A small word on the poetic

My readers will probably be surprised at my suggestion that any entry of mine is 'small' - I suppose the difficulty for the 'anchorites' of any era is that, with so much solitude, blessed though it may be in itself, those of us who love words have little chance to share them and can tend to rather overdo that for which we seldom have the chance to indulge. Yet resuming my 'blogging' is rather like trying to ride a bicycle after years away from the practise (not that I ever did that well either.) I was seeking to have some inspiration and produce an interesting entry - and, with no such inspiration at hand, I decided just to share a few rambling thoughts.

I sat my final exams for my divinity degree in May, and, anxious though I am about my results (I shall reassure the young that this approach never varies, even when one has been a student for half a century), I am happy that I survived intact. :) In fact, I found I was rather enjoying myself during my Philosophy of Religion exam, though whether the examiners will enjoy my glibness and originality remains to be seen. (See previous blog entries to get some of the flavour...) I believe I did well enough on Old Testament, but I had a bit of a memory lapse during Old Testament Theology.

I was most fortunate that, during that same period, I had the chance to spend ample time with dear friends whom I do not often see. They are a diverse bunch, with varied interests and usually others in attendance, equally delightful, for me to meet, and it was a great pleasure. On one occasion, when I arrived slightly earlier than the other guests for a lunch party, I found myself involved in a marvellous discussion (with my two friends who were the hosts) of Cranmer, development of the Book of Common Prayer, and the brilliance of the language of Anglican liturgy. (I have heard that, here and there, there are those who have never engaged in such conversations socially - I suppose that could be true. Then again, I've also heard that there are a few people in the world who do not love Shakespeare, Chaucer, great music, or art - that's a bit too incredible for me to believe.)

I've noticed that it is not unusual for those who are devout, especially when their focus is on the liturgical, to have interests in the arts and literature. Cranmer may not have met any standard of heroic sanctity (the earliest days of the Church of England were no more dominated by those of great holiness than were their contemporaries in Rome... just what was it about the Renaissance?). Yet he was a liturgical genius, not only able to join elements of texts from ancient practise with common worship accessible to all in his time, but to demonstrate a facility with the language which was on a par with the great writers who were his near contemporaries.

I am well aware that the very recent liturgical reforms often centred on simplicity of text. (I shall refrain from commenting about avant garde versions in dialects. I suppose that everyone, who speaks any tongue, converses in dialect... but it's an insult to people's intelligence to think they wish to use the same in worship. It would be rather like being in a courtroom and having the judge call out, "Hey, listen up!") Repetition was often frowned upon, for example. Yet, as I was mentioning to my companions, it was a sad loss, in the Roman Catholic Church, when, just as one example, Ostiam Puram, Ostiam Sanctam, Ostiam Immaculatum (no comments about my Latin, please - I know it is rusty) was excised from the Eucharistic Prayer. I believe the Host should have been permitted to remain pure, holy, and immaculate - for repetition, beautiful use of language, capture the poetry which so enriches worship.

Many Christian doctrines are wonderfully captured in our prayer, even if, as I've mentioned in previous posts, we cannot explain them in 'essay form.' "Felix culpa," so magnificent in liturgy, can seem a rather bizarre concept. "Glory be to the Father, etc." makes perfect sense during the Offices, though one cannot explain the Trinity. We need to be reminded of divine transcendence, and the limitations of our own vision, even as we glorify the divine nature we have been privileged to share.

Coincidentally, this past Sunday I attended an excellent lecture about Gerard Manley Hopkins. (I must write an entry about him one day. It is unfortunate that one who had such an appreciation for beauty, and wonderful artistry with language, became so totally focussed on crucifixion, suffering, and sacrifice that his own life would be dismal - and that his desire for detachment and severance of connections with a previous way of life, good though that life had been, caused much of his early poetry to be destroyed.) The lecturer was emphasising how Hopkins' poetry leaves us with wonder, not full understanding.

The poetic expresses eternal truth - not necessarily religious, of course - yet equally reminds us of the limitations of our own vision. We tend to be both too literal today and too afraid of violating political correctness to capture the poetic. "Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid; cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify thy holy Name..." Well, liturgy can hardly get much better than that, can it not? Yet it is excised from many celebrations, or merely used as a suggested meditation before the service. I suppose the fear of alienating others makes some hesitate to suggest that God knows all... I must be slow, because I would have thought that the divine knowing all would mean being able to bestow the grace to cleanse us to perfectly love, even if we ourselves cannot see the obstacles in our path.

