demons are projections of our own violence, jealousy, and so forth. It is too dangerous to pursue the desire for exalted emotion (when one is not at the point of self forgetfulness which Francis, John of the Cross, or Caterina would have reached), or our very weakness can disguise itself as special inspiration.
I had one other thought - perhaps a loose association, but one I shall include as a minor rant. Jesus is sanctifying the cosmos as a whole - we are a Church (and this applies whether we know it or not, because I'm of the mind that Adam and Eve were part of 'the Church.') It is not a contest for who is more important than another - those 'may we sit at your left and right' discussions are quite tiresome. However, if there is a 'poet' among us, if we have a desire to be special, and a jealousy towards the mystic, it can lead to spiritual avarice rather than growth.
One must totally disassociate one's perspective from the deplorable perspective of 18th through 21st century capitalism, which can infect the spiritual viewpoint. I loathe such clichés as 'you get out of life exactly what you put into it,' or 'practise makes perfect,' or anything of that sort. It is wrong, because it takes one aspect of achievement (though spiritual growth is a grace, not an achievement) - for example, that one greatly talented at the piano indeed needs years of training, practise, and the like to become a great artiste - and 'flips it around,' as if one without the talent who does not achieve such mastery just didn't work hard enough. (Never mind that I despise the 'get out of life what you put into it' crap because it's a wonderful excuse for the wealthy or powerful to despise the poor.)
We cannot decide to 'become mystics.' We are a whole - a Church - and those who carried Julian her food or carried away her waste were no less a part of this than was the mystic in the cell. It is not a 'course,' as if one who studies enough or engages in enough self hypnosis will be inspired by the Holy Spirit. (I suppose all of us have some inspiration now and then, but God protect us from thinking we can put in an order for take away at whim.)
Monday, 30 July 2007
The new self
Fear not, little flock - you'll find no nonsense here about any concepts of 'a whole new you' or anything of that sort. (I am not selling anything.) I suppose that, whenever I put 'pen' to blog, deep down I'd love to have the insight of Benedict XVI, combined with the wit of Chesterton. Instead, I more often have the problem of having too many ideas instead of too few, and find it easier to sort them out when I not only write but, at least in theory, am sharing them with others. It also is a valuable exercise in unwinding for me - especially necessary on days such as this one, when I not only had a very irritating conversation trying to convince animal control to remove the corpse of a cat from the building premises but sat next to a man on the bus (who really should try Hyde Park Corner...) who supposedly had read somewhere that anyone who protested the war could have everything they own seized. (I've been a dove all of my life - nothing unusual for a Franciscan - and was then haunted by old goblins, fearing that my modest little basement flat would disappear and I'd have to sleep in the street, covered in lice, like Francesco.)
I occasionally write brief meditations for an e-mail list, related to readings for a particular Sunday. Since I've been mildly unwell, and therefore not out and about very much these past few days, I had offered to 'do' the next available Sunday. (You will find the link to the readings if you click the title of this post.) Now, for me to write a 3,000 word essay is very difficult - but to write a 300 word meditation is an effort on a par with walking across the Channel on a tightrope (and with no net.) My first impression, from the readings as a whole, was that idolatry is as regular as the sunrise, and that I am not sure that Hosea, who after all only had to deal with Israel's bowing to Ba'al, wasn't in a position preferable to that of dealing with the self-absorbed, egotistical fool in Luke's parable (who says "I" about five times in one sentence.) At least those bowing to their neighbour's gods might be misled in good faith, where the latter character is worshipping himself.
I love the epistle to the Colossians, and it will come as no surprise that my only regret, in choosing that text, is that I would rather prefer to have floated away on a meditation on the incomparable 'cosmic Christ' hymn of chapter one, rather than the exhortations of chapter 3. After about 543 diversions - covering everything from Genesis to Gnosticism - I finally centred on a verse regarding "the new self - which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator." (Note to the pedantic: yes, I am aware that scholars disagree about whether Paul wrote this epistle. Whether he did or not, the epistle is clearly of the "Pauline school," and I therefore shall use "Paul" rather than "the author of the epistle to the Colossians." I find messages about 'who wrote the New Testament,' just as I do with those about who really wrote Shakespeare's plays, to be as stale as a week-old scone.)
Christianity, for many centuries, so often focusses on the afterlife, or on salvation as either the key to heaven or the antidote to hell, that it is easy to forget that Paul was thoroughly Jewish. The kingdom of heaven had arrived for Paul - and, while this concept certainly was not one which most Pharisees would have applied to Jesus of Nazareth, we do need to remember that Judaism had no real concept of the afterlife, with even the idea of a general resurrection being a fairly recent development in Paul's time. God already is Lord of history - we are already the Body of Christ, at God's right hand. For Paul, the Church already shared in the glory of Jesus, though the fullness of that glory was hidden. His exhortations to moral behaviour are not based on reward or punishment in a future life, but are a call to walk in the dignity of those already sharing in heavenly glory. (The Colossians probably were already tired of waiting for the glory for which they hoped, and finding orthopraxy to be banal. If there is any surer testimony to divine grace than that, then as now, people waited for a tomorrow that never seemed to arrive, and based their lives on having heard that a Galilean carpenter rose from the dead, I cannot think of one at the moment.)
It must have been no easy task for a Jewish man (by then a 'heretic' in the eyes of most of his own) to be presenting very new ideas to a Greek community. (Yes, most of the hearers may well have been peasants, but they must have had some inkling of the various 'party lines,' having come of the noble heritage of Alexander's empire.) :) In Greek philosophy, creation is inherently negative - this world is a trial, or even an accident. Only the soul endures - and the concept of 'soul' is basically 'intellect' if Plato is to be believed. By contrast, in Judaism God is a Creator, and not only in the sense of setting a world in motion but in being constantly involved in its history.
Centuries before the time of Jesus, though there was no concept of such a Messiah as He, Israel recognised that we are created in God's image. There are no nature gods such as neighbours of the Hebrews would have imagined. In our humanity, we are the visible 'icons' of the transcendent God. Of course, Jesus' being the divine Person is unique, but, for all of humanity, our true self is that which mirrors the divine qualities.
From the first books of Genesis, speech is constantly the tool of creation and revelation. Notice how "God said let there be..." shows the awesome power of will and communication, and how the words of the prophets and patriarchs (not to mention those such as Paul, who witnessed to the resurrection) relate to accomplishment of, and knowledge of, the divine plan. Our gift of making choices, and of communicating, is one to be cherished.
What of the 'wrath' of God, to which Paul refers? The Hebrew scriptures which Paul would have known were extensively compiled and edited during and after the time of Israel's Babylonian captivity. References to judgement and wrath did not refer to destruction or hatred, which are totally alien to the Creator's nature. Violence is always of human origin (whether in conquerors or when the Son of God was nailed to a cross.) Hebrew writings about wrath were intended to illustrate that God, in a manner beyond our comprehension, always remains involved in, and in control of, his creation and our human history (however poorly Israel seemed to be faring at the moment.) Human wickedness and lust for power cannot thwart omnipotence. Our own wrath mocks the divine power - leading to violence and destructive, not creative, results.
Idolatry is effectively a worship of our false self - the part of us which distorts and abuses the gift of our faculties, where we were created to mirror the divine image in which we were created. Our own abusive language and wrath are perversions of the gift of communication, and of our faculties for reason and choices. Sexual immorality abuses our share in creative power. Greed destroys the joy and gratitude we should be taking in the goods of this world (and sometimes grows into spiritual avarice, where we become blind to love for God and neighbour because we are so concerned with what goods of the heavenly realm we would like to be known to possess.)
We have a unique gift, among all of creation, to share in truly loving relationships - such as existed eternally amongst the Persons of the Trinity. Love cannot be coerced or rooted in fear, but must be a choice. Perhaps this is the reason that divine glory always is hidden. The fullness of it is beyond us, of course, but, were it revealed in the sort of fashion that (for example) calls down twenty legions of angels, it could inspire terror, or magical confusion. This would be incompatible with human freedom.
