Magical, mystical miracles... dum-dee dum

I'm happy to see February nearly at an end - and hoping that warmer weather is ahead very soon. My brain will need at least a month to thaw... in fact, I cannot even remember which popular (and rather silly, IIRC) song contained the line I used as header for this post.

I had previously written of my struggling with the philosophy of religion, enriching and necessary though I find this study. Heaven knows, I have written far more often of how I loathe pop psychology. Today, my circuits having been rather overloaded by reviewing philosophy notes (these related to prayers and miracles), my random thoughts will contain a few reflections on memories which came to me - far from philosophical, I might add.

It is interesting how, as one grows older, one remembers much from the past - but can forget details, and factors which made a past idea, decision, whatever, very reasonable in the context of the 'moment,' even if it's hard to remember those elements clearly now. When I was reviewing the 'miracles' section, it suddenly struck me that, deeply religious though I always was, generally the attitude toward the miraculous was that physical healing (or rising someone from the dead a la Lazarus) was more or less reserved to the New Testament and causes for beatification. (I'll save my experiences from my charismatic days, when there were testimonies to physical healings - none of which would meet Rome's or Hume's definition - at weekly prayer meetings, and when I once saw a perfectly sane and sincere priest try to raise his nephew from the dead... a task all the more difficult to contemplate since his nephew was embalmed.) Anyone of my age or older will remember stories of miracles - but probably only those very devout will have taken them to heart from the beginning. The miracles (in a manner similar to those in anecdotes of the Servant of God Fulton J. Sheen, whom I mentioned in an earlier post) generally were about conversion, not anything defying the laws of nature.

During the 1980s, a small monastery with which I had some connection had Vespers each Sunday, followed by a film presentation of some sort (not Hollywood variety - more filmstrips and little religious subjects, such as one might have seen in the classroom during my youth.) Odd that this should have sparked a memory, but I recall one regarding the green scapular. In this filmstrip, a child whose father was somehow troubled (one is not told how - but he wasn't a churchgoer) confided her worries to a religious Sister, the latter of whom provided her with a green scapular which she placed under her dad's mattress. His conversion was fairly rapid afterward.

I'm not one to oppose devotions by any means! I know there are many people who have great devotion, and express this, in part, by using sacramentals such as scapulars. But, today, I see a very "magical" element to such a story as was in that film. Still, it reminds me of a powerful idea to which the very devout were often exposed, whether in sermons, lectures, articles, books, and the like. The power of Christ can lead to great transformation in a life. (And I believe that wholeheartedly!) The other element was that He often can use individuals as instruments (which I'm not about to question, essentially, either - there certainly have been influential people in my own life.) These ideas, fine in themselves, could lead to difficulties if one would, for example, meet the con man, the psychopath, the hardened criminal, the habitual liar...

I read this so many years ago that I cannot even recall the book's title, but it was one of a genre very popular in recent decades: the "I was rescued from Christianity" sort (and these had the greater bestseller potential if the author had been a priest or Religious.) The author, whom I believe was called Carol, had belonged to a religious community which had visiting people in their homes as their apostolate. From her writing of the days she spent with them, I gathered that the principal intention of their visits was to reach out to those who were not practising Catholics. Though the Sisters made reports of where they visited, and I believe might refer unusual cases to other sources, most of their contact consisted of informing those who were not churchgoers of Mass schedules (I'm sure neither the Sisters nor those whom they met thought a lack of same was the reason anyone did not attend church, but it had its welcoming side), or enquiring about whether children had been baptised, made first communion, and so forth.

Carol expressed certain frustration - which I can well understand. (Though, as I'll get to in a moment, I equally understand her congregation's care about not getting too involved with those whom they visited, and having prohibitions on the circumstances in which a Sister could meet others.) I would imagine that, during her visits, she met people who were very troubled, perhaps longing for spiritual guidance which Carol could not provide - nor did she have anyone to whom to refer them. It must have been difficult, hearing people raise legitimate questions, but knowing one could only repeat the teachings (at most.) I can see where, if someone seemed to be a huge mess but leaning towards conversion, one might shake one's head to think that all with one could provide him was a schedule of services.

In the course of her ministry, a young man named Manuel, a clearly rough sort (to put it mildly - he once tried to attack Carol in a hallway), asked Carol for a personal meeting. He seemed interested in Christ and the Church, and I would bet my last penny, if I had one, that Carol hoped she had been an instrument of Christ's boundless power, and that Manuel was on verge of conversion. Though meeting in this fashion was against the rules of her institute, she agreed, and was to see him the following Wednesday.

Apparently, in Carol's community, which did not staff institutions, transfers at any time were common enough. On Friday, she received word that she was being sent to another house the following day. Carol was troubled that her meeting with Manuel would not happen, the more because she could not contact him, nor have anyone else inform him that she would not be there (given that it was against the rules for her to attempt this meeting at all.)

Far be it from me to ever think the voice of a superior is a voice of God (well, at least not any more than any of us ever are) - but this is one situation where I think the Holy Spirit may have given Carol's superior a nudge. Several months later, when Carol was on a visit, she saw a newspaper - and Manuel was in the headlines. He was a gang leader, arraigned on multiple murder charges.

God only knows what pop psychology (or even psychiatrists - see my previous post about Karen Armstrong's work) would make of this, but one who has always been devout, always anxious to be an instrument, might understand Carol's initial reaction to that headline. No - it was not "thank heavens I never met with Manuel privately - he may have cut my throat, since he was quite good at doing that elsewhere." She was pained, thinking that Manuel had been on the verge of conversion, and that, had she had a chance to meet with him, perhaps these crimes would never have happened.

Of course, there are many factors here. Carol had no experience dealing with criminals, and I would imagine that, though her community had rules restricting meetings, she may well have never been given an explanation of the important reasoning behind such rules beyond "that is what we do." In my own experience, though I fortunately have not dealt with too many sociopaths and criminals (...and have great scars from the few I did meet), some of the most dangerous people on earth are capable of enormous charm, warmth, and seeming sincerity. Indeed, there are many people (perhaps a majority of the devout) who do desire solid spiritual guidance - and many who have had experiences of conversion which they will always cherish. It is a shame that those who have been burnt by the sociopaths too often retreat to a cave (speakign figuratively) and tell others needing help to join groups or go to therapy...

Certainly, part of spiritual maturity is realising our own limitations. God indeed can use us as instruments (though I doubt we know it at the time), but zeal and charity require a balance of prudence and discernment. Yet I am mentioning this incident because the devotees of the pop psychology could assume that those like Carol had no good in their actions (and the psychiatrists can convince them later that they were totally selfish, deluded, thinking themselves saviours, and so forth. To believe in God, or even to be a churchgoer, is acceptable because it fits in with convention. Anything beyond that is an 'obsession' or symptom.)

Carol's degree of naivete is hardly universal amongst the devout, but neither is it unusual. I have known people, in many different situations (by no means only nuns!), who have been used, swindled, lied to, and so forth, when they were seeking to practise virtue. Yet they should not be assumed to be crazy, or to be thinking of themselves as powerful. It was Christ's power they saw as infinite - and, with all the tales of miraculous conversions of which we heard (not just those of, let us say, Francis, Augustine, or oneself - but of the uninterested who had the good luck to have daughters who placed scapulars under their mattresses), we saw such miracles as not only possible but likely, and hoped our desire to be there for others would lead them to the Christ for whose sake we were doing this.

And now, good readers, you probably have a vague idea of why I've been an utter fool many times in my life... and why I don't have a penny (the reason not solely being that what one gives in tithes is not returned a hundredfold...) ... and why I keep my reflections to blogs and now restrict my ministry, such as it is, to liturgical prayer and occasional essays. :) I've met a few Manuels in my day (though even I, admittedly, never met with anyone who'd tried to physically attack me). I care about them, but I'm not the one to serve them - I'm far too innocent, and have no gift for discernment in the least.

