Parents existed since Eden - 'parenting' is a recent addition

I am a reviewer for Amazon.com, and frequently provide reviews for books in advance of their publication. One which I looked through this week was Amy Wilson's "When Did I Get Like This?" Amy is the mother of three, the eldest of whom is six, and, though her book is largely humour, somehow I could just feel her tension (despite her love for the kids) in analysing everything that is presented as "good parenting" at the moment. I may have laughed at her description of filing applications for a child of three to enter pre-school, but on another level I found it rather tragic. Heaven knows that 'child psychology' presented problems for years, but today's new mother has to worry about whether diluted apple juice (which breaks the current 'water only' trend) will give children diabetes - and does one tell a daughter she is pretty, thereby fostering positive 'body image,' or fear that doing so will cause her to grow into a pre-modern female who thinks everything hinges on her appearance? Parents have quite enough to deal with just in the genuine responsibility they assume - they hardly need bizarre guilt!

I have no children, and my friends are now grandparents - but I am aware that those of my own generation had their share of 'new' worries. (I'm sure that parents have had basically the same worries since mankind existed - and, until recently, had a far greater worry in whether their children would live till adulthood. But I doubt that they thought there was a magic formula to produce perfect children, or guilt over every supposed lapse.) Though my friends, mercifully having reproduced before Internet forums and the self-help aisle, didn't have to deal with health kicks, paranoia over everything their children ate (there are Internet sites which would make just about anything one consumed seem as poison), and "developmental goals" which pushed for reading at the age of nine months, they had to fret over, for example, whether a child would have sufficient 'bonding' if dad hadn't been present for a delivery.

Any realistic teacher would know that which pupils are the brightest, the laziest, the most easily distracted, the most talented, whatever, has nothing to do with whether a child is aged 10 years plus a week or 10 years and nine months. Yet, with children being in classroom situations at the age of two, it's tragic that parents are in a knot over whether a "2.6" has sufficient maturity, or a "2.9" will be taller than the others. (...It just struck me that if, today, I entered a classroom full of kids of 13, I'd probably be the shortest, but be that as it may.) I'm glad I lived in an era when children that age were free to 'hang out' with other little ones. I'll never be accused of a lack of respect for learning, I'm sure, but isn't there much that we learn - including how to deal with others, or how to develop our interests, or just how to have fun, provided that 'dancing' doesn't have to be 'body movement awareness' - on our own?

This has nothing to do with the book I mentioned, but the idea that one can create a 'designer child' through 'parenting' frightens me less than that of selecting 'designer' sperm or ova for one's embryo. (I'm not a moralist, and not qualified to comment on the morality of in vitro - I'm speaking on a more basic level.) I've known brilliant parents whose five children were average (or lower) in intelligence, and vice versa. There is no guarantee that a concert pianist will have kids who have musical gifts, or that an athlete will have children fit for the Olympics. But, especially during my 'far off' youth when many people had large families, and everyone knew those who did, it was clear that these things are a roll of the dice. I shudder to think of how disappointed parents may resent a child who doesn't possess the traits they specially ordered. (Even when one gets what one thinks one wanted, it can backfire. The genius IQ can mean Albert Einstein or Adolf Hitler.)

Were I to try to record here what I think of eugenics, I frankly would become ill.

I hate sounding pious (especially because I am indeed), but I believe we need to remember the identity each of us has as being in God's image, and of how we were dignified in Creation and in Christ's taking on this nature. We all have our gifts, all are flawed - and we can neither order or programme the former nor avoid the latter.

Wisdom on a bookmark

The catalogue from the Scriptorium of the All Saints' Sisters of the Poor in Maryland is a treat in itself - their greeting cards, bookmarks, and holy cards all the more so. I was introduced to their work when a friend sent me an assortment of cards (which I often used for bookmarks - but too often, to my later regret, gave away). Some of their cards are especially beautiful in design, or have great charm (for example, a priest in cassock, cotta, and stole standing in a rainstorm and blessing some little animals - with the calligraphy proclaiming, "Circumstances simply do not count; we come to give rather than to receive"), or are witty in verse or picture. Yet one of the simplest I found striking in its message, and decided to share with you today.

To escape criticism:
Say nothing.
Do nothing.
Be nothing!

Frustrating, even maddening, though it is, I have learnt that there is nothing anyone can do (however good or outstanding - I'm not referring to crimes or scandal here) which will not provoke criticism from someone. I'm sure those who won the Nobel or Pulitzer prizes not only had opposition to their views but muttering about how they must have had too much time on their hands (to be able to have such accomplishments.) Every choice one makes in life (from something as stupid as which dress to wear today, to what state of life one embraces, to what university subject one studies) always will be 'wrong' in the minds of some others (and one will be told.)