Now... can you see just how boggled this mind is? :) I'm just hoping that, of these seemingly loose associations, I can compile some sort of a coherent whole. But I can see how Paul (and 'apostles' till the judgement day) would see the importance of cautioning us against the sinful traits mentioned in Colossians. It is not just 'the benefit of society' and the like which is a concern. We are created in the image of God - and our true self will mirror, not distort, creative power, love, and truth.
I occasionally write brief meditations for an e-mail list, related to readings for a particular Sunday. Since I've been mildly unwell, and therefore not out and about very much these past few days, I had offered to 'do' the next available Sunday. (You will find the link to the readings if you click the title of this post.) Now, for me to write a 3,000 word essay is very difficult - but to write a 300 word meditation is an effort on a par with walking across the Channel on a tightrope (and with no net.) My first impression, from the readings as a whole, was that idolatry is as regular as the sunrise, and that I am not sure that Hosea, who after all only had to deal with Israel's bowing to Ba'al, wasn't in a position preferable to that of dealing with the self-absorbed, egotistical fool in Luke's parable (who says "I" about five times in one sentence.) At least those bowing to their neighbour's gods might be misled in good faith, where the latter character is worshipping himself.
I love the epistle to the Colossians, and it will come as no surprise that my only regret, in choosing that text, is that I would rather prefer to have floated away on a meditation on the incomparable 'cosmic Christ' hymn of chapter one, rather than the exhortations of chapter 3. After about 543 diversions - covering everything from Genesis to Gnosticism - I finally centred on a verse regarding "the new self - which is being renewed in knowledge according to the image of its creator." (Note to the pedantic: yes, I am aware that scholars disagree about whether Paul wrote this epistle. Whether he did or not, the epistle is clearly of the "Pauline school," and I therefore shall use "Paul" rather than "the author of the epistle to the Colossians." I find messages about 'who wrote the New Testament,' just as I do with those about who really wrote Shakespeare's plays, to be as stale as a week-old scone.)
Christianity, for many centuries, so often focusses on the afterlife, or on salvation as either the key to heaven or the antidote to hell, that it is easy to forget that Paul was thoroughly Jewish. The kingdom of heaven had arrived for Paul - and, while this concept certainly was not one which most Pharisees would have applied to Jesus of Nazareth, we do need to remember that Judaism had no real concept of the afterlife, with even the idea of a general resurrection being a fairly recent development in Paul's time. God already is Lord of history - we are already the Body of Christ, at God's right hand. For Paul, the Church already shared in the glory of Jesus, though the fullness of that glory was hidden. His exhortations to moral behaviour are not based on reward or punishment in a future life, but are a call to walk in the dignity of those already sharing in heavenly glory. (The Colossians probably were already tired of waiting for the glory for which they hoped, and finding orthopraxy to be banal. If there is any surer testimony to divine grace than that, then as now, people waited for a tomorrow that never seemed to arrive, and based their lives on having heard that a Galilean carpenter rose from the dead, I cannot think of one at the moment.)
It must have been no easy task for a Jewish man (by then a 'heretic' in the eyes of most of his own) to be presenting very new ideas to a Greek community. (Yes, most of the hearers may well have been peasants, but they must have had some inkling of the various 'party lines,' having come of the noble heritage of Alexander's empire.) :) In Greek philosophy, creation is inherently negative - this world is a trial, or even an accident. Only the soul endures - and the concept of 'soul' is basically 'intellect' if Plato is to be believed. By contrast, in Judaism God is a Creator, and not only in the sense of setting a world in motion but in being constantly involved in its history.
Centuries before the time of Jesus, though there was no concept of such a Messiah as He, Israel recognised that we are created in God's image. There are no nature gods such as neighbours of the Hebrews would have imagined. In our humanity, we are the visible 'icons' of the transcendent God. Of course, Jesus' being the divine Person is unique, but, for all of humanity, our true self is that which mirrors the divine qualities.
From the first books of Genesis, speech is constantly the tool of creation and revelation. Notice how "God said let there be..." shows the awesome power of will and communication, and how the words of the prophets and patriarchs (not to mention those such as Paul, who witnessed to the resurrection) relate to accomplishment of, and knowledge of, the divine plan. Our gift of making choices, and of communicating, is one to be cherished.
What of the 'wrath' of God, to which Paul refers? The Hebrew scriptures which Paul would have known were extensively compiled and edited during and after the time of Israel's Babylonian captivity. References to judgement and wrath did not refer to destruction or hatred, which are totally alien to the Creator's nature. Violence is always of human origin (whether in conquerors or when the Son of God was nailed to a cross.) Hebrew writings about wrath were intended to illustrate that God, in a manner beyond our comprehension, always remains involved in, and in control of, his creation and our human history (however poorly Israel seemed to be faring at the moment.) Human wickedness and lust for power cannot thwart omnipotence. Our own wrath mocks the divine power - leading to violence and destructive, not creative, results.
Idolatry is effectively a worship of our false self - the part of us which distorts and abuses the gift of our faculties, where we were created to mirror the divine image in which we were created. Our own abusive language and wrath are perversions of the gift of communication, and of our faculties for reason and choices. Sexual immorality abuses our share in creative power. Greed destroys the joy and gratitude we should be taking in the goods of this world (and sometimes grows into spiritual avarice, where we become blind to love for God and neighbour because we are so concerned with what goods of the heavenly realm we would like to be known to possess.)
We have a unique gift, among all of creation, to share in truly loving relationships - such as existed eternally amongst the Persons of the Trinity. Love cannot be coerced or rooted in fear, but must be a choice. Perhaps this is the reason that divine glory always is hidden. The fullness of it is beyond us, of course, but, were it revealed in the sort of fashion that (for example) calls down twenty legions of angels, it could inspire terror, or magical confusion. This would be incompatible with human freedom.
Now... can you see just how boggled this mind is? :) I'm just hoping that, of these seemingly loose associations, I can compile some sort of a coherent whole. But I can see how Paul (and 'apostles' till the judgement day) would see the importance of cautioning us against the sinful traits mentioned in Colossians. It is not just 'the benefit of society' and the like which is a concern. We are created in the image of God - and our true self will mirror, not distort, creative power, love, and truth.
Monday, 23 July 2007
Shall we finally have sex now?
Caught your attention, did I not? I naturally meant 'the topic of sex,' and what prompted this post was recent nonsense about "The Silver Ring Thing," to which you'll find a link in the heading for this post. (Be assured this is not an endorsement, merely a source for information.) Recently, there was much media coverage regarding a girl (whose father is very involved in the Silver Ring programme), who had quite a controversy with her school about whether this ring, which she saw as a symbol of religious commitment, should be permitted, considering that wearing jewellery is not permitted with the school uniform.
Those who are gluttons for punishment, or who want to laugh aloud while shaking their heads, may search the Internet for Silver Ring 'merchandise' - such as shirts proclaiming "I'm Waiting!" or "Good Girl." I recall a BBC special regarding those involved with the Silver Ring business, and I found it all rather ludicrous. Most of the young people who were interviewed are engaging in oral sex (since when is that not having sex - to anyone but an adulterous lawyer?) and so forth - it appears the girls make pledges based on the authority of their fathers, saving their hymens as gifts to their husbands (I suppose because many men get a thrill from deflowering virgins.) Of course, being a private person and thinking that such things as dignity are not passé, I am wondering why a girl who believes sex belongs only in marriage needs to make that known to anyone except a man with whom she is involved.
The very business of "I'm Waiting!" seems rather prurient to me - as if a girl has to advertise to the world that all the men who must be panting after her have no hopes of a bonk that evening. "Good Girl!" is posturing - I daresay even virgins and chaste married women have a sin of some sort here and there, and such a slogan not only implicitly proclaims oneself as superior to those whose sins are of a different nature than one's own favourites but shows a common but completely erroneous idea that the only sins that matter are those connected with sex.