Yet I have never been the sort who could just keep to placing green scapulars under mattresses... ;)

The hazards of the confidences

Now and then, two thoughts may coincide which lead to my sharing some of my 'wisdom.' (Not that I'll ever have wisdom - my judgement is dreadful, and I'm the type who'd have Jack the Ripper in for tea if he gave me the impression he was on verge of conversion...) I heard from a young woman this week who, understandably, was upset because someone who'd seemed to be a close friend, and whose troubles she'd heard (without ever betraying the confidences, mocking, using them against the other, or other dreadful tactics that some who invite confidences employ) endlessly, was now avoiding her. I'm equally good-hearted - and just as naive, my only advantage being that I've lived longer. (I'm a cynic of sorts - but, as I once heard somewhere, cynics are not realists but burnt idealists, so I fit the bill.) I'll get back to this in a moment.

I had an odd memory this week as well, possibly because I was thinking of my mother (Chip - a bastardisation of Cipi, which is a generic Italian nickname), since this would have been the day of her 89th birthday. Chip must have insulated herself extremely well, because she was so innocent that she'd have made me look worldly, and a part of her was like a child till the day she died. She often told her daughters a story that had an incredible impact on her, which I'll relate here.

When Chip was still in school (aged 12 or so), the girl pupils once heard an address from a lady who had been a headmistress somewhere, and Chip would never forget said headmistress's tale of caution that no one should ever confide in anyone else. It seems that Margaret, whose mother had a drinking problem, confided this in her closest friend, Anne. Anne told Margaret's boyfriend, Danny, about this (she probably had her eye on him for some time...), and Danny abandoned Margaret as a result and became Anne's new boyfriend. Bear in mind that Chip would repeat this (I heard it easily a hundred times) in ominous tones, as if she were relating someone's visit to, at the very least, the Castle Dracula.

Towards the end of my mother's long life, she recounted this tale to me once again. I could no longer resist expressing that I was very surprised that someone who, at this point, had walked this earth for more than 8 decades did not see that the headmistress's story made three things very plain to me. First, Margaret was most fortunate that she never married Danny - if he'd toss her aside as he did, I can only imagine the grief she would have had with him for a husband. Second, between them Danny and Anne were not worth a brass farthing; they deserved each other; and good riddance to them both! Third, Margaret's only fault here was poor judgement in her choice of friends/beaux. (As a postscript, I have a strong sense that the headmistress well may have been speaking of herself. Too bad that she ended up the stereotypical 'old maid schoolmarm,' seeing herself as unfit for the marriage market because some other little bitch might tell another potential spouse that Margaret's mother drank.)

I myself am a private person, and prefer to confide only in close friends. I think the current trend - where people not only tell every last detail of their lives to all and sundry, but indeed might post intimate secrets on the Internet - is far from wise. Yet I believe that being able to share concerns with others is a great blessing.

It is sad but probably universally true that all of us have experienced a 'down side' to confiding in others (or even having others know details about our lives). We all have had the experience, at one time or another, of someone's using information about us to degrade us (usually because they see some advantage in it for themselves, even if it is only to feel self-important as the one who is 'in the know.') Most of us have known the pain of a confidence being betrayed (with malice at times, at others merely because someone who hopes to help us assumes actions on the part of the hearer that are different from the result.) Considering that the Headmistress was addressing girls just entering their teens, her rather excessive stress on 'tell no one anything' might have temporarily been good advice. To love to reveal whatever one knows about another, especially if it will shame them or cause them embarrassment, can win points with other 'friends' during the teenage years. (Sadly, some people never grow out of this.)

I feel genuine sympathy for my young friend (of the first paragraph), and have to admit that, as one who heard many confidences (the more because I was in religious work, and because I was definitely the sort who did not betray what others told me), I myself still am saddened by the 'negative side' of hearing what others have to relate. It is not unusual, for example, for someone who has poured out a woe to later be embarrassed at what happened at the time, and to avoid the other (even if she never refers to the situation) just knowing she knows. A friend who hears many sad tales can also find she is thought of more as 'counsellor' - there for support, but not one to be included in social events.

There also is much in this world that is illogical! (Think about it - someone could know another for twenty years, know nothing ill of him, yet will be ready to believe the first 'dirt' she hears, even if it is untrue or grossly exaggerated.) I'm sure that all of us have friends whom we love dearly, but who dislike one another - and normally we'd no sooner bring them together, if we sense the tension, than we'd place a lion and lamb in proximity anywhere except in scripture study. Yet, by the time we should be mature, we also know that, for example, differences of opinion (and those of us who love the academic spend half our time listening to or reading of just that, while respecting both sides) do not have to mean dislike of another.

If "I" am friendly with both Jane and John, I may get wind of that they have points of disagreement, but I probably will not be aware if they hate each other. (If Jane knows John is my friend, she will save her tales of hating him for other ears!) Yet Jane may well assume, however incorrectly, that I must be 'two faced' (and gossiping about her) if I am friendly with someone she dislikes.

Now, I'm sure you knew I would move into the religious realm, so I shall not disappoint you. There indeed are many times when those who are troubled in spirit, conscience and the like absolutely ache for someone knowledgeable and compassionate in whom they can confide. Turning to the clergy, sadly, can sometimes lead to such reactions as treating one as immature, or recommending joining groups, or "offer it up" (well, that one is rather out of style, but I remember when it was rampant), or "go to therapy." But here I am speaking of an important element which those who may genuinely be compassionate need to remember.

Even if someone does ache to confide in another, that 'other' should not be assumed to be oneself. (I remember a ghastly woman I knew years ago, who would pester people about their situations, and could not accept "I don't care to discuss that" with "but it's reality!" Yes, I dare say they knew it was reality, since they were the ones living with the problem. They were not denying reality - they were saying "I don't care to discuss this with you.") Second, never push for details. On the one hand, it sometimes can mean a personal wish to feel important or superior - but, even when there is truly good intent, it can be mistaken for meddling. Third, one must quickly become resigned to that, in most cases, there is nothing one can do. Listening in itself can be a great gift - but wanting to be Mrs Fixit will not only cut off all genuine listening (which will masquerade as such, but actually only be listening for key words in order to share one's own ideas - which may have nothing to do with what the other said..) but can lend to smugness.

So much for my sermon for today. But it indeed is difficult, for those very devout, to realise that actions which are charitable, caring, and truly kind can be resented later. I have no answer to that one - except to say it must be faced.

I'll give you an example...

I shall caution my more intense readers that today is one of my sillier times. The heading, "I'll give you an example," was a favourite expression of my dad's. He was highly talkative, and ready with daily stories of co-workers, those who shopped in the store where he worked, etc.. He tended to go from stories to varied "sub-stories," and would often lead from one to the other with "I'll give you an example." He then might proceed (just as one example) :) to recall when he was six years old and a cheeky kid he knew took his kite.

Levity is more my style, and it may seem odd that I am indulging this at the beginning of Lent - but I think we need to laugh at ourselves, and I always did that well. I attended a wonderful choral Eucharist today (packed with not only regular worshippers but those who never see the inside of a church but wish to get smudged annually... never realising, I'm sure, how very appropriate the mark of the penitent is), and nearly had a fit of giggling. The reason was that, a few weeks back, a priest whom I know was telling some of us that, when the parade of those "coming for ashes" goes on, some respond to "remember, man, that dust thou art..." with "Thank you!" When he aptly added, "I've just reminded them they are going to die, and they say thanks," that sneaked into my subconscious or something, and I naturally nearly laughed aloud when the ashes were placed on my forehead today. (Vain little thing that I am, not to mention that I hardly want to advertise being a penitent in the public streets, let alone the Jewish Division of the library I was visiting after Mass, I carefully washed off the ashes before I left. I did, however, later read a typical theology forum debate, where the "ashes vs. no ashes" crowds debated whether wearing ashes all day was an example of Christian commitment or one of forgetting Jesus' injunction against the hypocritical Pharisees.)