I've known this for ages, of course. Yet I blush to admit that to this day I either (1) find that I am defending myself (even after decades of knowing this not only is worthless but only inspires the 'critic' to further glory), (2) wish I could defend myself (this is especially idiotic, because I know I owe no defence to anyone, or (3) depending on the matter, when my usual "that is none of your business" fails, find myself responding with such off the cuff comments as "play the ego game with someone else, bitch", for all that I know I'll regret that within the hour (however accurate my assessment is)... or at least by the time I say Evening Prayer.

However, there is one fortunate trait of mine which I would encourage others to consider. I may hate the condescension of those who perpetually criticise (and their name is Legion), but it never changes my decisions or the manner in which I live. (Note to those, especially the young, who may read this - if you are looking for such things as prosperity, popularity, and acceptance, don't try this in public... I've never been anything but broke. I have my share of talents and an impressive collection of degrees... all, of course, in 'useless' subjects. Those who do not understand irony who write me about my supposed bad self-esteem will receive ten thousand years in purgatory. Kindly remember that, especially during Lent, one may recall what happened to Jesus of Nazareth and his Twelve - even the ultimate goodness, let alone our flimsy efforts, does not guarantee universal acceptance...)

I'll close with my favourite of all the quotes on the All Saints Sisters' cards - it's framed on my fridge, and I wish to have it on my memorial card when I die:
"They drew a circle that cast me out,
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But love and I had the wit to win.
We drew a circle that took them in."

It is my honour to remain, Your Grace...

...I suppose that,under some circumstances, that sentence might continue with something along the lines of 'your most humble servant,' but I knew full well that no one would believe that. This may come as something of a surprise, but (much as I'm sure I'd enjoy doing so - and, in those cases, at least the protocol is consistent) I've never had a seat in the House of Lords (nor really known anyone who did), nor have I been presented at Court. Rather, I had three decades of working for the RC Church - and in several different dioceses. You will understand my discretion in not mentioning precisely where.

I love pageantry. One of my favourite images of Christ is as King of King and Lord of Lords (even if it helps me, now and then, to remember that, during his earthly ministry, he was a Mediterranean peasant - for reasons that may be obvious.) I was rather disappointed when Paul VI declined the 'triple crown' (yes, I know why - but I love tradition), and all the more sorry when John Paul II decided against a coronation at all. (Later, it occurred to me that a man's man such as John Paul may have seen this as a colossal waste of money - and that, given his own origins, such a spectacle would have resembled my father's having a coronation. For all my long years of membership in the Monarchist League, I'll concede that I'd feel silly having a crown placed on my own head.)

I've known many a bishop (not all ordinaries - but some of them would be known to you, hence my discretion.) During my youth, certain customs (such as genuflecting to kiss a bishop's ring) went from being strictly observed to falling by the wayside. My first diocesan job was in a Worship Office - these were the days of intense liturgical optimism... The bishop with whom I'd have had the most contact then was not young, but didn't care for frills, and left many people, including his clergy, nearly tumbling when he told them not to kiss the ring. He liked to be addressed, whether in speech or writing, as just "Bishop," with no name following.

Names here are fictitious but should give you the flavour. The next three bishops with whom I had the closest connections preferred to be addressed as (1) Your Excellency in writing, but "Archbishop" or "Archbishop Jones" in speech, (2) "Bishop Edward," and (3) Your Grace. That last did not care to have anyone refer to him as anything but "His Grace." (Don't let on that I revealed this, but, whatever RC talk there is about what was previously suffered from the English, there are RC bishops who, deep down, would love not only a seat in the House of Lords but an accompaniment of Swiss Guards, if not ten legions of angels - the latter visibly manifest, of course.)

I've known bishops who would wear the sort of regalia one sees on Vatican broadcasts to attend a picnic, others who, seeking to be something of the 'common man' (...and those who tried that often betrayed that they were common indeed...), wore clerical shirts with the pectoral cross tucked into a pocket - coupled with a mandatory cardigan - on more formal occasions. For reasons I've never been able to discover, the fatter the bishop, the more likely that he'd be wearing trousers in a loud tartan material when he was trying to be 'off duty' and inconspicuous.

I never worked in a bishop's office, but, in my own role (which I'll just summarise as a manager), naturally I had contact with many. Communication, especially when everything had to be documented and therefore needed a cover letter, presented intricate problems. Provided he (or "His Grace") phoned me first, I was permitted to speak. (In fact, I broke many a telephone cord unwittingly. It was so natural that I didn't even realise I was doing this, but, once I heard the bishop's voice, I immediately rose from my chair - and the phone ended up on the floor.) Writing was another matter! Neither I nor my boss (who was upper management) could have the audacity to write to a bishop - even if it was only a cover memoranda forwarding a new credit card. If I recall correctly, the "stratosphere" level boss (my boss's boss) could write to bishops provided they wrote to him first. Otherwise, we'd have to seek out his secretary to write to the bishop's. (I'm burning a bit because it would have been acceptable for me, though not my own boss nor my male subordinates, to write to a bishop's secretary, because I was a woman and therefore never quite taken seriously. I could tell many irritating stories, others that are hilarious, except that I know there are people in this world who know who I am and with whom I worked.)