The Silver Ring site makes it plain that parents "are the leading influence in their children's sexual decision-making," and that their seminars have no graphic information about sex because "this is basically the parent's role." Is there anyone out there who can manage to come to full maturity, not only about sex but in any other area, if they cannot get past wanting to imitate or please parents? (I suppose Francis of Assisi and the teenaged Clare, who rejected their parents' values and embraced a new form of religious life, should be considered sinners for their disobedience and originality.) I'll return to the 'parent's role' in a moment.
What saddens me, not only in this but in much of the attitude towards sex today, is that it never seems to focus on the virtue of chastity. Here I am not speaking in a narrow sense, but of using one's sexuality in a loving, appropriate, responsible manner - whatever one's state of life. The Silver Ring site seems to think these 'pledges' will revolt against a sinful society (if they read the Old Testament, for example, they'd realise that sins of any sort are not reserved to the 21st century - but I suppose their kids cannot read the OT because it contains varied references to sex) and prevent STDs - but the emphasis is largely on negative, natural consequences for behaviour.
It occurs to me that the Christian stress on chastity (here I refer to fidelity in marriage and refraining from sex outside of this commitment) is highly positive, and based on marriage as both a covenant and reflecting God's own covenant with his creation. (Yes, I stress commitment in marriage. Love is not enough if there is no firm covenant.) There is respect for sex as a share in divine, creative power - and I do not restrict this to the few times in any life when procreation takes place. If parents can be the 'main teachers,' I see this not in preaching and snooping, but in presenting an example of commitment and responsibility.
I was a teenager at the height of the 'sexual revolution' (in which I did not participate.) My teachers then were not prudish or ignorant, but had to more or less pretend they thought every person in the class was a virgin who was worrying over whether snogging was a mortal sin. They knew otherwise, of course, but the extreme reserve, and questions shrugged off with 'ask your parents' (even if the question was indirect, as with science or literature), is because a small but vocal number of parents would be in an uproar if their 'role' was usurped. I recall very vividly that two sets of parents (of school mates of mine) who were the most insistent on how all sex education must be the parents' role had children who were quite prolific fornicators.
I have the highest respect for marriage, and consider it to be a sacrament - but the few references that were allowed (and many popular books at the time, when the holiest of couples were urging Paul VI to reconsider on contraception) glorified the state to such an extent that it was unreal. I cannot remember the title now, but one book written by fervent Catholics who wished contraception to be permitted made constant references to sex, but without allowing the slightest mention of physical desire! Apparently all sexual activity came from an intense need to express love and mirror the Trinity...
I was and am rather a naive creature, but even I, most fortunately, knew better than to think that any man who might care to have sex with me just had to be prompted by an overwhelming desire to 'enfold me with his love.' I cannot think of too many ideas which could make the most innocent of women more vulnerable!
With all the emphasis on fear of paedophilia today, there are common attitudes which would make it seem that a child of three and a teenaged man or woman both are sexless little darlings who won't think about sex unless some wicked adult mentions the topic. (I am inclined to doubt that teenagers are thinking of too much else. It also occurs to me that this was intended by the Creator, or that the human race would have died out the first time Eve had labour pains.)
I remember a devout acquaintance (who married at the age of 19, has been married perhaps thirty years, and is the mother of six) who was outraged that her teenaged children had had exposure, at school, to a book which made some references to foreplay and intercourse. My personal view is that anyone who is trying to live chastely (in this context, those who plan to marry but not have sex beforehand) had damn well better know these details! More than once, I have known teenagers who said that they had not intended to 'go the whole way,' but did not realise how quickly it all can happen (especially with the intensity of sex drive and speed of arousal of the young adult.)
Too often, those encouraging abstinence from sex make little, if any, reference to chastity as a virtue. (I'd love to hear one of the Bible thumpers prepare a sermon about Paul's exhortations against 'porneia' in his epistles... noting correctly that, in each case, Paul presented these in an overall context of avoiding idolatry. It wasn't a teary-eyed means for evos to say, "I was his first!") That improper use of our faculties and drives (of all sorts, not only the sexual) hampers the spiritual life - the love of God and neighbour - is rarely mentioned. The virtue of chastity is a wonderful concept, with both intimacy with God and a healthy respect for our inclinations and their appropriate use as considerations - an idea that one is 'saving' her hymen for her husband both makes her sound like the man's property and implies that, once that part of the anatomy is gone, future behaviour does not matter.
I'll save my writing about chastity as practised in consecrated life for another thread - I daresay evangelicals who are involved with such projects as Silver Rings would condemn permanent chastity (not knowing anything of its ancient Christian origins and value) because so much of their emphasis is on marriage and family that one would think anyone not married was violating God's will.
Those who are gluttons for punishment, or who want to laugh aloud while shaking their heads, may search the Internet for Silver Ring 'merchandise' - such as shirts proclaiming "I'm Waiting!" or "Good Girl." I recall a BBC special regarding those involved with the Silver Ring business, and I found it all rather ludicrous. Most of the young people who were interviewed are engaging in oral sex (since when is that not having sex - to anyone but an adulterous lawyer?) and so forth - it appears the girls make pledges based on the authority of their fathers, saving their hymens as gifts to their husbands (I suppose because many men get a thrill from deflowering virgins.) Of course, being a private person and thinking that such things as dignity are not passé, I am wondering why a girl who believes sex belongs only in marriage needs to make that known to anyone except a man with whom she is involved.
The very business of "I'm Waiting!" seems rather prurient to me - as if a girl has to advertise to the world that all the men who must be panting after her have no hopes of a bonk that evening. "Good Girl!" is posturing - I daresay even virgins and chaste married women have a sin of some sort here and there, and such a slogan not only implicitly proclaims oneself as superior to those whose sins are of a different nature than one's own favourites but shows a common but completely erroneous idea that the only sins that matter are those connected with sex.
The Silver Ring site makes it plain that parents "are the leading influence in their children's sexual decision-making," and that their seminars have no graphic information about sex because "this is basically the parent's role." Is there anyone out there who can manage to come to full maturity, not only about sex but in any other area, if they cannot get past wanting to imitate or please parents? (I suppose Francis of Assisi and the teenaged Clare, who rejected their parents' values and embraced a new form of religious life, should be considered sinners for their disobedience and originality.) I'll return to the 'parent's role' in a moment.
What saddens me, not only in this but in much of the attitude towards sex today, is that it never seems to focus on the virtue of chastity. Here I am not speaking in a narrow sense, but of using one's sexuality in a loving, appropriate, responsible manner - whatever one's state of life. The Silver Ring site seems to think these 'pledges' will revolt against a sinful society (if they read the Old Testament, for example, they'd realise that sins of any sort are not reserved to the 21st century - but I suppose their kids cannot read the OT because it contains varied references to sex) and prevent STDs - but the emphasis is largely on negative, natural consequences for behaviour.
It occurs to me that the Christian stress on chastity (here I refer to fidelity in marriage and refraining from sex outside of this commitment) is highly positive, and based on marriage as both a covenant and reflecting God's own covenant with his creation. (Yes, I stress commitment in marriage. Love is not enough if there is no firm covenant.) There is respect for sex as a share in divine, creative power - and I do not restrict this to the few times in any life when procreation takes place. If parents can be the 'main teachers,' I see this not in preaching and snooping, but in presenting an example of commitment and responsibility.
I was a teenager at the height of the 'sexual revolution' (in which I did not participate.) My teachers then were not prudish or ignorant, but had to more or less pretend they thought every person in the class was a virgin who was worrying over whether snogging was a mortal sin. They knew otherwise, of course, but the extreme reserve, and questions shrugged off with 'ask your parents' (even if the question was indirect, as with science or literature), is because a small but vocal number of parents would be in an uproar if their 'role' was usurped. I recall very vividly that two sets of parents (of school mates of mine) who were the most insistent on how all sex education must be the parents' role had children who were quite prolific fornicators.