Musing a bit, it occurs to me that, in one form or another (and they vary drastically), most devout Christians have some desire to evangelise in the "they'll know we are Christians by our love" mode. Some forms can be quite drastic - an example being radical evangelicals, who fear that those who don't make a decision for Christ are hellbound, who preach the need to be saved on any provocation or no provocation. (I walked past one today - he was standing on a street, reminding passers by that they were doomed. I have no idea how he could tell that none of us were "saved" - maybe our haloes weren't shining. This much I do know - he probably knew those who "misbelieve rather than disbelieve" if he saw ashes on their heads.) But most of us are not that extreme. To give you an example - Catholics of all varieties (and in this I include C of E, Lutherans and the like) normally do not feel any calling to try to convert unbelievers or non-Christians. Ever since the Counter-Reformation, and particularly since the French Revolution era, if anything Roman Catholics would be more inclined to seek to urge other (non-practising) Catholics to attend church and receive the sacraments than to seek to convert a Methodist or Jewish neighbour.

Overall, probably the most common idea of how to evangelise (and the one encouraged most) was "example." Yet that approach can lead to several fallacies. First, one must be careful not to over-estimate one's own importance (as very avid Christians sometimes forget.) It's highly unlikely that another is looking to you for example. I must add that great saints, whom the hagiography (ignoring that Jesus of Nazareth not only was not universally popular and respected but met his end as a condemned criminal... the Son of God charged with blasphemy... Prince of Peace with sedition) would make one think held everyone in awe at their holiness, are honoured by many who'd utterly flip if their children acted in the same fashion, or who would hold a low opinion of someone they actually knew who lived as many great saints did.

It's best, not only for one's overall mental health but for any area of commitment, ro remind oneself that there is no such thing as "how others see you." (Incidentally, any "helpful" sort who wants you to "see yourself as others see you" is only warming up for an ego game. She's only telling you how she sees you - and it always will be negative!) Moving from the sublime to the silly, probably the woman dressed in what I consider dreary, dowdy clothing thinks she looks professional - and finds my batik to be tacky or too youthful. Those who spout details of self-improvement kicks, who believe they may inspire others, can come across as self absorbed, superior / childish bores. The adult "class clown" may be seen as insufferable by some, as an utter riot by others.

If someone achieves legendary status, in any field, probably those who knew him years back, and perhaps in no way found him extraordinary, will recall how the marks of greatness always existed. I'm making this up - but let's say that someone who is now a famous artist was always working on drawing and painting, even in his earliest years. (In fact, most of us in the arts, acclaimed or not, had a passion for the art from childhood, even if we did not have early training or come from artistic families.) In a biography of the now acclaimed master, old friends or family members who are interviewed will speak of this passion with great esteem. Yet, when he was eight years old and forever pining for his easel, probably his mother was nagging him to go out and play - his siblings mocked him - his father wanted him to toss aside the oil paints and pursue a field with a future - young friends who were more interested in tossing a ball thought him weird. (If, instead of being a famous artist, he was later of the "starving artist" set - which happens often, even with those whose talent is great, and even in the rare cases where those in the pauper's grave are later legends in another era - the negative attitude will persist - and be mentioned even at his funeral!)

When John Paul II occupied Peter's throne, he canonised and beatified a massive number of people - in some cases, those who had not died that many years earlier. I occasionally read testimonies from those who had known them. I do not doubt the truth of the testimonies for a moment, yet I sometimes wondered if a trait which the old acquaintance now remembers as a wonderful example might not have been exasperating at the time. To give you an example... though the name of the Servant of God escapes me at the moment, I recall reading of a member of a religious Order (perhaps even a founder) whose contemporary spoke of how, whenever there were social settings, the Servant of God had managed to turn the conversation back to Christ. Edifying in memory, I'm sure - yet even I, who have been known to have some very interesting theological discussions in my day, and who even think it must have been fascinating to live in the times when debates over the Trinity, rather than football, made pub life spicey, doubt I would not groan if a bit of fun and relaxation were interrupted by someone who always turned social conversation back to Christ. (Lord have mercy, even Jesus Himself hardly avoided the social, and I'm not referring only to his turning water into wine, which makes him a man after my own heart. He must have been quite involved in social occasions, considering how many Pharisees complained about the company he kept.)

I don't recall the source or the priest's name at the moment, but, a few years ago, I remember reading an interview with a priest-friend of the Servant of God Fulton J. Sheen. The interview was with someone who not only thought very highly of Fulton, but indeed was giving testimony for his beatification. I was not surprised when, with no lack of love or respect, he mentioned two difficulties Fulton had with dealing with other priests socially. First, Fulton had certain causes which he considered very critical - and, if others did not share his commitment, he tended to go on about the matters, as if to convince them that they should see them as primary concerns. Second, Fulton, for all his academic brilliance, had a very simple, even childlike faith, and, as the priest mentioned, genuinely believed that there had been many miracles in his life. Fulton would speak of these not only from the pulpit or podium, but socially. His intention, as those very close to him knew, was to inspire people to faith and to trust in prayer. Still, to those unaware of this (and especially in view of the vanity to which he himself freely admitted), it came across as "look how special I am."

I'm not even going to get into such beloved heavenly friends of mine as Francesco and Caterina - who today would be assuredly "diagnosed" unfavourably by the growing crowd of pop psychology devotees. My point is that even the most devout and virtuous of people hardly are shining examples to all and sundry. My old friend Julian of Norwich is rather in vogue today - though for reasons that often have little relation to her true message. Yet I can only imagine the reaction of anyone were s/he to actually meet a solitary...

I'm not deriding the value of example, though I dare say that those who give the best of this are not seeking to do so. But the Church has endured purely because of divine grace - anyone with the slightest vision (inward or outward!) or acquaintance with church history is all too aware that it was not our shining virtues, at any time, which led anyone to God. The saddest part, of course, is that, though major shites may well have managed to pack pews or fill collection plates, the truly great saints, to whom there may be great devotion (from afar!) today were unlikely to have been valued when they were alive.

(Not that they would have had the slightest worries about 'how others saw them.')

Blessed Lent, all.

Spent the day with Elijah, Hume, and Hildegard

Now that I think of it, the three would indeed make for interesting dinner companions. (And I can use a few... I almost wrote this blog entry on how very much I miss the 'pre-health kick' days when I could have unwound tonight with any one of a hundred others who still smoked, drank, ate, laughed... but I decided that pining for paradise wasn't on the menu at the moment, at least not in that incarnation.) Naturally, what I am writing of is reviewing my notes for theological studies in varied areas. Bear with me, dear readers, for winter is a time when my brain goes into hibernation. I hate the cold, the dark, the claustrophobia in the winter coat, not being able to have packed lunch in a park or feel warm breezes, and being spared the comfort of windows wide and a well aired flat. Those of you who are ones for intercessory prayer will kindly remember me - that my brain thaws before I sit exams in May.

There comes a point in study, I have found, when one has read so many authors on the same topics that separating 'who said what,' while trying to form one's own arguments and perhaps manage a little originality along the way, that one must step back from further research for a time and review what one already has. (That my attempts in that area today made me all the more convinced that I'm approaching brain death is another topic for another entry.) I started out, this morning, with reviewing the Deuteronomistic History, specifically with reference to the Books of Kings. Now, even one like myself, who is a member of the Monarchist League and who entertains idealistic images of a very Catholic theocracy, can be inclined to find Kings to be (dare I admit this?) not only rather bloodthirsty but discouraging, and occasionally very boring. But I did have an odd thought about Elijah (which I'm writing here lest some insanity lead me to record it on exams, which would never do.)

Zealots such as Elijah, and those in any era who receive divine revelations personally and the like, are unlikely to have on their minds what your garden variety theist is thinking of at the moment. (Bear with me once again... I reviewed Amos yesterday, comforted by the thought that I well might not be the most pessimistic creature in history, and was diverted by the idea that not all of his hearers, the king in particular, might have been enchanted by his fixation on social justice. I'm no capitalist, as my readers know, but I do have this sense that there were those who would have found much to praise in Jeroboam's kingdom.) I'll not even dwell on that slaughtering 450 priests of Ba'al was rather excessive in its own right. No, I'm thinking on a very basic level. It was a time of drought - and Yahweh's seeming opponent, Ba'al, was widely thought, in the influential Canaanite circles, to control life (not only human, but of nature), naturally including the rains. I doubt Elijah, who would not have been the most refined of dinner companions on the best of days, was exactly endearing to people who would have hesitated to risk raising the ire of Ba'al, just in case the rains really did depend on him!