Even when the 'stratosphere boss' wrote to anyone, there was a strong protocol. Bishops (even those who were not ordinaries, and even if it was what, to anyone else, would be nearly a scratch pad memo) had to be addressed with the full honorific as a preface and the suffixes of the honorary degrees, including the mandatory fiddle-D.D. which is a courtesy title to everyone consecrated an RC bishop. One also had to remember whether one was 'respectfully' (when writing to clergy) or 'most respectfully' (bishops) His.

Oddly enough, to a large extent I believe in a high standard of etiquette. I would no sooner not rise when a clergyman, let alone a bishop, entered the room than I would walk the streets in a potato sack. It therefore became difficult to gauge who would think this plain courtesy, who would want his ring kissed as well, who would long for the days of the genuflection (I'm arthritic - I don't manage that one even in front of the tabernacle, not from disrespect but because I couldn't get up), and who, maddeningly, would say "don't get up," thereby leaving me in permanent, semi-Anglican crouch mode.

Extra terrestrial theology

Do not be misled by the title of this post - it is by no means an admission that I am in outer space most of the time (though, when one not only walks at right angles to the world, as did Francis, but is very into mystic theology, this tends to be perfectly true.) I'm recalling a situation I found highly amusing, and which nearly had me rolling on the floor screaming when I realised that some of those involved were taking it all perfectly seriously.

As a preamble, in the early days of the Internet I recall a discussion, on a theology forum, regarding life on other planets. In case this wasn't obvious, I love presenting, defending, or refuting theological arguments as much as the next person, but one such as that has real potential for being great fun. Since no one knows a thing about the topic, naturally they haven't a clue about what is true or what theological significance it may have, so possibilities and clever mental gymnastics have endless potential. Of course, despite thousands of years of scripture study and theological speculation, I think we all know, deep down, that 'epistemic distance' (I love that term) means we never know too much in any case, but developing themes affecting beings on planets unknown makes us admit this to ourselves, which we otherwise seldom do.

Of course, some of those participating were playing a game, just as was I - and among those were very clever, witty souls who really were doing so superbly. The trick was figuring out who was playing and who wasn't, and I sometimes mistook those who were not only serious but feared having their faith placed in danger for joining in the fun. How anyone could see faith as endangered under such circumstances is beyond me - they tended to be the sorts who wanted to know what was 'according to the mind of the Church,' but, to my knowledge, the Church never pronounced on human beings in any worlds except earth, heaven, and purgatory (that last being the most creative, since it involved an entire judicial system binding on the dead - and you thought disputes about authority today were extreme...) Since the existence of hell is assumed, but there's never any statement about anyone's being there except for fallen angels, even that territory remained unexplored. Granted - I've met or read the works of people, some in quite prominent Church positions, others popular authors, about whom I'd have no trouble imagining origins in some distant galaxy (and I don't mean realms celestial), but I've yet to see any scholar attempt to delve into what might be happening on some planet light-years away.

I'm not scientific in the least, and don't have a particularly vivid imagination, so the topics discussed were even weirder than some of the philosophical speculation about the after-life or resurrection. What about 'the fall'? Did Jesus' death redeem those on a planet he did not inhabit? Would those on other planets not be redeemed, or did they not 'fall' in the first place? Would believing Jesus was a source of cosmic redemption work if it involved beings on other planets, or would that be a heretical belief in parallel universes? (Heretical? Even Bernardo Guidoni never expressed a desire to burn those in other solar systems, and I cannot recall a word, even in the most appalling Inquisition accounts, about 'parallel universes.')

I'm just sorry that everyone there wasn' t playing - these lines of reasoning could have been really challenging and hilarious.

Recalling this reminded me of a yet older memory, which pre-dates the Internet but not space travel. In one church where I served, we did have some very vocal members who were always concerned about threats to the faith, often in areas which most of us had never considered. One lady, to whom I'll give the fictitious name of Alice (in my age group - sometimes the young, which we were then, can fear the collapse of the solid, old ways more than those who'd think 'if we'd known those were the good old days, we'd have enjoyed them more') was both obsessive about error and incredibly prudish. (I think she found her large brood of children in the cabbage patch. She once protested because a plastic model of a foetus had visible male organs, so I further assume her kids were born dressed.)

Pat, the most useful and delightful man on the planet, loved a row, and made sure he found ways to start them. Alice wasn't one to list her sources, but she'd heard somewhere that it was heretical to believe there could be life on other planets. It had some connection with how, had mankind not fallen, the entire universe would have been our playground. (I am guessing that was both a weak and faulty connection - there must have been a cross battery somewhere.) Pat, of course, was insisting to Alice that life on other planets just had to exist, and she was becoming very earnest.

Finally, Alice asked the priest (who knew her all too well) if it wasn't heresy to believe there could be life on another planet. Aiming at his specific target all too well, he replied, "Those on other planets never committed original sin, so they walk around without clothes on. We can't see them because we're concupiscent." (Bear with the poor man. Some time earlier, Alice had asked him if it was all right to have sex before one receives communion, to which he'd responded, "just as long as you don't block the aisles.")