I have the highest respect for marriage, and consider it to be a sacrament - but the few references that were allowed (and many popular books at the time, when the holiest of couples were urging Paul VI to reconsider on contraception) glorified the state to such an extent that it was unreal. I cannot remember the title now, but one book written by fervent Catholics who wished contraception to be permitted made constant references to sex, but without allowing the slightest mention of physical desire! Apparently all sexual activity came from an intense need to express love and mirror the Trinity...
I was and am rather a naive creature, but even I, most fortunately, knew better than to think that any man who might care to have sex with me just had to be prompted by an overwhelming desire to 'enfold me with his love.' I cannot think of too many ideas which could make the most innocent of women more vulnerable!
With all the emphasis on fear of paedophilia today, there are common attitudes which would make it seem that a child of three and a teenaged man or woman both are sexless little darlings who won't think about sex unless some wicked adult mentions the topic. (I am inclined to doubt that teenagers are thinking of too much else. It also occurs to me that this was intended by the Creator, or that the human race would have died out the first time Eve had labour pains.)
I remember a devout acquaintance (who married at the age of 19, has been married perhaps thirty years, and is the mother of six) who was outraged that her teenaged children had had exposure, at school, to a book which made some references to foreplay and intercourse. My personal view is that anyone who is trying to live chastely (in this context, those who plan to marry but not have sex beforehand) had damn well better know these details! More than once, I have known teenagers who said that they had not intended to 'go the whole way,' but did not realise how quickly it all can happen (especially with the intensity of sex drive and speed of arousal of the young adult.)
Too often, those encouraging abstinence from sex make little, if any, reference to chastity as a virtue. (I'd love to hear one of the Bible thumpers prepare a sermon about Paul's exhortations against 'porneia' in his epistles... noting correctly that, in each case, Paul presented these in an overall context of avoiding idolatry. It wasn't a teary-eyed means for evos to say, "I was his first!") That improper use of our faculties and drives (of all sorts, not only the sexual) hampers the spiritual life - the love of God and neighbour - is rarely mentioned. The virtue of chastity is a wonderful concept, with both intimacy with God and a healthy respect for our inclinations and their appropriate use as considerations - an idea that one is 'saving' her hymen for her husband both makes her sound like the man's property and implies that, once that part of the anatomy is gone, future behaviour does not matter.
I'll save my writing about chastity as practised in consecrated life for another thread - I daresay evangelicals who are involved with such projects as Silver Rings would condemn permanent chastity (not knowing anything of its ancient Christian origins and value) because so much of their emphasis is on marriage and family that one would think anyone not married was violating God's will.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
A few thoughts about charm
Recently, on an internet forum on which I participate, someone began a thread to discuss 'charm.' I suppose, OED aside, that one of the reasons this is a difficult trait to identify is that it is difficult to define. (It also is a quality which I sadly do not possess. Oh, I indeed am kind, caring, compassionate and the like - and have the scars to prove this. I'm basically a gentle soul. However, various years of having to struggle, on various levels, for my own survival, and my intolerance for anything I find fake or illustrative of ego games, means that I do tend, if politely, to tell people to fuck off now and then.)
Of course, there are wonderful people in this world who would never be described as charming - and Lord knows some of the saints would make me, at my worst, seem about as gutsy as one of the Disney dwarfs. (I can think of a few people whom I esteem highly, and whose faith and its practise are an inspiration to me, of whom I know to stay clear if they approach acting 'charming.') But there is a charm that is born of true courtesy and charity - the genuine article reminds me much of holiness. I believe I'll share an illustration or two here.
Though it's about thirty years since we worked together, I'll always remember a friar with whom I was closely associated in a small, Franciscan parish. Alphonse wasn't charming in the sense of being outgoing, clever, witty, or intelligent, which I'd say are traits one might often associate with the term. He was a very simple man, rather shy, and possessed of absolute sincerity. Sometimes, I had to suppress a giggle - as when we had a discussion group about distractions at prayer, and he admitted (with no twinkle in the eye, but rather a tone of regret) that, whenever he tried to meditate, he kept picturing himself as a tennis champion, with everyone cheering for him at Wimbledon.
Looking back, and this after working with him regularly for several years, I'd say Alphonse had two special gifts - the sort of things which those affecting false charm try to copy for their own benefit. First, I've never known anyone who was so totally, genuinely interested in others. Whether he was listening to a child of three talk about scraping her knee, or a know-it-all parish snob who was indulging in self absorption, or someone with a personal problem, or someone whose main joy in life was her new fridge, or someone who had a direct line to the Holy Spirit and wanted to replace the Sunday readings with "prophecies" (this was the charismatic hey-day, and Catholics were often those most inclined to charis-mania), he not only was sincerely interested but could respond with esteem and compassion.
The interest was not an act. It wasn't the pretended "interest" which makes some burden others with questions, hoping to make them feel important and therefore be persuaded to offer volunteer service. He didn't listen to another's pain and later complain at being bothered. He never used other people's comments (I don't mean just the confidential - but, for example, a trying mini tirade the snob offered at a parish gathering) to win points with others for knowing things, or to mock the speaker later.
Second, Alphonse had an uncanny ability to see the good in others. (My cynical side makes me add that it's most fortunate that he was not among the friars who worked with hardened criminals - he'd have believed Jack the Ripper was seeking holiness, a trap into which I, too, would be likely to fall.) One wouldn't necessarily see it at the time, but one could get over rough spots and actually grow in kindness, virtue, and the like because of the strength of seeing the goodness Alphonse saw in oneself.
I haven't thought of Alphonse much in years, but this thread stimulated the memory. Though he did not have the poetic ways, wit, and passion of Francesco, somehow Alphonse's natural courtesy, simplicity, and delight in making the gospel known (he was in awe of this, not posturing) made me think that he was an illustration of the sort of charm which made Francis of Assisi have such an extraordinary influence.
Now, brace yourself if you're still there... since I am Elizabeth, not Alphonse, I naturally have a word to say about the false charm which I despise.
False charm is based on deceit and manipulation, and comes in many varieties. It just struck me that those who have read "Gone with the Wind" may remember how brilliantly Margaret Mitchell captured this in her depiction of Scarlett O'Hara. Scarlett is in awe of her mother, Ellen, who is generally recognised as kind, selfless, and otherwise a great lady. (Qualities she despises in Melanie.) Scarlett hasn't the slightest interest in actually having any of the traits people admired in Ellen - but she'd love to have the reputation for having these, since it would work to her advantage.
One version of false charm is the 'I'm such a prize, you're lucky if you know or associate with me.' It's the kind of 'charm' that used to be written about in books and magazines aimed at telling women how to catch men. (Or, at any rate, be 'popular,' because one could go with a man one despised, pretending interest, just because he was a means to meet other men.) It was false flattery - pretended obligations to give the impression of being such a catch that one's social calendar was filled years in advance. I would imagine that most men could see through this a mile away, but it must work with a small percentage - who have a sad time ahead if they marry such a woman, because she has no respect for them. She's after something - whether money, prestige, or someone to dominate - but he's never known her because of the 'princess doll' act.
The other 'charm,' which I think I like even less, is of the Dale Carnegie variety. (Years ago, for some project I cannot recall, I had to read that dreadful How to Win Friends and Influence people. I've also had the displeasure of meeting sales executives whose Dale Carnegie training was so obvious it was pathetic. They tack the other person's name on the end of every sentence, and always look for something to compliment... often transparent blarney or, worse, a statement that is insulting. They'll assume, for example, that a female telecom manager is a switchboard operator, and compliment her on being able to dial a number well.) It has nothing whatever to do with genuine concern for others, much less about wanting real friends. No, it's what to say or do that (it is hoped) will fool and flatter people enough to manipulate them into doing something to one's own advantage.