Yet the Elijah incidents reminded me of an element, related to worship even in times when monotheism was not yet firmly established, of which I'd never before thought in relation to the era of Kings, or perhaps of the entire Old Testament period. I had always thought of the image of God in the monotheistic faiths as one of revelation, of course. Still, I had never seen the marked contrast with idols such as Ba'al in that Ba'al (et al) did not communicate, and was not active, loving, etc., in the lives of the people. The pagan gods were seen as in control of forces (and demanding placating often enough), but were remote, where Yahweh, however transcendent, had a unique immanence.

Skipping ahead to this afternoon (pondering the revisions of the Deuteronomistic Historians and other redactors had me exhausted around the time Elijah boarded the chariot, so I needed to move to another topic for a while), it was back to philosophy of religion, and a review of notes about the design argument. (Having recently reviewed Hildegard of Bingen's notes about the humours of the unicorn and gryphon, I couldn't quite deal with the cosmological argument, because I have a strong sense that what we can imagine does not necessarily exist at all. This not to be hard on Hildegard, since hers was a time when zoology was studied in libraries...) I've written previously of my struggles with this topic, so I'll just share a thought which came to me today - and which reminded me of an eternal struggle that makes the one between Yahweh and Ba'al seem rather trivial by comparison.

Paley's time, and Hume's, was a heyday of deism among professed Christians. (I'm not suggesting that either of those writers was promoting deism, but, since the design argument does not attempt to present attributes of the Deity, such as omnipotence, love, omniscience and so forth, I would imagine a deist would find much of it appealing.) In case anyone has not noticed, I happen to be a theist - but I'll concede that deism must be very restful at times. A god who merely set creation in motion, then left us more or less on our own, eliminates the 'problem of evil,' the pain of unanswered, fervent prayer; the recognition that God is Almighty yet seems to have no interest in relieving suffering (...anyone who writes me about God's sending suffering to us as a necessary element in developing holiness will receive forty years in Purgatory - and don't think I'm not connected!)... well, such a concept removes many of the dilemmas with which the theist must struggle, burdened with questions yet knowing there are no answers.

Many saints, mystics, and theologians of the theistic faiths would have seen God as unknowable in His essence, and I would agree. (Even if I light candles to the Infant of Prague now and then... folk religion is not without other benefits, and my mother used to get amazing results from that novena.) Even if we speak of God as, for example, omnipotent or all-loving, basically the divine is so far beyond our comprehension that we cannot truly define what those attributes mean. Yet I'm sure that Elijah, looking down from wherever he ended up on his chariot ride, is not surprised that Yahweh (the Trinity, Allah - the god of the monotheists) has many millions of those who adore and love Him to this day, where Ba'al and friends are a distant memory by comparison. (I say 'by comparison' only because, though I know of no Ba'al societies, any Google search will show that some pagan gods still have a following.) Yahweh communicated - revealed Himself, even if our comprehension was limited and his transcendence side by side with the immanence - loved, suffered with us, was active in creation.

The dilemmas about evil and so forth will never be resolved - there are no answers. But deism is not such a comforting place to be after all. I may be a cynic, apophatic, often going through my daily prayers (all liturgical) without a stir of comfort or emotional 'connection.' Yet I know, as I'm sure Elijah did and as Jews and Christians know to this day, that, for all the philosophical problems deism can seem to remove, it presents a larger problem!

How does one worship a "Ground of Being," or a "Source" who merely set the world in motion? Creeds can never capture all of what God is - nor can reason, or theology, or anything fully within our power to analyse. But Hebrews pained by Babylonian captivity, just to choose one example relevant to the redaction I mentioned earlier, still could worship. Effectively, worship is all that we have - everything in our relationship with God. Much will arise from this - moral improvement, social involvement, virtue, actions (even if not so dramatic as Elijah's.) We cry out, one way or another, for what goes beyond comprehending or seeking to practise orthodoxy. We don't know much at all - and, the more we explore theology, the more we concurrently may be stricken with awe yet aware of how we've barely scratched the surface and never will.

"Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit." It makes perfect sense on one's knees, does it not? Yet I defy anyone to explain it in 'exam terms.' :)

In case I do not "see" you before then, I wish you a blessed Lent.

Faith excludes curiosity - One should hope it would not!

Though I would imagine the examiners find this endlessly frustrating, I cannot help but suppress a giggle when I read, in reviews of exam results, of how certain varieties of Christian (I must add - I doubt Roman Catholic in any case) use the studies and examinations as a forum for castigating the university. Though I dare say that advanced theological studies require a full scope of knowledge (and, indeed, our programme requires just that), I repeatedly read of how students use their exam responses to deliver sermons rather than arguments, and see the programme of study as dangerous to their faith. I have a feeling my readers already get the picture. You probably also realise why I am laughing.


From The Two Catholic Churches, by Anthony Archer:
"In his rather luxuriant work on the Blessed Sacrament, Father Frederick Faber had described a helpless and captive God, experiencing a mournful solitude in the little dungeon of the tabernacle. This was the Jesus whose fondness for silence was known
because nothing more silent than the sacrament could be thought of; it was the God who was carried about and broken into 3 pieces by priests who washed the sacred vessels and napkins as Joseph might have washed the clothes of Christ.

All this was set against a background of speculation that Christ had given Mary the sacrament at the Last Supper, and that it had remained in her, uncorrupted, so that he could be in her during his Passion… And it evoked the desire to put 'our little crown of puny love on the long hair which covers his beautiful head.'

Newman remarked that he knew of no book that would so readily turn him into an infidel."

I believe that John Henry Newman was spot on in insisting that “Truth is wrought out by many minds working together freely. As far as I can make out, this has ever been the rule of the church until now,” provided that one considers the entire Counter-Reformation period as 'now,' rather than pnly Newman's own day. As Anthony Archer summarises: To cut the faithful off from study of doctrine and require implicit faith would “in the educated, terminate in indifference, in the poorer, in superstition.”

In the course of my studying varied documents which were either produced or largely consulted during the 19th century, I came across a manual which the Ursuline Nuns used for their schools. Teachers were cautioned about offering explanations or encouraging questions and discussions, because the goal of religious education was to
foster humble obedience and faith.

The nuns who taught me in my youth were of a congregation founded, in Ireland, directly after the period of the penal laws. Originally, the sisters (mostly educated by Ursulines), were of a certain Catholic elite - yet they wished to educate the poorer classes (sometimes referred to as 'wicked' children, but that is another topic), believing that vice stemmed from a lack of religious knowledge. That view is limited - and indeed rather naive - yet, for all my respect for those educational efforts, I see a great irony in that education was seen as the solution to the ills of the world and for fostering of the faith, yet the use of reason which is essential to true education was rather feared. (Of course, neither the secular authorities nor the bishops would have considered the first Sisters to have been particularly obedient... I must get to that topic some time. The foundress, a woman of some means, had endowed the Ursuline convent of Cork in the first place. When she wished to found her own congregation, though the bishop only had Ursulines on hand because of her generosity, she was initially denied permission because it might take away vocations from the Ursuline Order.)

In RC catechesis of children, I well remember that, in explanations of sin, the illustrations were of disobedience to church law, such as those governing Mass attendance and Friday abstinence. I had thought this was purely pragmatic, because such examples could be readily grasped by children of seven - where, for example,
explanations of the differences between gossip and calumny would be deep water. My own view was too limited. The idea of obedience as central was the natural outflow of the Council of Trent's statement that 'faith excludes curiosity.'

Newman would see a deplorable situation in which intellect "is not met with counter or stronger intellect, but by authority." I am an anarchist at heart, and could agree without such a position's truly affecting me. :) Yet would Newman or I ever even admit the possibility that some attitudes towards the faith are not intellectual in the least? (Certainly, neither of us were capable of being politically astute...)