Of all the times to giggle...

Why is it that at the worst possible moments (sitting on a jury, hearing a brilliant concert, and, most of all, in church, especially at the most solemn liturgies) one will have an unexpected thought or memory that causes a fit of giggling? I well remember, for example, when I once was attending a Good Friday service (sitting towards the front, that I may see and hear). A young woman was sitting in front of me, with a beautiful infant girl, perhaps two years of age. The baby was very striking looking, but didn't have a childish expression - she had a very wise, mature, dignified manner, and resembled an infant one might see in the arms of a Byzantine Madonna. Of course, no one else would have realised what sent me into the laughing fit (least of all the Italian priest who called out to me, from the altar, "Isabella, shut up!", in broad dialect.) But the little figure in front of me had just informed her mother, with the collected dignity befitting a queen, "I pissed."

Last week, I attended a marvellous choral liturgy for Ash Wednesday. As the imposition of ashes began, I was nearly swept away by the beautiful sounds of the Miserere, and the readings and prayers already had me nearly ready to levitate, so I started up the aisle with suitable recollection... disturbed by an intensely silly memory from back when I was in my 20s.

I cannot recall, now, how I met her or why I was there (I must have been assisting her in some way), but I stayed a few days with an elderly nun once. She was on exclaustration because she'd tried to split her community when they got too secular, but had the Blessed Sacrament reserved in a makeshift chapel. (Denise had long worked in a slum neighbourhood, and her flat was on the top floor.) It was a blood hot August afternoon, the sort of heat that somehow is worst in slums, and we were so overheated that I was wearing a nightdress (and nothing else), Denise just her Josephite petticoat. Suddenly, the auxiliary bishop unexpectedly stopped by - he'd got word of her having the Sacrament, and came to take it away. Needless to say, the last thing I was expecting to do in my nightgown was meet a bishop, but Denise was unperturbed, and I was all the more embarrassed because she asked him to bless us and rose then got to her knees. (I am rather well-endowed, yet much too polite not to rise when a clergyman enters the room - and if doing so caused undue flopping on the way up, when Denise set the precedent to kneel for the blessing, I dare-say the flop-flop effect was worse by far on the way down.)

Afterwards, I told her I'd been very ill at ease. (Today I probably would have laughed - but, modest though I indeed still am, I was far more so when I was still at the age to be in permanent heat.) Denise conceded that, at her age (80 or so), it really didn't matter much whether one was modest or not, but then said to me, "Oh, we're all dust, honey!"

Of all the memories to have during the imposition of ashes... :-)

Nothing profound today, my friends - but I did think I'd share a book I am re-reading for Lent (I get more out of it each time.) Check out some of Tom Wright's best writing for the season.

Jesus and the Victory of God, Vol. 2 [JESUS & THE VICTORY OF GOD VOL]

"My dog's bigger than your dog..."

I suppose today I'll win an award for the silliest content and loosest associations in all of the many posts on this blog. This stems from my having had an unexpected thought, the sort that makes me keep my mouth shut (yes, on rare occasions I'm capable of this) at the moment, though I'll both shake my head and laugh later. I've noticed, both at church and in Internet discussions, that the annual "Lenten contest" is beginning.

I cannot remember much about this songwriter, but, if my memory serves, some years ago Tom Paxton wrote some songs aimed at his children. They would win no awards for either their melodies or lyrics, but one of them suddenly, vividly leapt into my mind. "My dog's bigger than your dog" actually captured well how children in the school-yard sound when they are trying to top one another. Alternating verses were, for example, "My dog's bigger than your dog..." then, "My dog's better than your dog - his name is King and he had puppies." It proceeded to such gems as "our car's older than your car," "my dad's louder than yours," "my mum's funnier than yours."

As my regulars well know, I'm not about to claim any particular fondness for working with children (...understatement of the century), but such traded bragging amongst kids I can tolerate (albeit from afar.) What drives me mad is when adults cannot get out of that groove. I could give many an example but, with Shrove Tuesday ahead tomorrow, I think the Lenten Contest will be best.

I've never been able to determine the origin of 'giving things up for Lent' - certainly, no one in Italy ever heard of this, and I think it's an Anglo Saxon and Celtic product. I have many a memory of kids trying to top one another with what they'd sacrifice - I suppose it was a nice enough break from "where's your old man work?" or discussion of whose parents are stricter. (Kids had no desire for strict parents, except when it was in competition.) In much the same fashion, again from a distance, I can deal with the utter lack of empathy and dignity our dear little brats have when they turn on their best friends - the silly and prurient comments of boys of twelve who suddenly see a 'double meaning' in every comment - the jokes that have a group of 9 year olds howling though most of us mortals would be at a loss to see what is funny - even the 'toilet humour' of infants who suddenly find anything remotely connected with the subject to be hilarious.