Worst of all is the sweet tongued put downs. It boils down to "I think I am superior to everyone else in every way. They all must admire me, and be eager for my advice. I therefore will manage to put them down with language that allows me to pretend they are overly sensitive or 'taking things personally' if they object."
When one encounters genuine charm, the effect on the soul (as it were) is similar to that of savouring Godiva chocolate or honey on the tongue. False charm makes one wince - rather like swallowing twenty saccharin tablets. Sadly, the false can masquerade as the genuine article. For example, the 'charmer' who is only looking for his own advantage can convince others they are valued, or even loved, and it is painful to learn that this was nothing but an act.
There are days when one must count one's small assets (...Franciscans are used to that on many counts.) :) No, I shall never be charming - but at least I am genuine. I delight in the rare person I meet who has true charm, and thank God that these blessings exist.
Of course, there are wonderful people in this world who would never be described as charming - and Lord knows some of the saints would make me, at my worst, seem about as gutsy as one of the Disney dwarfs. (I can think of a few people whom I esteem highly, and whose faith and its practise are an inspiration to me, of whom I know to stay clear if they approach acting 'charming.') But there is a charm that is born of true courtesy and charity - the genuine article reminds me much of holiness. I believe I'll share an illustration or two here.
Though it's about thirty years since we worked together, I'll always remember a friar with whom I was closely associated in a small, Franciscan parish. Alphonse wasn't charming in the sense of being outgoing, clever, witty, or intelligent, which I'd say are traits one might often associate with the term. He was a very simple man, rather shy, and possessed of absolute sincerity. Sometimes, I had to suppress a giggle - as when we had a discussion group about distractions at prayer, and he admitted (with no twinkle in the eye, but rather a tone of regret) that, whenever he tried to meditate, he kept picturing himself as a tennis champion, with everyone cheering for him at Wimbledon.
Looking back, and this after working with him regularly for several years, I'd say Alphonse had two special gifts - the sort of things which those affecting false charm try to copy for their own benefit. First, I've never known anyone who was so totally, genuinely interested in others. Whether he was listening to a child of three talk about scraping her knee, or a know-it-all parish snob who was indulging in self absorption, or someone with a personal problem, or someone whose main joy in life was her new fridge, or someone who had a direct line to the Holy Spirit and wanted to replace the Sunday readings with "prophecies" (this was the charismatic hey-day, and Catholics were often those most inclined to charis-mania), he not only was sincerely interested but could respond with esteem and compassion.
The interest was not an act. It wasn't the pretended "interest" which makes some burden others with questions, hoping to make them feel important and therefore be persuaded to offer volunteer service. He didn't listen to another's pain and later complain at being bothered. He never used other people's comments (I don't mean just the confidential - but, for example, a trying mini tirade the snob offered at a parish gathering) to win points with others for knowing things, or to mock the speaker later.
Second, Alphonse had an uncanny ability to see the good in others. (My cynical side makes me add that it's most fortunate that he was not among the friars who worked with hardened criminals - he'd have believed Jack the Ripper was seeking holiness, a trap into which I, too, would be likely to fall.) One wouldn't necessarily see it at the time, but one could get over rough spots and actually grow in kindness, virtue, and the like because of the strength of seeing the goodness Alphonse saw in oneself.
I haven't thought of Alphonse much in years, but this thread stimulated the memory. Though he did not have the poetic ways, wit, and passion of Francesco, somehow Alphonse's natural courtesy, simplicity, and delight in making the gospel known (he was in awe of this, not posturing) made me think that he was an illustration of the sort of charm which made Francis of Assisi have such an extraordinary influence.
Now, brace yourself if you're still there... since I am Elizabeth, not Alphonse, I naturally have a word to say about the false charm which I despise.
False charm is based on deceit and manipulation, and comes in many varieties. It just struck me that those who have read "Gone with the Wind" may remember how brilliantly Margaret Mitchell captured this in her depiction of Scarlett O'Hara. Scarlett is in awe of her mother, Ellen, who is generally recognised as kind, selfless, and otherwise a great lady. (Qualities she despises in Melanie.) Scarlett hasn't the slightest interest in actually having any of the traits people admired in Ellen - but she'd love to have the reputation for having these, since it would work to her advantage.
One version of false charm is the 'I'm such a prize, you're lucky if you know or associate with me.' It's the kind of 'charm' that used to be written about in books and magazines aimed at telling women how to catch men. (Or, at any rate, be 'popular,' because one could go with a man one despised, pretending interest, just because he was a means to meet other men.) It was false flattery - pretended obligations to give the impression of being such a catch that one's social calendar was filled years in advance. I would imagine that most men could see through this a mile away, but it must work with a small percentage - who have a sad time ahead if they marry such a woman, because she has no respect for them. She's after something - whether money, prestige, or someone to dominate - but he's never known her because of the 'princess doll' act.
The other 'charm,' which I think I like even less, is of the Dale Carnegie variety. (Years ago, for some project I cannot recall, I had to read that dreadful How to Win Friends and Influence people. I've also had the displeasure of meeting sales executives whose Dale Carnegie training was so obvious it was pathetic. They tack the other person's name on the end of every sentence, and always look for something to compliment... often transparent blarney or, worse, a statement that is insulting. They'll assume, for example, that a female telecom manager is a switchboard operator, and compliment her on being able to dial a number well.) It has nothing whatever to do with genuine concern for others, much less about wanting real friends. No, it's what to say or do that (it is hoped) will fool and flatter people enough to manipulate them into doing something to one's own advantage.
Worst of all is the sweet tongued put downs. It boils down to "I think I am superior to everyone else in every way. They all must admire me, and be eager for my advice. I therefore will manage to put them down with language that allows me to pretend they are overly sensitive or 'taking things personally' if they object."
When one encounters genuine charm, the effect on the soul (as it were) is similar to that of savouring Godiva chocolate or honey on the tongue. False charm makes one wince - rather like swallowing twenty saccharin tablets. Sadly, the false can masquerade as the genuine article. For example, the 'charmer' who is only looking for his own advantage can convince others they are valued, or even loved, and it is painful to learn that this was nothing but an act.
There are days when one must count one's small assets (...Franciscans are used to that on many counts.) :) No, I shall never be charming - but at least I am genuine. I delight in the rare person I meet who has true charm, and thank God that these blessings exist.
Monday, 2 July 2007
King Freud
That title is not quite accurate, but rather a dismal memory struck me today. Before I moved house, two years ago, I had a substantial collection of books, mainly aimed at the clergy and religious communities, which had to do with supposed spirituality and counselling. Sadly, having them no longer at hand, I cannot quote chapter and verse. Yet it continually amazes me, considering that Freud worked on the premise that there was no God (and that his seeing us as motivated by sex and a desire for murder was not tempered with Augustine's allowance for us being in God's image and transformed by grace), that his words were accepted as a fifth gospel in many such books.
This entry is not about Freud - the title was a whim. But I do want to say a word about how 'pop psychology' today, or even techniques which can be useful in the limited application of 12 step programmes, can blind us to reality. If one's mindset is focussed on the latest pop psychology (and how people do love to think they have all the answers), one can 'hear' the stereotypes - blotting out the genuine thoughts, situations, and feelings of the speaker in the process.
Some years ago, I attended a seminar, covering several months, in pastoral care. One exercise, clearly intended to improve listening abilities, had quite another effect. We went through pretending to be people with specific problems, with the other party 'listening' and making comments. The idea was to repeat some element of what the speaker had said, to show one was attentive. It had quite another effect! Since listening was presented as 'pick up on key words, and don't let the other person finish a paragraph before you jump in,' half the time the 'talking back' had little relation to the entire picture. Worse, the fixed ideas one might have could make one 'finish another's sentences,' jumping in to recommend 'solutions' such as joining a charismatic prayer group (when the speaker was referring to his house burning down), going to Weight Watchers (when the one the other judged to be too fat was speaking of a job difficulty), 'making a change' (when the speaker referred to a niece's suicide attempt.)