Newman just might be canonised some day, except that, perhaps, those of us likely to favour his work are not the sorts who go around asking for miracles (and wouldn't consider them proof of anything in any case.) :) But let me raise a toast to John Henry - and to his not forgetting the valuable Anglican exhortation to having an enquiring mind!

Blog of a nobody

No, my friends, I am not suffering from an attack of 'bad self-esteem.' I must use that disclaimer because, in these Internet days, lots of nut cases who are into pop psychology send me condescending email that makes me laugh... or, on a day when I am irritable (all too common in cold weather) send back somewhat sarcastic responses. How well I remember when a wry entry I wrote on a forum, in which I explored the humour of how different upper class Anglican coffee hours are from Italian Franciscan churches, prompted a response from a (clearly rather bent) woman, totally unknown to me, who had decided that I suffered from "imagined slights." She proceeded to write about two reams telling me all about her "journey with Prozac." For once, I had the good taste not to respond that such a self-absorbed, weird rambling - not to mention the inability to understand humour - showed me, all too well, that, wherever the "journey" took her, it clearly was not to anything resembling health.

"Blog of a nobody" was a game which lasted briefly on a forum on which I participated, where many entries were clever and funny. Recently, one bit of correspondence I received (from a sincere little soul who apparently reads only the titles on my Internet site essays... she asked me to send her a blessing for her Book of Shadows) enquired about why my blog is purely on spiritual matters and the like. She wanted to know why I don't share day to day happenings in my life.

Well, the fact is that self-absorption is not exactly my style, and that I do not have the sort of life of which details would be particularly exciting. However, I shall add this single entry, in the style of the short-lived "Blog of Nobody Game," which actually records some of what has happened in my life these past few weeks. I am sure those curious about my everyday life will be satisfied with this sampler and ask for no more. :) (Many bloggers who write details of their lives use no pronouns to begin sentences - so, in cases where I did not, please do not think I've snapped and become illiterate.)

• It was a cold and stormy day, and I had just exited from the library. I ate my packed lunch (tuna and a few tiny tomatoes which I got on sale) in the frigid park. Was joined by a homeless man who mistook me for a Daisy O'Leary who taught him when he was a school boy. The cold make me shiver - I threw my scarf over my face - and, for a brief moment, thought my nose had fallen off.


• The cat was talking very fluently one evening - and, when she says more than two 'words' at a time, she always is telling me something. Unfortunately, for all my extensive language studies, I never learnt Cattish. Walked into the kitchen to find that the people upstairs had a leak, from the back of their sink (thank heavens.. it could have been worse), and that water was pouring through a new hole in my ceiling. Exercised my wonderful mechanical abilities trying to plug the ceiling with mailing tape.


• Awakened to find that ceilings cannot be fixed with mailing tape. Tried a towel.


• Went to the gym. Decided to have some time in the 'spa', then a sauna, before the class I like. Settled in the sauna, feeling rather like a spoilt princess, and began massaging my Rubenesque self with what's left of my aromatherapy products. Suddenly was interrupted by a gym staff member - a pipe was leaking from their ceiling (lots of that going around, I suppose...), and all ladies had to exit the locker room area, because a repairman was on his way in to fix the hole. Wrapped towel about myself and dressed behind a small curtain which usually hides the scale. Dropped my glasses - lens fell out - searched for someone with good eyesight to find the lens - raced to optometrist to get the lens stuck back in - realised that the surest way to feel like a living icicle is to race out in the cold when one has just been in a jacuzzi and sauna.


• Attended the gym class. One exercise, performed sitting, was "knees to the chest and upright row!" Discovered that one advantage to entering the High Middle Ages (of one's life...) is that placing the knees to the chest becomes quite easy, because one's chest is now hanging practically to one's knees...


• Needed a few grocery items. I went to a grocery store in the car. Found that the windscreen wipers refused to shut off, no matter how I fiddled with the controls - which was puzzling since I'd not turned them on in the first place. Realised there must be a short in the electrical system. Burst into tears, because I'd specifically petitioned God last night that I have no unexpected expenses for a few months.


• Intended to settle down with a warm blanket, a Dickens novel, and a cup of strong Earl Grey tea. Entered the flat to find that the cat was throwing up.


• Began to make notes for an essay on John Duns Scotus for the Internet site. Realised I was already behind in my philosophy of religion studies. Stood in the sitting room and delivered an imaginary lecture in which I refuted Richard Dawkins to thunderous applause. (That's often how I teach myself a concept. My cat has an excellent theological education - I'm going to have her write the first textbook on the subject in Cattish.)


• Went to a wonderful church service for the beginning of Advent. The first hymn was a great favourite of mine, "Lo, He Comes With Clouds Descending." Hoped I could have the joy of singing out. Found that no sound was coming out of my throat, probably because I'd had a cough drop before the service began.


• Nearly danced for joy when a dear friend sent me an early Christmas present - a wonderful Byzantine Canterbury cross, in silver. Decided I must wear it the next time I went out. Discovered that I did not have a chain.



• I was delighted to find some large, delectable looking sausages on sale. Soon discovered the reason for the wonderful price. When I cooked one, I took it from the pan to find that it had shrunk to the size of a sewing needle.


• Replaced the light bulbs with those which are supposed to save energy. Found that they were adequate, but made it hard to see well enough to thread a needle.


• Scrubbed the kitchen floor to a fare-thee-well. Got a piece of steel wool in my finger. Soaked it in epsom salts. Phoned a handy acquaintance to ask him to do something about that ceiling. Towel had been ineffective. Reflected on my dad's 'book learning but not ways of the world' theory, since he, for example, would have made sure the ceiling was totally fixed before he scrubbed the floor.


• Sewed three buttons on to my winter coat. Then took two hours to put up a hem by hand, because I found that using the sewing machine was a physical impossibility with a cat who thinks the needle to be a toy. Refrained from spending the evening taking stitches out of a paw.


• Thought watching a Christmas film on television (of which I'd never heard... the film, that is, since I know the television for years) would be a pleasant diversion for a romantic like myself who still believes in Father Christmas. Found that the title was misleading - turned it off as soon as I saw it was a dismal script about a young woman who goes into a coma on Christmas Eve. Watched Albert Finney in the musical Scrooge (for which I have the tape) instead. Realised I knew the dialogue by heart.


• Went to get postage stamps. A young woman holding a tiny poodle was standing before me in the queue. Said poodle was wearing what seemed to be a very elaborate tartan coat, which cried out "please admire my dog." Complimented said dog's taste in coats. Was informed, by the slightly insulted 'owner,' that it was not a coat - it was a dress! Held in laughter. (Note that, in the case of dogs, one can probably say 'owner.' It must be noted that no one owns a cat - the reverse is true.)


• Happily got out my Christmas decorations from my storage closet. (Quite a feat - I had to move out my paper products and cleaning stuff to do so, and this without knocking over the electronic keyboard and sewing machine. Brief period of mourning for the piano I no longer had room for when I moved.) Had a happy nostalgia trip, remembering how the beloved ornaments (which I've collected for years) brought back wonderful memories. Decided that, since no one is usually here except myself, it would be all right to put up the decorations and enjoy them throughout Advent. Brief period of mourning when I found that one of the Father Christmas statues now had no head.


• Decided that Pope Benedict's "Eschatology" would make for wonderful Advent reading, and dug out the volume. Became distracted (and it is ultimate humility for me to admit this in public.) Settled on re-reading "A Christmas Carol and Its Adaptations." Developed a yearning for smoking bishop - then found I was out of both gin and wine. Pondered why it's so hard to find goose nowadays.

If those of the likes of the Prozac lady have read this far, they may be assured that this is only a sampler. There is much more to my life than this, of course, and much of it is quite wonderful... but it would seem quite banal to many. See my previous entries on the banality of orthopraxy for details.

Blessed Advent, all!

The great-a God! He became-a so small!

No question - Advent is a marvellous season, of anticipation of the parousia and memories of divine promises fulfilled in Christ. Yet I need to be a bit silly today (and, with how cold it is, my brain hasn't thawed out), so I'm sure I'll be forgiven if I 'rerun' a story I mentioned a few years ago. As with all my anecdotes, this one is perfectly true.