Yet I must bite my tongue, when the "I'm giving this up for Lent," "oh, I'm not only giving that up but keeping track of the money I save so I can give it to the poor," "maybe it's better if we add on more service," "I think I'd better do the vegan fast - that Western fast is too luxurious, and I only eat meat once a week anyway and I'm still fat," begins yet again. This may seem odd coming from someone who has an extensive and sometimes painful track record for pursuing ascetic theology (and preaching same, though I suppose most people I know would have loved to beg me to stop), giving to the poor (...and often being a member of that set), attending multiple services of common worship weekly or even daily, and usually falling asleep snuggled up to the Prayer Book. But I often wonder if Jesus urged those around him to give alms in secret not because they needed to smugly know (and 'subtly' announce) that they do things only for the glory of God (who, I am sure, is immensely grateful that we take the trouble to contribute to His glory...), but because he was so damned sick of hearing those who didn't.

On a serious note, I shall add that it is really sad when ascetic practises are seen as punishments for oneself. Yes, I believe in penance - in two senses. One is penance as getting our lives back in line with the gospels (surely a task enough for a lifetime.) In the other sense, I see it (and this in a positive sense - by 'consequence' I mean outcome, not necessarily negative!) as admitting that our actions have consequences. We regret or are pleased with some of our actions based on natural consequences, but I think we can forget (especially when neither worldly loss nor gain is forthcoming) that there are spiritual consequences for our actions.

With Lent being a time when we prepare to celebrate the paschal mystery, I'm sure I can be permitted yet one more loose association. Just recently, I began studying some of the works of Jewish scholar Jon Levenson (see links below.) Though naturally his treatment of resurrection would not be related to Jesus, his words are worth a look for Christians indeed. To cite only one point for now, Levenson treats of how, in many passages from Torah, death is not avoided but overcome. God graciously rescues worshippers from death, leading them to a renewed, or new, intimacy with Himself.

That is what is key in our penance - being open to that marvellous intimacy, and seeking to let go of the obstacles we place in its path.

Just as the Lenten contest is annual :), so is my recommendation of the books, to which I have linked below, by Margaret Funk. (They are brief, but be sure to read through them at a slow and prayerful pace.) They are the best introductions to genuine ascetic practise I have seen (and I've read through a library's worth of excellent works on the topic.) Those who are looking for an endurance test will be disappointed, and probably see the wisdom expressed (which draws on many traditions, but is particularly focused on John Cassian) as 'too luxurious.' (I'll spare anyone amplification on the 'austerity contest,' but haven't we all seen it now and then?)

Party well tomorrow, my friends. I want to see a picture where everyone smiles and says "Cana!" - Jesus knew how to feast as well as fast, and only those who can do both get a thing out of the latter. :-)

Great quote from a moralist

I wanted to share a quick idea from a French moralist, Servais Pinckaers. I love his treatment of morality, which bemoans that we think of it today as moral obligations, not "the ways of wisdom that lead to holiness and perfection...a response to the question of happiness and salvation." He presented a treatment of Romans chapters 12-15 with a marvellous emphasis. Among other points, he mentions "The Christian life is true worship. It is a liturgy where we offer (our persons) to God as a living sacrifice, discerning what is good and pleasing to Him. Soma evokes the body of Christ offered in the Eucharist and the body that forms the Church. One may therefore refer to a liturgical dimension of Christian morality." (It's awkward, because it is translated from a far more eloquent French, but I sadly no longer remember my foreign languages to any extent.)

Enough with wanting strokes of the cane

I had several conversations recently, not on related topics at face value, which, in total, left me both laughing and frowning at the product. I therefore ask my readers to bear with me as I ravel this thread.

Remember the kids who, in school days, always seemed to be in trouble? (Or dreaming up devilish ideas, then getting others to carry them out?) Looking back, they fell into two categories. A few, sad to say, were genuinely malicious - and that tended to be obvious even when they were very young. Thinking back on a few I knew as a child, I was sorry, but not surprised, to learn that they ended up involved with crime, in a few cases killed (by their associates) or imprisoned as a consequence. Yet a larger number of the 'folk heroes,' who weren't malicious but had a combination of mischief, bad temper, and a desire to be the centre of attention, coupled with a love to do lots of things to see if they could get away with them (someone else's being blamed when he was innocent would not have troubled them), grew up to be those whom one would learn, years later, were police officers. (If they were born before 1940, a significant percentage were priests. The Anglicans are married and hen-pecked, and the Roman Catholics had plenty of tough nuns to see that they had their share of hen pecking along the way. Since the quantity of nuns sharply decreased by the time the products of the war or baby boom came to maturity, thus the quantity of RC priests who'd been tough guys declined. Why young tough guys grow up to be accountable either to military authorities, police procedures, or domineering women is beyond me, but it was epidemic.)