Of course, though this was an era predating 'self help aisles,' there were many early 'self esteem' infections. This is not a vote against healthy self esteem, of course - our creation and deification are treasures not to be taken lightly. But 'self esteem' in this sense meant that one was sinless, perfection waiting to be discovered, and more. I well remember a godawful but very popular book which insisted that the 'useless emotions' to be discarded were 'guilt and worry.' No one stopped to think that those completely free of both are sociopaths.
Several very dear friends of mine were alcoholics or drug addicts, and found strength in twelve step programmes. I'll go so far as to say that, for some, these programmes were life savers. Nonetheless, certain slogans which addicts find very helpful should not be transferred into universal perspectives.
As one example, my alcoholic friends would have been first to admit (post-AA) that they had tendencies to blame others for every misfortune - and indeed to blame others for their own drinking most of all. For one who is unable to accept responsibility for his own actions, and to deny the effects of his addiction, such ideas as "If there's a problem here, I caused it" can be valuable. Alcoholics of my acquaintance often had blackouts, where they genuinely did not remember a problem arising from a binge, or were incapable of any concept of cause and effect.
This is fine in their case, but highly dangerous for those who are not addicts. There are many things in our lives for which we do not have control - and blaming oneself for everything can be devastating. (I'm the sort who would blame herself if the Arabs attacked the Israelis.)
Not long ago, I was shocked to hear that an old acquaintance of mine, from whom I had not heard in ages, had thought I spoke ill of her to a mutual friend. The latter, whom I'd known longer and probably did not want me to have contact with her because I knew too much of her past, had totally made up a story about what I supposedly said. It wasn't a confidence betrayed, or even words quoted out of context - I'd never said any such thing, and indeed had never known she said this. I was very sorry that C's lies had hurt another and turned her against me -but how could I be responsible for something of which I'd known nothing?
That may seem a silly example, but such cases are universal. We've all had times when, after the fact, we found out that someone took our name in vain, as it were. But I'm only using this small case to show how it is not true that, invariably, 'if there's a problem here, I caused it.'
True listening is a rare gift. We need not to 'finish other's sentences' - or we'll be convinced that is what they said, though it is not!
In one of her autobiographical books, Karen Armstrong provides a fine example of how 'professionals' can be just as deaf as the rest of us. Karen has temporal lobe epilepsy, and the symptoms for this often begin in the early adult years - in Karen's case, during her time in a convent (ages 17-24.) When Karen left her community, and troublesome symptoms continued and increased, she consulted various psychiatrists. I'm sure that all seven of them had at least a vague notion of the symptoms for temporal lobe - had Karen never been a nun, perhaps the first line of diagnosis they'd have pursued would have been neurological. But Karen was boxed at once, because her convent life was outside the norm. She went undiagnosed, with a treatable condition, for years, while shrinks tried to probe what childhood trauma would make her do anything as deviant as enter the religious life. Karen was not even permitted to speak of the convent days, though she wished to do so, because that was supposedly a means to avoid discussing her childhood.
Let us recall that it was by divine design that we have two ears and only one mouth.
This entry is not about Freud - the title was a whim. But I do want to say a word about how 'pop psychology' today, or even techniques which can be useful in the limited application of 12 step programmes, can blind us to reality. If one's mindset is focussed on the latest pop psychology (and how people do love to think they have all the answers), one can 'hear' the stereotypes - blotting out the genuine thoughts, situations, and feelings of the speaker in the process.
Some years ago, I attended a seminar, covering several months, in pastoral care. One exercise, clearly intended to improve listening abilities, had quite another effect. We went through pretending to be people with specific problems, with the other party 'listening' and making comments. The idea was to repeat some element of what the speaker had said, to show one was attentive. It had quite another effect! Since listening was presented as 'pick up on key words, and don't let the other person finish a paragraph before you jump in,' half the time the 'talking back' had little relation to the entire picture. Worse, the fixed ideas one might have could make one 'finish another's sentences,' jumping in to recommend 'solutions' such as joining a charismatic prayer group (when the speaker was referring to his house burning down), going to Weight Watchers (when the one the other judged to be too fat was speaking of a job difficulty), 'making a change' (when the speaker referred to a niece's suicide attempt.)
Of course, though this was an era predating 'self help aisles,' there were many early 'self esteem' infections. This is not a vote against healthy self esteem, of course - our creation and deification are treasures not to be taken lightly. But 'self esteem' in this sense meant that one was sinless, perfection waiting to be discovered, and more. I well remember a godawful but very popular book which insisted that the 'useless emotions' to be discarded were 'guilt and worry.' No one stopped to think that those completely free of both are sociopaths.
Several very dear friends of mine were alcoholics or drug addicts, and found strength in twelve step programmes. I'll go so far as to say that, for some, these programmes were life savers. Nonetheless, certain slogans which addicts find very helpful should not be transferred into universal perspectives.
As one example, my alcoholic friends would have been first to admit (post-AA) that they had tendencies to blame others for every misfortune - and indeed to blame others for their own drinking most of all. For one who is unable to accept responsibility for his own actions, and to deny the effects of his addiction, such ideas as "If there's a problem here, I caused it" can be valuable. Alcoholics of my acquaintance often had blackouts, where they genuinely did not remember a problem arising from a binge, or were incapable of any concept of cause and effect.
This is fine in their case, but highly dangerous for those who are not addicts. There are many things in our lives for which we do not have control - and blaming oneself for everything can be devastating. (I'm the sort who would blame herself if the Arabs attacked the Israelis.)
Not long ago, I was shocked to hear that an old acquaintance of mine, from whom I had not heard in ages, had thought I spoke ill of her to a mutual friend. The latter, whom I'd known longer and probably did not want me to have contact with her because I knew too much of her past, had totally made up a story about what I supposedly said. It wasn't a confidence betrayed, or even words quoted out of context - I'd never said any such thing, and indeed had never known she said this. I was very sorry that C's lies had hurt another and turned her against me -but how could I be responsible for something of which I'd known nothing?
That may seem a silly example, but such cases are universal. We've all had times when, after the fact, we found out that someone took our name in vain, as it were. But I'm only using this small case to show how it is not true that, invariably, 'if there's a problem here, I caused it.'
True listening is a rare gift. We need not to 'finish other's sentences' - or we'll be convinced that is what they said, though it is not!
In one of her autobiographical books, Karen Armstrong provides a fine example of how 'professionals' can be just as deaf as the rest of us. Karen has temporal lobe epilepsy, and the symptoms for this often begin in the early adult years - in Karen's case, during her time in a convent (ages 17-24.) When Karen left her community, and troublesome symptoms continued and increased, she consulted various psychiatrists. I'm sure that all seven of them had at least a vague notion of the symptoms for temporal lobe - had Karen never been a nun, perhaps the first line of diagnosis they'd have pursued would have been neurological. But Karen was boxed at once, because her convent life was outside the norm. She went undiagnosed, with a treatable condition, for years, while shrinks tried to probe what childhood trauma would make her do anything as deviant as enter the religious life. Karen was not even permitted to speak of the convent days, though she wished to do so, because that was supposedly a means to avoid discussing her childhood.
Let us recall that it was by divine design that we have two ears and only one mouth.
Thursday, 7 June 2007
Brief words about John Macquarrie
Anglican theologian John Macquarrie, who is referenced in the link in the title of this post, died on the 28th of May. May he rest in peace and rise in glory.
I always found Macquarrie to have a blend that is rare in a theologian. His books combined strong knowledge of liturgy and sacrament with an unusual dose of common sense in pastoral application.