Winter blues and loneliness (all the worse knowing that winter has not even started as yet, and the cold is already getting to me) have put a damper on my quickness. I am not ready, at the moment, to write of Israel's expectation, the Incarnation, or the church waiting in joyful hope... though I'll get to it eventually. For the moment, I shall share a memory of my days with the friars.

Father Michael was unusually short and slight, but highly expansive, and his gestures tended to be fit for a man the size of Goliath of Gath. Michael was Italian, and had learnt his English from a woman who had a very high, light voice, whom he imitated a bit too well. Consequently, he spoke English (though not his native tongue) in an extremely squeaky voice. The combination of massive gestures and chirping tones gave a general effect of a jumping-jack in an uncharacteristic brown costume.

Michael's warmth and sincerity were enormous as he reminded his congregation, during an Advent sermon, that this was a time when "we have to thank God for the c-u-u-u-te little-a beby Jesus!" (No, for once that is not a typographical error - I'm trying to truly catch the flavour.) Raising his arms over his head like the risen Messiah, Michael expounded, "The great God!!!" (Hands now at breast height, illustrating the size of an ample newborn.) "He became-a so small!" Michael's sermon continued for a time, with repeated references to the 'great God who became-a so small,' and, though I was biting my lip not to laugh aloud, many of the congregation were moved nearly to tears. (Franciscan theology can be odd at times - but their sermons do stimulate a sense of the vivid.)

I was congratulating myself for not having lapsed into a laughing fit - which would have been most uncomfortable for a highly visible director of music. And all went well until Michael's little voice piped, "Behold-a the lamb of (pronounced 'lay-ma') God!"

I may have retained what little was left of my composure had the friar next to me not whispered, "He became-a so small!"

What worries me is that I understood what he said...

I cannot remember where I first read this very apt item: "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I am not sure you realise that what you heard is not what I meant." How very true that is, and frequently. People often finish others' sentences (convinced that the person to whom they didn't listen said this or that); assume what another must be thinking or feeling, and mentally 'finish the sentence'; pick up on key words and respond as if they were some online FAQ.

Yet there are other times when I am quite amused because, for all that I think murdering the English language should be all but a capital offence, I know what someone did say... and worry only because I do know what they meant. (Please bear with me - I just took a shot at the language, albeit not death-dealing, by using the 'quasi singular,' but I'm so tired of having to write "he or she" all the time that it's more restful.)

I'm smiling in remembrance of such conversations as those I shall whimsically recall here (all of which are perfectly true.) For example, John, one of my old friends, sometimes had others comment that his parents were quite 'on the September side' to have sons who at the time were still under 30. John's mother had been married young, but was thought to be sterile, and it was ten years before she conceived a child - then, surprisingly enough, her second son was born only a year after the first. Once, when someone asked John if his parents had married late, he said they actually had been married for years when the firstborn (his brother Ray) arrived. As John put it, "They didn't think my mother could have children - and, after she had Ray, they were sure."

Now, this, taken literally, makes about as much sense as the much-quoted Yogi Berra's saying "it's not over till it's over," or "that restaurant is so crowded that nobody goes there any more." But, admit it, you know what John meant as well! (One Christmas Eve, when John was going to his parents' house for dinner, my sister accompanied him. His parents were feeling a loss, because their dog had died only a week earlier. John told me, with great sincerity, "I'm so glad your sister is coming - my mother and father miss the dog terribly." Whether a plate of dog biscuits was presented to her when she arrived I never did ask.)

Here's another gem - again from an actual conversation:
"Andy, is Tony J. dead?"
"No."
"You know why I'm asking - I saw him the other day."

That I perfectly understood that one probably means I'm even worse off than I thought.

Given the nature of the person, I naturally have to include a liturgical example. I know how to play a guitar, so I often had the penance (then, I'm sure, supposed to be a privilege) or performing at 'folk Masses' during the 1970s. Remember the favourite "Hear, O Lord"? The first verse was "Every night before I sleep I pray my soul to take. Or else I pray that loneliness is gone when I awake." Many people were quite moved by the lyrics, and indeed "Hear, O Lord" was a very popular request. Yet, were one to take a second (or even hard first) glance at the lyrics, it does seem strange that anyone would be praying to die tonight, and see this as preferable to being lonely tomorrow.

I rant about busybodies on the Internet often enough, so I'll just caution those in truly pastoral roles to be very careful about 'filling in the blanks' thinking they know what people mean or should mean - much less picking up on 'key words' and making up the rest. But I had a very true reflection which has its tragic-comic elements.

Certainly, many fields (for example, medicine, law, or other sciences) have very specific terminology which has a totally different meaning in the vernacular. The theological realm is no exception! (I read an Internet thread, on a theology forum, about 'nominalism,' and jumped in, thinking someone was just about to refute William of Ockham. I had to read half a thread before I realised that no participant up to that point had any idea of what nominalism is. The original post on the thread was about people who are churchgoers but not otherwise avid Christians, so they are purely 'nominalists.') It is hard to find a balance between necessary precision and misunderstanding.

I'm thinking of Walter Hilton for a moment. (Well, why not? He had some excellent ideas - and it's highly unlikely that anyone else is thinking about him at the moment - but you can find some information about him in the link in the title if you wish.) He not only had to deal with confusion in English terms which have a different meaning in the vernacular than academically, but was the first to write a book about theology in English. One might assume that it would be simpler to write in his own native tongue than in Latin (though a civil and canon lawyer would have used Latin constantly), but it actually presented significant difficulties. There are many theological terms in Latin (or Greek - in fact, the latter even more so... ask anyone who was dealing with Athanasius or the crises that can come from an iota) which have a very precise meaning. The English equivalent word may differ, in nuance if not in specific meaning, and there often is no precise equivalent at all.

I'm not suggesting no one realises this. The trouble is that too many of those who do, rather than explaining a term, 'dumb down' what they are saying as if the hearers were incapable of understanding. And those who have true gifts for explaining are often discouraged... because those who just like to hear themselves talk will interrupt, say, a talk on Pope Benedict's brilliant "Eschatology" with a question about how one will recognise the end times...

Meet you in hell before I stand you another...

Forgive me - This is one Sunday when I have no friend to meet in a pub, so I suppose my discouragement left me unable to resist quoting that old toast.

The Feast of Christ the King is a great favourite of mine. I can think of easily fifty themes on which a sermon for this feast could be structured... in fact, if my mind gets fully into gear, perhaps I'll compose one and post it later this week. I may not be John Henry Newman, John Wesley, or Benedict XVI, but I can guarantee that whatever sermon I composed would have to be an improvement over the travesty I heard this morning.

Most of the time, I attend churches where there is exceptional music, liturgy, and preaching (well, most of the time. I've never much favoured those of one young curate who always seems to include anecdotes about games he played as a child.) This morning, I was delayed, and ended up paying one of my occasional visits to a local Catholic church. (It shall remain nameless. There are many words of praise I can sing for this parish in other ways, so I am not going to refer to its name lest anyone think the bitter 'meal' of this morning's sermon, which still leaves me with some indigestion, is standard fare - quite the contrary!)

Not having been there recently, I had not known that the parish now had a Tridentine Mass. With Papa Benedict, whose motu proprio was long overdue, I love it, but clearly some people there did not, and many complained, on the way out, that they felt as if they hadn't been to Mass at all. A relatively young priest said the Mass impeccably (if one likes 1962 rubrics... it was a basic 'dialogue Mass,' but the people don't even recite the Credo and Lord's Prayer, and the canon is silent), though I doubt he had yet seen the light of day in 1962. His sermon killed the effect - for my readers to get the picture, it was the sort of sermon I indeed heard in 1962, and which James Joyce immortalised in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. He preached entirely about Hell, and indeed read from Alphonsus Liguori's work on the subject, quoting passages about the physical torments of hell, especially for sins of the flesh! (I suppose I'm home free... though I have heard there are ten commandments... and something else about said commandments sealing a covenant, first at Sinai, which foreshadowed one which involved a Church...)