I'm thinking of one impossible kid whom I knew (though not as a child - he was older than I - born pre-1940, and inevitably a priest and coincidentally a friar.) When he told me of the trouble he caused as a child, I was appalled. One of his favourite ways to exercise mischief was in waiting to see which neighbourhood mother hung her wash on the line (recall that this was in the days when that meant hours over the wash-tub or, at best, placing clothing through wringers, not that I'd approve even in the automatic washer/dryer era), then cut the line with a hedge clipper. Knowing he had quite a temper, I asked if this was intended as revenge - but actually he didn't target anyone in particular. He explained his motive as 'impressing the other kids.' Whether less ambitious mischief makers stopped short of clipping clotheslines lest they be punished, or others thought what he did was dreadful, he could be certain that everyone he knew would be talking about what he did that day! (That he'd later feel the sting of his mother's cane or dad's belt did not deter him.)

The (short of malicious) folk heroes often had a quality I found puzzling but amusing (other than that the RC ones made sure they wore the scapular to make sure they were saved from eternal fire in case they suddenly dropped dead. They still do. We'd all heard stories in catechism class about those who were hit by motor cars right after stealing a chocolate, and later re-appeared to friends to speak of suffering in hell. Older kids in these stories who had sex not only were killed on the spot but in some way that illustrated their fiery destiny, such as a train going up in blazes.) If they were caught, they had this need to 'take their punishment.' (A few of them even needed to tell on themselves.) Taking their punishment in no way affected future behaviour - they were cooking up further trouble within the hour. Still, most of them, in later years, would insist that being punished kept them from further trouble later. (I've no idea whether that is true or not. I suppose that, with really young children, about all that deters them from misbehaving is a fear of being punished, but older kids weren't deterred at the time. And, just for the record, I know absolutely nothing of criminal justice, so I'm not referring to that area in what follows.)

In recent weeks, I asked two questions to which no one I knew had an answer. What happened, many centuries ago but with effects that would extend well into the modern era, that took Christian focus away from Jesus' glory and our deification, and made ascetic practises of any kind (which I'd see as intended to remove distractions and foster intimacy with the Beloved) ways to 'atone for sin'? Effectively, it became a punishment. (Also a marvellous Lenten guilt trip - the poor box was never fuller than when kids were convinced that spending a penny on a treat might keep some poor soul in purgatory or cause someone in China to drop dead. Those who put in the most were the same who might have 'hooked' a chocolate at any other time of the year - see the preceding paragraph. Among adults, the biggest party animals became a great penance to others during Lent, since they refrained from foods they enjoyed, their beer and their pipes. Their friends had reasons to rejoice on Easter that had nothing to do with Christ being risen.)

My other question was sillier - but no one knows that answer, either. Referring here not to the fast or any other ancient custom - I've never been able to discover where the practise, which I believe is mainly Celtic and Anglo-Saxon, since I never heard of it in Italy at all, of 'giving things up for Lent' originated.

Well, be forewarned, my friends: I've been studying worship (surprise!) yet again, and reviewing the works of Hebrew and Christian scholars, and I'm well steeped in Franciscan concepts of penance (not Francis's own excesses, to which he freely admitted at the end of his short life), which are based on getting one's life in line with the gospels. I'll say, in brief (since I've said more than enough today), that atonement has wonderful meanings that have nothing to do with taking punishment.

As for the idea that God always wants what is most painful and difficult, and that anything we want (even if it is not remotely sinful, or is wonderful) is opposed to "God's will," or that we are so wicked by reason of the fall that we can't want anything without its being somehow bad (or, at least, 'less perfect' - weird influences from varied periods can lead to a revolting pot-pourri where one is always expected to do what is most perfect though one is capable of no good)... well, scrap the lot of them. It's not humility or charity - it is a childish desire to be punished because one has no concept of virtue - or Pelagian (think of it - we're in control when we are appeasing) - or we want to be thought superior for hating ourselves.

I'll just leave you with one thought, from scholar Klaus Koch - and this in relation to Servant of Yahweh liturgies in Isaiah. Atonement means liberation from spheres of misdeeds and consequent disaster - it is not appeasement. The attack on idols was a precedent. It is not only a concept of God as transcendent - his grace is manifested in the world. What is rejected is a God at the disposal of humans - artefacts being dependent on their maker.

Blessings for the feast of Thomas Aquinas

There's little profound today, my friends - but I need to get to the blog periodically, just to keep fit. :) I'm embarrassed (though not sorry) to admit that I nearly laughed aloud during the brief sermon at today's Eucharist. The homilist (a priest for whom I have very high regard, by the way) is a highly intelligent and learned man (... how I envy that doctorate from Oxford...), but I have a strong sense that he is keenly aware that he is very handsome, and has a bit of the peacock in him. Though Fr X is of my own generation, he makes many references as if he were just sooooo ancient, and many more to being 'fat'. This leaves a sour taste in my mouth, I shall admit. Since X is far from being a nonagenarian (and those in my family who are would be insulted were that taken to mean that they had declined), and many who genuinely have weight problems would envy his size, I am inclined to sense an ego game - 'let me say how fat I am so you can tell me you envy how I look.' It vaguely reminds me of how, in the hearing of people who are lucky to have a potato on their plates, uppity women would go on about how it was just so difficult to find good staff or a place to store the yacht these days.