...Now, I shall stop being so pedantic for the moment, and consider whether my next essay for the web site should be, perhaps, on the Wife of Bath...

Nothing much

It has been so long since I posted an entry that I thought I'd let my readers know I am alive and well - and survived the exams in May. :) I've been having computer problems, but hope to remedy them soon and to get back to entries here.

Do this in memory of Me

I'll admit to being very irritable today. The computer has taken on a mind of its own (and a very, very slow one at that), and even retrieving email is a struggle. (This is especially exasperating, considering how many exam notes are stored on this hard drive.) And I'm a bit unwell so, though I did attend a marvellous Mass (14th century setting) at midday, I missed Tenebrae, which is a great favourite of mine. However, one way or another, I shall not miss tomorrow's services!

Earlier this week, I attended an evening Eucharist at a relatively small parish. I found it interesting, indeed highly encouraging, that apparently this church has used a very positive emphasis this Lent - thinking of our all being the beloved of God (as with Isaiah's text), rather than as 'fallen.' Considering that I've been pouring through Genesis, Isaiah, and all those philosophy of religion texts, including John Hick's "Irenaean theodicy," I just may have quite a detailed refection about 'the fall' very soon. For the moment, with my weary and disappointed head not quite in gear, I'll just provide an 'older' reflection for Holy Week.

Christianity is very simple. All it requires is a memory and a vision; and, if you can get them, some bread, and wine, and water. - Kenneth Leech

Simplicity is hardly my strong point - yet my honest nature prompts me to further comment that the bread, wine, water, vision, and memory are perhaps the only universal factors which have united the Christian Church since its earliest days. (Well, all right ... I can develop an idea of the Church's going back to Adam... but let us save that for another day.) Looking back to a 'golden age' is a favourite pastime of everyone in every era, yet such have never existed.

I am not likely to call the Last Supper an actual celebration of the Eucharist - there can be no anamnesis of what has not yet happened. :) Yet Maundy Thursday is one of those days when something approaching Ignatian meditation is exceedingly tempting. In fact, I'm even going to toss aside my better scriptural commentaries and not question whether it actually was Passover, etc., etc..

One wonders what the apostles were like. (I am also a peasant, yet the intellectual snob in me turns up her nose at the thought of their not being able to grasp the simplest parables and that most of them smelled of fish...) When I was reading Luke yesterday, and this soon before I became immersed in the haunting magic of Tenebrae, I had to smile, seeing how, right to the end, the apostles were tossing about the idea of who would have the highest place in the kingdom. Ah, yes, arguments about authority...

It is all too easy, particularly if one not only watches the scriptural epics and reads the 'Lives of Christ' of another time, and has been exposed to the 'see how these Christians love one another' myth, to picture twelve intense young men, in great awe at having been first to see the ritual which would sustain the Church until the parousia. Actually, what was present at the Last Supper was a prototype of another sort. :) I am sure that at least one traditionalist was frowning that Jesus had changed the form for the Pesach meal with all this "cup of my blood" business. Those who were either simple or highly observant would question why the Passover was anticipated a day early. (Well, at least, in that day, they were spared the irate vegetarian's protests about the lamb, and no one offered the cup would have irately commented, "But wine is a drug!") Judas was on verge of betraying the Master. I would imagine that Matthew was still sensitive about why Judas held the purse, considering all of his own experience as a tax collector. The disciples were conflicted about who would be the kingpins (I suppose when the Messiah toppled Roman rule.) "The Rock," who had learnt insufficient humility from that sad incident of attempting to walk on water, was making bold promises he'd soon find were beyond him. The lot of them would scatter in fear before the night was out.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Church.

Still, whenever I heard the words of consecration at the Eucharist, it moves me to think that the perpetual memorial has endured for two millenia. For all the conflict, persecution, quarrels, heresy, whatever, which the early Church faced, that bread, wine, and water was the catholic element - and these rituals of common worship kept the Church from crumbling when many a reform movement of the time would die out quickly enough. Jerusalem would fall - the Word would spread to Alexandria, Antioch, Rome, Gaul, etc., with Christians being the odd ones who conformed neither to Jewish nor pagan society.