I have some sympathy with the great Alphonsus, of course. In fact, some of his writings on moral theology, which so allow for how one can be deficient in intention, will, or reason, are positively brilliant. Alphonsus, who was bishop of the diocese which neighboured on that of my parents, was dealing with people who had used 'the son of a bitch had it coming to him' as a defence for murder since the days of the Roman Empire - I once heard of a case where one man killed another (this in my parents' day, not Alphonsus') because the guy who was murdered was grandson of a man who'd stolen a piece of cheese from the killer's own grandfather (a cheese merchant.) I suppose that Alphonsus was trying to put a bit of the fear of hell into those in the congregation (not a majority, but surely those who paid for the stained glass windows) who might belatedly be expected to grow a conscience.

For this young priest, I had no sympathy! He kept going on as if Hell were our default location for the next life. Of course, when he mentioned that, with this being the end of the liturgical year, he's going to use Alphonsus' writings for his meditations this week, I could not help but think of how many more suitable writings I can think of to warm up for Advent... (If he's dead set on Alphonsus, how about the humane, pastoral, loving care for penitents?)

Christ is King of all creation... the judge who sends many of us to hell... charming picture... Cosmic redemption, anyone?

It is unfortunate that, in our teaching, sermons, and focus, including in some elements of worship, we have lost the awe which the earliest Christians had for the resurrection - and which was expressed in their liturgy. Just as one example, Martin Luther, who whatever his strengths did illustrate an uncommonly high degree of angst, was totally preoccupied for years with whether his contrition was sufficient. The prayer books, which many read at the Eucharist before the time of any congregational responses, focussed unduly on Jesus' death as a source of forgiveness (to the exclusion of little details like the resurrection, ascension, public ministry as prophet, hidden glory, coming in glory which we await...), and tended to consist of a string of prayers for mercy.

Catholics, for all their reputation for having excessive guilt, are extremely tolerant in doctrine. There is no idea that only Catholics (or Christians) have a chance at eternal joy in God's presence - or that God is a vengeful, or at best indifferent, judge who consigns most of his creation to hell! I've seen far worse in some other varieties of Christian, who seem to think that even baptised believers are headed for a fiery destination if they haven't pronounced the magic words of a second 'born again' formula.

I often wonder, if I were an unbeliever, if 'believe, and behave, and obey on all things, or head for hell' would do anything except get me running in another direction. I would not care to know a God such as that. I'm not denying the wickedness in this world, of course, nor am I minimising the obstacles to union with God inherent in our own sinfulness. (The heinous sins I personally do not consider to be the result of weakness - I'd call them demonic, because they are against even the instincts of our humanity. But note that I am referring to the Hitlers and Pol Pots, not to most of us garden variety Christians.) But our sins hamper the intimacy to which God calls us - and repentance opens us to this intimacy.

I never discourse on Hell! Yet I shall quote a reference from a sermon I heard, also recently, in response to questions about hell, which I greatly prefer. "You can go to hell - if you really insist!"

Presumably my readers would be more interested in the positive side of the afterlife (and may even believe that our life in Christ actually begins right here...), so I'll close with a quote from Papa Benedict. Would that I could write one paragraph of this quality before I die!

"Heaven, therefore, must first and foremost be determined christologically. It is not an extra-historical place into which one goes. Heaven's existence depends upon the fact that Jesus Christ, as God, is man, and makes space for human existence in the existence of God himself...It is by being with Christ that we find the true location of our existence as human beings...Christ is the temple of the final age; he is heaven, the new Jerusalem, he is the cultic space for God...

If heaven depends on being in Christ, then it must involve a co-being with all those who, together, constitute the body of Christ. Heaven is a stranger to isolation. It is the open society of the communion of saints, and in this way the fulfilment of all human communion."

Who would want to be under 25?

The link in the title is to an interview with Imelda Staunton, who is one of my favourite actresses, and is related to her new role in Cranford (which features just about every living favourite actress of mine!) Imelda and I are about the same age - though, having seen (and loved) her in "Vera Drake," where she seemed much older, I sometimes have to remind myself of this. :) Though her interview was about acting roles for women who are beyond their first youth, I longed to borrow the title.

It often puzzles me why women in our age group (and many who are even younger) are often so preoccupied with looking younger, or being thought to be very young. I remember a conversation I once had with a well-known hairdresser (the sort who 'does' the famous), during which he was telling me that some 'makeovers' do not at all make the women look prettier - but that does not matter, because what they want is their 'new look.' I was all the more surprised to learn that even women who are 20 sometimes will do anything to change appearance, even if it is not flattering in the least, if they think it makes them look younger.

Looking back over my life, indeed I had great promise as a young woman - and I'll concede I bitterly regret that, with being forced into business jobs for sheer bread and butter, I never had any chance to fulfil that promise. I enjoyed my years of university and graduate studies (well, they are still going on... but I mean the first 20 years or so of my education), singing opera, writing, lecturing - and it would have broken my heart had I ever known I'd hit my peak at about 25 and then slide 'downhill all the way.' Yet I honestly haven't the slightest desire to be very young again!

I suppose that it would be different were my chief interests in, for example, athletics, or becoming a ballerina, or otherwise in areas in which youth is a huge asset. To pick one of my interests out of the sky, though young adults indeed can be knowledgeable in theology, truly innovative thought, wisdom, unusual insight, the skill to be a spiritual director, and other aspects require far more experience and time to mature - rather after the fashion of any good wine save that served in Cana. (Yes, I know that neither Jesus of Nazareth nor Francis of Assisi had long earthly lives, but Jesus is in a class by himself and Francis had many gifts, of which wisdom was not one.) There are various theologians, worthy of great distinction, who are in my age group - and, for that field, they are just beyond babyhood.

I would not be 20 again for anything on earth. Perhaps those who look back (in most cases - I certainly could understand if someone had a devastating illness or some other horrid problem later) are glorifying the memories.

I'm thinking of when I happened to meet a girl with whom I'd attended school. Though she did have much school involvement in those days, and I'm sure has genuinely happy memories of much of this, having known her at the time I am fully aware that she was a sensitive sort who seemed to spend about a third of her time crying in the loo. (I naturally would never remind her of this!)

Of course, those who did not have the good fortune to be able to pursue higher education have a very idealistic, even ridiculous, picture of what those years were like. (I was delighted when I received my degree - not so much so when a cousin told me, "This was fun - now you have to go to work.") The images of endless fun, carefree living, and so forth are very much off the mark - just ask any student preparing for finals, or trying to crank out a thesis, or juggling miserable jobs with massive studies.

My own memory is a video camera (which naturally did not exist in my youth), where many others have more of a photo album mentality. Think of it - a photograph of an occasion (even if it was nothing that wonderful) can make things appear splendid. Videos capture too much - that's their downfall. :)

So, I shall record this virtually useless entry mainly to record my puzzlement. (I also shall pause for a moment to think of the cast of Cranford - Imelda Staunton, Judi Dench, Maggie Smith et al - and doubt that anyone would say their acting ability is less than that of those much younger...) For me, 50 is about the brink of any possible age of wisdom. The early days are valuable training, formation, what-not, but looking back to them with 'rose coloured glasses' only makes us pine for what might have been (though what 'might have been' may have turned out no better), or picture a blissful lost age that makes us discontented with this one.

(That is allowed at the age of 80 only! I had no qualms about my mother and her friends speaking with fondness of the war years... even knowing that no one could picture their 20s as being a happy or idyllic era!)