Today, in the course of a sermon which highlighted a few things about my old friend Thomas, Fr X got on his "repentant but hoping to be forgiven" look and said, "Thomas Aquinas was... a sweet man... and, as it comforts me to remember... had a weight problem." (From what contemporaries said of Thomas, back in the days when being fat did not mean mental problems, self hatred, a subconscious desire to be unattractive, or the 'suicidal' tendency to destroy one's health, and the like, Fr X could have fit into Thomas's back pocket.)

The blend of Thomas and the best of the Eastern theologians, which is the approach I ultimately embraced, can be wonderful - at its best, it produces Karl Rahner. The trouble that I have seen in Anglo-Saxon countries (and let me include the country which produced the nuns and priests of my childhood, who spoke English brilliantly but would have smacked me had I ever called them Anglo-Anything) is that blending Thomas with Calvin is an effect akin to that of combining diesel fuel and fertiliser a la Oklahoma City... and it's probably obvious which of the two I consider to be the fertiliser. Calvin is all depravity, our weakness, deprivation, a disgusting idea that wealth is a sign of virtue and poverty an indication of wickedness. What I
love best in Thomas is his utterly positive view of creation (an endless process), and of our human nature. Even in treating of the greatest human wickedness, Thomas saw us as good but failing to reach the potential for which we were created.

I went through a period (probably around the time when I wasn't even out of my teens yet but had a school assignment to go through 99 questions from the Summa) when I'll admit my attitudes towards Thomas were negative - or, rather, not his arguments in themselves but how they were used. Many of Thomas's most brilliant philosophical arguments, if they are taken out of the context of the philosophical and turned into pastoral clichés, can be disastrous. Where Thomas may have been defending omniscience (showing it does not conflict with free will), omnipotence, and the like, the clergy, who were also steeped in Aquinas but forgot what they learnt where and why, would come out with horrid statements (let us say, to someone whose little child just died) such as "God's priorities are not our priorities," possibly even adding something (not from the Summa!) such as "God may have taken him so he didn't fall into mortal sin and be damned later..." Of course, the limitations of our vision, and puzzling over "God's priorities," were old struggles by the time of Job, let alone Thomas, but when anyone uses that particular form of ammunition against the devil (i.e., glory in your misfortune, because God did it for your own good in the hereafter), I'd like to kick him square in the arsenal.

Just a few years ago, I had the courage to tackle the exam paper about Thomas (and others) on 'divine simplicity' - one of the most complicated and confusing topics I've ever encountered. (I managed well, somehow - though I don't understand 'divine simplicity' very much, and I really don't think anyone else does either, much as they might not admit this. I'll spare my readers any exposition. But it's always confusing in Thomas that he says what God is not and nothing more - not to be taken for "God is not this and is therefore that.") I suppose I've mellowed with age. But, in my younger days, before I'd learnt to take philosophical arguments for what they are and nothing more, much of Thomas irritated me (at least as it was used in preaching and pastoral settings.) It seemed as if we shouldn't have any hope for anything except heaven - or that God was all powerful but wouldn't grant healing except to prove Jesus' divinity, get saints canonised, or forgive us. (The only healing that was supposed to matter was that of the soul.) I got so sick of preaching about that 'evil is the absence of good' (a fine concept - but not out of context) that I wanted to blurt out "some comfort that was to people being herded into Auschwitz!" I also was turned off by a weird idea that God wasn't what any human would consider loving or even moral (I can't think of a father who'd treat his children, let alone his 'first-born,' the way that "God's priorities" established) - and a weirder picture of this vague metaphysical completeness. God wasn't loving, caring, etc.., in a fashion a single one of his creatures could comprehend, but was perfect in the sense of being fully whatever it meant to be God.

As I've mentioned elsewhere, though I've never won a race I sometimes do reach a finish line. (Of course, in the spiritual life there is no finish line - I'm just having some fun, so don't take this literally.) But it definitely is a tortoise and hare situation, and it took me about forty years to develop into a blend of the East and Thomas. It wasn't until recently that I saw that I'd been highly Thomistic all along.

My favourite Thomas Aquinas story (and don't miss the pun on 'burn') is about when he first became a friar. Italian people, then as now, dwell on fertility and don't want celibate sons, so, as the story goes, Thomas's family sent a sexy, naked woman in to seduce him. God was quite a showman still in the 13th century, so he sheltered Thomas from harm when Thomas jumped into the flames of a nearby fireplace to escape her. Thomas's immortal line then was that he'd rather burn now than later.

Miep, may the angels lead you into Paradise

Miep Gies official site

'More than twenty thousand Dutch people helped to hide Jews and others in need of hiding during those years. I willingly did what I could to help. My husband did as well. It was not enough.