For all of my passion for the liturgy, liturgical scholars, focussing so on 'sign and symbol,' too often lost sight of that their supposition about what such symbols would actually mean in practise (based on their knowledge of history and so forth) could be far off the mark. John Macquarrie could seem to be stating the obvious in some cases, but actually he had the openness (I'm tempted to say courage, because going against the grain can make one seem less than in the know) to point out the gap there can be between theory and practise in worship.
For example, in the western Catholic churches (by contrast with the eastern Orthodox), that baptism, confirmation, and first reception of the Eucharist were separated rites was an historical accident. (I'll explain the history at another time, not to be diverted from my point now.) In recent decades, liturgical scholars, with a perfectly sound basis, were looking to make the 'sacraments of initiation' a whole. John Macquarrie was one of few who pointed out that, though the earlier Christian traditions in worship would have been different, and though Confirmation's being a separate rite, administered long after baptism for most of us, was 'accidental,' the value that Confirmation has come to have as a 'rite of passage' and affirmation of adult faith should not be overlooked.
He also was very open about how liturgists place such strong emphasis on baptism that they can fail to see that other Christians (including other priests and theologians) might not find this to be a useful perspectice. Indeed, baptism is crucially important, and participation in the Eucharist, for example, a privilege of baptism. Yet, speaking as one who saw an attitude of 'the only vocation is baptism' wipe out the richness of Roman Catholic consecrated life, I think Macquarrie (who of course was not speaking of that particular context) was spot on.
I therefore wanted to offer this small tribute to a man of great knowledge, insight, and candour, whose works I have enjoyed and found immensely enriching.
I always found Macquarrie to have a blend that is rare in a theologian. His books combined strong knowledge of liturgy and sacrament with an unusual dose of common sense in pastoral application.
For all of my passion for the liturgy, liturgical scholars, focussing so on 'sign and symbol,' too often lost sight of that their supposition about what such symbols would actually mean in practise (based on their knowledge of history and so forth) could be far off the mark. John Macquarrie could seem to be stating the obvious in some cases, but actually he had the openness (I'm tempted to say courage, because going against the grain can make one seem less than in the know) to point out the gap there can be between theory and practise in worship.
For example, in the western Catholic churches (by contrast with the eastern Orthodox), that baptism, confirmation, and first reception of the Eucharist were separated rites was an historical accident. (I'll explain the history at another time, not to be diverted from my point now.) In recent decades, liturgical scholars, with a perfectly sound basis, were looking to make the 'sacraments of initiation' a whole. John Macquarrie was one of few who pointed out that, though the earlier Christian traditions in worship would have been different, and though Confirmation's being a separate rite, administered long after baptism for most of us, was 'accidental,' the value that Confirmation has come to have as a 'rite of passage' and affirmation of adult faith should not be overlooked.
He also was very open about how liturgists place such strong emphasis on baptism that they can fail to see that other Christians (including other priests and theologians) might not find this to be a useful perspectice. Indeed, baptism is crucially important, and participation in the Eucharist, for example, a privilege of baptism. Yet, speaking as one who saw an attitude of 'the only vocation is baptism' wipe out the richness of Roman Catholic consecrated life, I think Macquarrie (who of course was not speaking of that particular context) was spot on.
I therefore wanted to offer this small tribute to a man of great knowledge, insight, and candour, whose works I have enjoyed and found immensely enriching.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
This once, I shall quote Bertrand Russell :)
It assuredly is obvious that Bertrand Russell and I would have huge philosophical differences - though I do think that, had I been around in his day, I might rather have enjoyed having a pint with this rogue, and we at least could have had some common ground in politics and pacifism. How can I not admire one who did not back down despite being, as legend has it, the most hated man in London at the time? (Not, of course, that I'd ever wish to be hated by anyone, anywhere - but it's often a lonely world for me, because conformity, sadly, is valued much more than creativity. I would never compromise a principle, and loathe conformity - I have no respect for authority, but fear it too much to rebel.)
I was reading a Russell essay in which he asserted that "Belief in life after death comes from emotion, not reason." I believe there is an afterlife, of course, though I'd be hardput to define this - I'm wondering if Russell is anywhere now. But I identified a good deal with some of his irritable musing.
Russell sees part of the 'emotion' that inspires belief in an afterlife as coming from an exalted opinion of humanity. High opinions of mankind occur only in the abstract. "Of men in the concrete, most of us think the vast majority very bad." Russell has a point that abominations and ethical doctrines by which they are prompted hardly are evidence of an intelligent creator. However, I doubt that most of us think the majority of people are wicked. (I spent many years assuming that most people were striving to show virtue, love, and compassion... and I have the scars to prove this, because I naturally was taken for a fool.) Still, those abominations justified by supposed ethics or doctrine irritate me no less than my atheist friend here.
I have no desire to be an atheist - though I occasionally have admitted to an atheist friend that it must be restful at times. Being a theist can be very trying. :) I suppose that, if one believes in just a Ground of Being or something, or is a deist and sees a creator as setting the world in motion and then leaving it alone, at least the eternal problem of evil can be set aside. Those with classic Jewish or Christian views (including myself, of course) have quite a dilemma. We believe in a Creator God, who remains involved with this creation. I believe it was David Hume who commented that, if God wills evil, it is incompatible with his beneficence, but, if it happens against his will, what happened to that concept of omnipotence?
(Yes, I know all about Augustine and the 'absence of good.' I even know what he meant in context, and all about the dualism he was refuting and omnipotence he was responding. However, if anyone in a pastoral situation shrugs off the others' pain with 'but there is no evil - it is the absence of good,' I shall see to it that he gets forty years in purgatory - and don't think I'm not connected.)
Here is Bertrand Russell again: "The world in which we live can be understood as a result of muddle and accident; but if it is the outcome of deliberate purpose, the purpose must have been that of a fiend."
Well, I may disagree with that concept - because I believe there is some divine purpose, though I cannot define that any more than I can the resurrection or incarnation. (Such things make perfect sense only at prayer - reciting the Doxology and believing every word is a far cry from explaining the Trinity.) Yet I have often felt the same way as Russell did, albeit in a different context. I loathe how many Christians use the term "God's will", invariably to mean pain, punishment, suffering and evils.
Much as I have had the privilege of reading the best of theology, I also was all too exposed to the miserable concept of God that, having been absorbed in early childhood, was sufficient to conjure up goblins who still haunt me now and then. It was easy to get the impression that, though one may enjoy eternal happiness once one was dead (I'm still trying to figure out why 'eternity' only began once one was buried...), this vale of tears was a battleground between God and Satan, and the latter tended to win until some final conflict.
This world is largely terrible - please don't think I'm in some dream world. But God was handing out suffering left and right - whether to punish the wicked or try those who aspired after virtue. There was no concept of deification - only the escape of suffering in the next life. I'm thinking of a few very intelligent, learned priests I knew who nonetheless were delighted if a new undertaking led to someone's becoming ill, dropping dead unexpectedly, losing life savings - whatever. After all, if it was a good work, awful things had to happen. If it were not good, Satan would not try to stop it.
No, I haven't been drinking. Ask anyone who is fifty or older and has a good memory - or read James Joyce if you have the time. And please don't think I'm restricting this to Catholicism! I met some evangelicals who had a far drearier picture - as if they had the only way to Christ, most Christians were 'in error,' Satan was so busy deceiving Christians that most were unaware they were headed for hell... one had the impression that Satan was more in charge than God was.
Would anyone care to hear what I think about holy wars? No, I did not think you would... but the less reticent Bertrand Russell would comment, and I would agree, that 'moral sense' does not prove the existence of God or afterlife. Knowledge of right and wrong varies. "Are Christ or Nietzsche right – is the Christian or Hitler immortal?"