Some brief thoughts on Richard Dawkins

It is odd what one can find in one's 'mail boxes' (electronic or real) on any one day when one maintains an Internet site. Within today's batch were an announcement of a presentation on Thomas Aquinas with the excellent and apt title of "How to Be Happy," which made me glad that people attending will (possibly for the first time in their lives) be exposed to the extensive emphasis Thomas actually placed on this. I also received an email from an irate evangelical, who was scolding me for including an essay on Chaucer's "Miller's Tale," which he saw as an endorsement of adultery and sorcery (astrology... I had not noticed that Chaucer exactly recommended listening to astrologers in his text, and the adulterer hardly fares well), because I find it to be an hilarious story. My mail also included a few with obscene subject lines - I did not open them, because they clearly were advertisements for pornography sites, but I dare say that whatever search mechanisms the originators use do not have the sophistication to distinguish between 'bestiary,' the mediaeval home of the unicorn, gryphon, and ant-lion, and a vaguely similar word which... has no connection with any practises I would be likely to embrace. I then received a highly unwelcome package from someone who clearly has not read my site (mediaeval spirituality) or most of this blog (which I'd hardly find a depressing spot), and who saw my infrequent, brief illustrations of points which referred to my convent life as imprisoning me in some form of bitterness and inaction.

Will someone please get me another gin? I'd best make this one a double... (Oh, heavens... now I'll be getting email about 'substance abuse' from those who have no understanding of irony...)

As my faithful readers know, I've been studying the philosophy of religion in great detail this past year. Never one to scimp on the scope of an area, I 'spent' this afternoon with Richard Dawkins (in the sense of reading his works, not having a gin - for all of our ideological differences, the man indeed has wit and intelligence, and I'm not sure a pub visit with him would be entirely unpleasant.) Now, I suppose that, in Dawkins' view, I am rather hopeless, if not stupid or lacking in intellectual integrity, considering his assertion that "dyed-in-the-wool faith-heads are immune to argument." But we faith heads can take heart - his views of Yahweh are so hateful that, by contrast, we get off easily.

I am neither scientist nor philosopher, nor (with the study and writing schedule I have now) do I have the spare energy to refute Dawkins in the first place. Yet certain thoughts came to me when I was exploring his work. I know, from other (sincere and honourable) email in my inbox that a few of my readers think I am wasting time (which could be better spent with, let us say, scriptures or classic theologians... though it may be no surprise that I hang out with them quite a bit as well) by reading the works of atheists or 'Christians' of odd bent. My own source of strength (beyond divine grace - and I'm not about to try to explain just what that is) is very intellectual. There are current philosophers, historians, and even theologians, with whose conclusions I would disagree drastically, yet whose work is of value for other reasons than fostering faith, or who (as in Dawkins case) raise questions which theists are overdue in addressing, and which require further scholarly treatment. (This is not to say that no one is taking care of the latter - but the matters under consideration should have been reviewed in more depth centuries ago.)

"The God Delusion" is a rant, and frankly a poor illustration for one of Dawkins' clear intelligence and learning. (By contrast, I found his Blind Watchmaker to be an excellent and worthwhile refutation of the 'design arguments' along the lines of Paley's, which I have long found to be more problematic than inspiring.) One could receive the impression that all Christians are miserable souls who are haunted by guilt, longing for the liberating truths which Dawkins shall impart. (I know there are those who were exposed to miserable religious ideas and threats of hell - but the extreme examples Dawkins gives somehow remind me more of pathology than faith. I cannot recall any element of my own life, for example - whether presentation of catechesis, my essays, any part of my prayer, or any element of metanoia and conversion, which has the slightest connection with avoiding a fiery destiny. I never think of hell at all.) It is more irksome that Dawkins assumes that his own colleagues (scientists) who are theists are basically liars - pretending to a Christian faith to win acceptance, or that those who, for example, still espouse a form of teleological argument are in an "epistemological safe zone" where rational argument could not reach them.

Yet Dawkins work, as I see it, falls into two categories for a faith head like myself. Such scholarly works as "The Blind Watchmaker" have enormous value - just as, for example, for all my disagreement with John Dominic Crossan, I think his work on first century Palestine is ground breaking and valuable to any theologian. Books such as the "God Delusion" seem far more aimed at a popular market of those ill informed, or 'burnt' by past religious experience, or who smugly assume that no one with any intelligence (...I suppose that John Hick, Josef Ratzinger, John Polkinghorne, and countless other geniuses are in that category) could believe in theism.

Even books in the latter category can be valuable. Philosophical arguments for the existence of God, as even the most avid Thomistic philosopher today would concede, in many cases indeed are self contradictory. Others are obsolete in expression. Still others seem distressingly naif, today, because they are based on long outdated scientific or historical premises. There need to be fresh presentations, even when some are of ancient ideas (...Plato and Thomas Aquinas, or Augustine and Aquinas, or Augustine and Aristotle, were hardly contemporaries...). The mockery of one such as Dawkins, narrow though it is, can inspire exceptional Christian writings.

I must add that I agreed with a large amount of what Dawkins did say in refutation of certain ideas. (I'll not devote much space to that, considering hate mail and assertions of certain varieties of 'Christian' whom Dawkins mentioned, if I believed in capital punishment, which of course I do not, I'd string them up at dawn. But, in half a century of being a Christian, I must admit that, happily, I've rarely, if ever, met the likes of those who write such letters or have such limited perspectives.) Pascal's Wager (which I'd always assumed to be rather ironic, but who knows?) indeed does seem an inspiration merely to feign belief in God. Richard Swinburne, whose work I respect in various ways, irritates me with his harping on courage and suffering being fostered by evil - and anyone who can state that the Holocaust gave Jews a chance to show courage and the like, as if this were part of a divine plan, ought to spend his Purgatory shining Eichmann's shoes.

Dawkins also is woefully correct about how certain presentations of Christian doctrines can lead to images of a masochistic, punishing, thought-reading (and more... I'm too weary to quote it all) God. Of course, I always have an allowance for that inspired scriptures still were written with human pens, and basically strong images of a faithful Yahweh, for example, can drown in justification for human violence. I also know that Anselm, Augustine, et al - whose writings on atonement and original sin can make my skin crawl - presented ideas which, while essentially expressing images of divine salvation, revelation, and fidelity, need serious, contemporary treatment which preserves the essential while tossing a good deal of the wrappings.

The bitter Christians whom Dawkins mentions, and whose pain I would never minimise, are hardly representative of the species. For Dawkins, religious ritual is a ‘charade.’ He also focuses on extremes – and on those whom religion has made miserable, where many Christians (and believers of all faiths) have found their faith to be highly enriching. One could come away thinking that religious practise means inevitable misery and pain. My own experience has been based on a model a far cry from neurotic guilt! Even when one considers conversion (to which we all have a constant calling) when it actually means (running for cover at introducing a forbidden word...) repentance, it more often is a peaceful, warm, lovely experience of being aware of the embrace of divine love. For many of us, it stems from no fear of hell, but from awareness of an invitation to greater intimacy.

I've rambled quite enough for today, but I'll add one last thought which may surprise those of you who know that my own reflections are often intended either to inspire prayer or virtue (even if in unconventional fashion), or to clarify misunderstood doctrines (argue to doomsday, but at least base it on the actual point you wish to smash.) Long live controversy! The disillusioned readers to whom Dawkins is appealing are nothing new - they were common during the Enlightenment, and haunted every pub in Oxford (where Dawkins is) during the "Crisis of Faith" in the 1800s (even if the other students were crowding in to see Newman.) I'll take an honest atheist over a sycophant or a supposed Christian who has only his own motives in mind. But many of those in the Victorian crisis of faith mode, for example, probably never had any faith to lose! Their 'faith' was based on a glorified image of family, or on fear, or on duty.

One cannot come to a mature faith (in many cases - I've heard not everyone is interested, and that a few here and there never give philosophical arguments a thought...) unless one thinks, and challenges, and forms one's own viewpoints. One cannot build intimacy with God on 'obedience' and 'duty' - that is formation for a child (or perhaps a soldier), but not for the Christian calling - which is love. If one actually is not a believer (though many an atheist, some quite prominent Christians later, is not an unbeliever for life), I'd prefer being true to what one really believes - one cannot develop one's true self by its denial.

Perhaps this will enlighten me - excellent link

This is not one of my own 'blogging days,' but I just visited Father Gregory's blog, and the excellent article to which I've linked in the title not only makes superb points but just may get me to develop a slim grasp of the anthropic and quantum mechanics - both of which I've mentioned in recent entries.

When did privacy become a crime?

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.

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."



"

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.

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. :)