All that was common, then or now, was worship - praise and thanksgiving - water, bread, and wine - the memory and vision, and the scriptures. We shall never accept that, of course. :) Till the end, I'm sure that those of us who are avid believers will think that some ideal of unity and love will prevail. Yes, at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow... but not everyone will be happy and grateful at that gesture. :)

Lord, you are holy indeed, and all creation rightly gives you praise. All life, all holiness, comes from you, through your Son, Jesus Christ Our Lord, by the working of the Holy Spirit. From age to age, you gather a people to yourself, so that from East to West a perfect offering may be made to the glory of your name...

Requiescat in pace, Little Becket

About the only good thing I can say about March at the moment is that at least it brings us a bit closer to spring. I'm sorry to say that various unhappy memories of my past (among them that both my parents died in March) come to mind this time of year. I'm writing this on the second, the fifteenth anniversary of the death of a priest who was a dear friend of mine. How well I remember the last night of his life, when I was thankful to be at his side, hoping that, despite his being comatose, he could hear the Latin psalms I recited, and my saying (this in English - I knew he feared the last moments of life, as he'd previously told me that all temptations can snatch one away at the end) "It's Compline. It's only compline."

But this blog (and most of my memories in any case!) are not likely to be spots for the morose. (Also, despite Julian of Norwich's vivid description of the dark sights when she herself thought she was at death's door, I never was inclined to think that, after a life of service to God, the devil is too likely to snatch one's soul at the last minute.) Father Thomas, a Franciscan friar, was a brilliant moral theologian and superb preacher, but also quite a character! A tiny man (the size of a jockey), he stood on a little stool in the pulpit (probably lest he hit his chin on it!), and, whenever he thought parishioners might be opposing him (even mentally - and admittedly he seldom thought otherwise), he would look sternly out at the congregation and, in tones reminiscent of Richard Burton, say, "Will.... no one... rid me... of this meddling... priest."

To this day, I have visions of Tom's perched on a cloud, his wings poking out from a well worn and not too clean angelic robe (and halo certainly awry), looking down at many a poor mortal and saying, "And the back of both o' me hands to you..."

Tom was a choleric man, dramatic in speech and gesture, and (as was probably obvious) inclined to think of himself as Thomas Becket. Brilliant though he was, Tom could have a thought which made little sense except in his own mind, and suddenly address this as if the hearer knew exactly what he meant. He was avidly Roman Catholic (in the militant version developed to perfection in southern Ireland, from which he hailed), and not terribly tolerant of my Anglican intellectual leanings. Tom would use various and vivid metaphors, derived from everything from scripture to history to US baseball.

It was a morning in the early 1990s, and Tom, with a wrath of all the gods, suddenly, without preamble, burst out with, "There are limits! I cannot believe what he has done!" I expressed a bit of puzzlement. Tom continued, "I know a pope can dispense himself from anything he likes, but there are limits!"

Searching my mind for whatever John Paul could have dispensed himself from which would be particularly abhorrent to a Kerryman, I asked, "Are you referring to the pope's meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

Little Becket naturally bristled at his title's being usurped, and stormed, "There is no Archbishop of Canterbury! There is only a Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster! That character in Canterbury is not a bishop! He is not a priest! (Crescendo) I suppose you think that Anthony Quinn was the pope!"

Becket suddenly was replaced by Pius V, and, in what I assume was a reference to Canterbury and the ordination of women (a very controversial topic at the time), Tom ominously declared: "There is but one holy, catholic, and apostolic church! And there are no Bo Peeps in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church!"

Pius then was superseded by, of all people, I assume Babe Ruth, as Tom began swinging a huge bat (fortunately imaginary). "In our Holy Mother Church, it's ONE strike, you're out! And it does not matter that you are a much better Christian, than I am! One strike, you're out! And you may not, under pain of mortal sin, answer me with saying you have never denied anything! " (I may be no authority on baseball, but know enough to be glad that I refrained from commenting that I intend to "walk," which shouldn't be difficult, considering I have more balls than many a bishop I could mention.)

I, of course, needed to summon every speck of my previous theatrical experience not to laugh aloud at this commentary, the more since it was delivered with such righteous thunder. However, I made a 'fatal error.' Tom, waiting for some humble response (though he should have known me better than to expect just that), finally said outright, "Well! Is it not true that there is ONE holy, catholic, and apostolic church?"

I answered, "Have I ever denied that?"

May Tom rest in peace and rise in glory... even if heaven is quite crowded with all of those Anglican saints. :)

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.