I think that concepts of "God's will" should be reserved for philosophical arguments, such as Augustine and Thomas Aquinas were preparing when they used the 'evil is the absence of good' (clever arguments, by the way, in the Aristotelian fashion.) Yes, I believe God is active in creation - and that there well may be more miracles than any of us realise. But the term "God's will" is too often used without compassion, or, worse, to depict a God of suffering (acceptable, in my book, only when one is speaking of the Incarnate God on the cross - and even that came about naturally, because of human violence.)
Here is an interesting book on the problem of evil (from a Christian perspective) -
And, all right, here is Bertrand Russell -
I was reading a Russell essay in which he asserted that "Belief in life after death comes from emotion, not reason." I believe there is an afterlife, of course, though I'd be hardput to define this - I'm wondering if Russell is anywhere now. But I identified a good deal with some of his irritable musing.
Russell sees part of the 'emotion' that inspires belief in an afterlife as coming from an exalted opinion of humanity. High opinions of mankind occur only in the abstract. "Of men in the concrete, most of us think the vast majority very bad." Russell has a point that abominations and ethical doctrines by which they are prompted hardly are evidence of an intelligent creator. However, I doubt that most of us think the majority of people are wicked. (I spent many years assuming that most people were striving to show virtue, love, and compassion... and I have the scars to prove this, because I naturally was taken for a fool.) Still, those abominations justified by supposed ethics or doctrine irritate me no less than my atheist friend here.
I have no desire to be an atheist - though I occasionally have admitted to an atheist friend that it must be restful at times. Being a theist can be very trying. :) I suppose that, if one believes in just a Ground of Being or something, or is a deist and sees a creator as setting the world in motion and then leaving it alone, at least the eternal problem of evil can be set aside. Those with classic Jewish or Christian views (including myself, of course) have quite a dilemma. We believe in a Creator God, who remains involved with this creation. I believe it was David Hume who commented that, if God wills evil, it is incompatible with his beneficence, but, if it happens against his will, what happened to that concept of omnipotence?
(Yes, I know all about Augustine and the 'absence of good.' I even know what he meant in context, and all about the dualism he was refuting and omnipotence he was responding. However, if anyone in a pastoral situation shrugs off the others' pain with 'but there is no evil - it is the absence of good,' I shall see to it that he gets forty years in purgatory - and don't think I'm not connected.)
Here is Bertrand Russell again: "The world in which we live can be understood as a result of muddle and accident; but if it is the outcome of deliberate purpose, the purpose must have been that of a fiend."
Well, I may disagree with that concept - because I believe there is some divine purpose, though I cannot define that any more than I can the resurrection or incarnation. (Such things make perfect sense only at prayer - reciting the Doxology and believing every word is a far cry from explaining the Trinity.) Yet I have often felt the same way as Russell did, albeit in a different context. I loathe how many Christians use the term "God's will", invariably to mean pain, punishment, suffering and evils.
Much as I have had the privilege of reading the best of theology, I also was all too exposed to the miserable concept of God that, having been absorbed in early childhood, was sufficient to conjure up goblins who still haunt me now and then. It was easy to get the impression that, though one may enjoy eternal happiness once one was dead (I'm still trying to figure out why 'eternity' only began once one was buried...), this vale of tears was a battleground between God and Satan, and the latter tended to win until some final conflict.
This world is largely terrible - please don't think I'm in some dream world. But God was handing out suffering left and right - whether to punish the wicked or try those who aspired after virtue. There was no concept of deification - only the escape of suffering in the next life. I'm thinking of a few very intelligent, learned priests I knew who nonetheless were delighted if a new undertaking led to someone's becoming ill, dropping dead unexpectedly, losing life savings - whatever. After all, if it was a good work, awful things had to happen. If it were not good, Satan would not try to stop it.
No, I haven't been drinking. Ask anyone who is fifty or older and has a good memory - or read James Joyce if you have the time. And please don't think I'm restricting this to Catholicism! I met some evangelicals who had a far drearier picture - as if they had the only way to Christ, most Christians were 'in error,' Satan was so busy deceiving Christians that most were unaware they were headed for hell... one had the impression that Satan was more in charge than God was.
Would anyone care to hear what I think about holy wars? No, I did not think you would... but the less reticent Bertrand Russell would comment, and I would agree, that 'moral sense' does not prove the existence of God or afterlife. Knowledge of right and wrong varies. "Are Christ or Nietzsche right – is the Christian or Hitler immortal?"
I think that concepts of "God's will" should be reserved for philosophical arguments, such as Augustine and Thomas Aquinas were preparing when they used the 'evil is the absence of good' (clever arguments, by the way, in the Aristotelian fashion.) Yes, I believe God is active in creation - and that there well may be more miracles than any of us realise. But the term "God's will" is too often used without compassion, or, worse, to depict a God of suffering (acceptable, in my book, only when one is speaking of the Incarnate God on the cross - and even that came about naturally, because of human violence.)
Here is an interesting book on the problem of evil (from a Christian perspective) -
And, all right, here is Bertrand Russell -
Friday, 1 June 2007
All these I have observed from my youth...
Much as I sometimes enjoy participating on a theology forum (even if half the contributors seem more self absorbed than otherwise), I sigh whenever anyone makes reference to the incident of Jesus and the Rich Young Man. Discussions on that passage always lead to the usual "let me feel guilt rather than gratitude" diversions, ending with "we are just too comfortable..."
I had another thought, and one which may be far more realistic if less dramatic. It is not that I think the rich don't have that eye of the needle about which to be concerned, because all too much wealth was acquired through the suffering of others, injustice, even crime. (I do not see sanctity as necessarily all that easy for the poor, either, for some reason... maybe it's obvious.) Yet I doubt that Jesus was suggesting that everyone had to sell all he had and give it to the poor to achieve salvation. I believe it was aimed at the particular, smug little bastard to whom he was speaking.
Notice how, when RYM asked what he had to do to inherit eternal life, and Jesus mentioned the commandments (Lord, how banal...) :) , the young man replied that he'd observed all of them for his entire life. Now, that indeed would be quite an accomplishment - and it is a statement which, coming from anyone other than Jesus himself (who, being perfect in all virtues including humility, would find no need to mention), is an excellent example of when self absorption masquerades as self esteem. What did he expect Jesus to do? (Notice how, unlike most approaching Jesus, he was not asking for forgiveness or healing.) Declare the future of Judaism saved, open a bottle of champagne, and give him Swedish massage?
Jesus did have a very broad, Semitic sense of humour now and then - but I suppose he knew that this was one case where the RYM would not have caught the irony in "I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Why bother? What repentance would be necessary for someone who'd managed to observe the commandments since his youth - and who had no reticence about advertising the fact?
I had another thought, and one which may be far more realistic if less dramatic. It is not that I think the rich don't have that eye of the needle about which to be concerned, because all too much wealth was acquired through the suffering of others, injustice, even crime. (I do not see sanctity as necessarily all that easy for the poor, either, for some reason... maybe it's obvious.) Yet I doubt that Jesus was suggesting that everyone had to sell all he had and give it to the poor to achieve salvation. I believe it was aimed at the particular, smug little bastard to whom he was speaking.
Notice how, when RYM asked what he had to do to inherit eternal life, and Jesus mentioned the commandments (Lord, how banal...) :) , the young man replied that he'd observed all of them for his entire life. Now, that indeed would be quite an accomplishment - and it is a statement which, coming from anyone other than Jesus himself (who, being perfect in all virtues including humility, would find no need to mention), is an excellent example of when self absorption masquerades as self esteem. What did he expect Jesus to do? (Notice how, unlike most approaching Jesus, he was not asking for forgiveness or healing.) Declare the future of Judaism saved, open a bottle of champagne, and give him Swedish massage?
Jesus did have a very broad, Semitic sense of humour now and then - but I suppose he knew that this was one case where the RYM would not have caught the irony in "I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance." Why bother? What repentance would be necessary for someone who'd managed to observe the commandments since his youth - and who had no reticence about advertising the fact?
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