There is nothing special about me. I have never wanted special attention. I was only willing to do what was asked of me and what seemed necessary at the time.'

I cannot recall when I first read The Diary of Anne Frank - I was young, but old enough to have a chilling acquaintance with the details of the Holocaust. Decades later, I would say that, even for those of us who were remote from the events (I was not yet born during the War), anyone who, for example, read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, which I had, can testify that there are images so horrid that they cannot be forgotten till the end of one's days.

Nor should they, I might add. I have a fairly extensive background in history, and no illusions that there ever has been a time when horror couldn't be written on every page. Yet, somehow, when one is reading ancient history, or even about those being drawn and quartered in the modern era, one can have the aftermath of the infection of the Victorian era - the sense that mankind has evolved, has gone beyond the violence. (Any day's news broadcast can tell us otherwise - but it took Auschwitz and Hiroshima to shake the silly Victorian optimism from its pillar, and don't most of us tend to think that 'barbarian' horror is from a day long gone?) The blessings of technology had a dark side - in our own day, the thirst for blood could be quenched on far greater numbers than in the past.

When centenarian Miep Gies died this week, as always I remembered how astonishing I found her love, courage, and dedication to be. I cannot imagine ever having the courage to shield the Franks at risk of what horrors the Nazis could have inflicted on one caught doing so. Not too long ago, I saw a televised interview with Miep (and others who had known the Frank family.) When she spoke, casually and with hopelessness and frustration, by no means heroism, predominant, of how, after the Franks arrest, she'd gone to Gestapo headquarters to see if she could do anything to have them released, I was amazed. (Granted - faced with the plight of the Jews during the period, I would have had no qualms about, perhaps, seeing them outfitted with cassocks, or baptising them with a pitcher in my basin so I could swear they were Christians - rendering unto Caesar did not matter to me - but I cannot imagine getting within a mile of the dreaded Gestapo, the more were I already known to be in big trouble.)

I've included a link at the beginning of this post, so that those who wish to learn more of Miep can do so. She was a remarkable woman - but possessed a trait more rare than courage in having true humility (by which I mean truth, not abasement. Certainly no namby-pamby type who would fit the sickening images our early catechism books gave of the 'humble' would go to Gestapo headquarters - and I hope none of my Jewish friends are offended by my thinking of how Jesus, unlike his apostles, didn't run from Pontius Pilate. Had I needed to endure the terror Miep must have experienced the day when the Nazis stormed the 'secret annexe,' I probably would have dropped dead in an instant - her telling the main officer she recognised his accent since she also was Viennese shows me someone who could 'keep her cool' to a degree I can only admire from afar.) Miep knew she attracted notice because of Anne's writings, but insisted that many in the Netherlands did far more than she to attempt to shelter their Jewish friends.

Whenever I next read of history (other than culture - my speciality - where 0the wars make me cringe), I must always remember that, though the blood-thirsty will 'get the press,' there are thousands of good, dedicated people out there who, however powerless situations may cause them to be, are doing 'what seems necessary.' I'm just leaving my readers with the thought (even if, like myself, they content themselves with headlines on Yahoo, and cannot even bear to read news reports daily lest they become ill from the exposure to violence) that there is enormous goodness in this world.The goodness, of course, may not have power to stop the evil, but I believe it is far more a part of our human nature (as those created in the divine image) than the horrid details would have us remember.

Christmas, Epiphany - essence and accidental

Happy New Year, my friends. (Isn't it amazing that it is 2010 - considering that 2000 used to seem so far away?) In case any of you are newcomers, I suppose I must establish that one of my biggest emphases, in any discussion of the faith, is distinguishing the essence and the accidental. It seems we too often miss the former for concentrating on the latter.

Christmas (which I still see as extending till Candlemas - there's way too much Ordinary time out there) probably is the worst season for the centuries-old tradition of focussing on the accidental. That is not a purely Franciscan ailment, though our dear friars probably were responsible for it's being epidemic. (Admittedly, the poor family at Nazareth had greater charm before the Counter-Reformation, when the little tales that could be warm, quaint, or, most importantly, help the hearers identify with Jesus and family, suddenly became hammers for heretics... not that many Franciscans had not long been noted heretics, in nearly as great numbers as they became saints, but the Reformation turned everyone into a soldier.) Granted - at this time of year, I'll take discussion of nearly anything over the bloody bores who made 'resolutions' and have no topic of conversation except Weight Watchers, the gym, or cholesterol (and who are so into trying to convert others that they'd make Martin Luther and Pope Leo look like pub pals.) But it does sadden me that too many sermons and reflections, to this day, ignore images that are exceedingly powerful. Awe inspiring truths are lost in the trivial.

Luke's gospel leaves us with a magnificent truth in the infancy narratives. In Elizabeth, priest Zechariah, Simeon, Anna, we see Israel come to acknowledge Jesus' unique identity (even if the fullness of this was only recognised in light of the resurrection.) Then, Jesus himself, coming into maturity, refers to 'my father's house,' declaring on his own that he is the Son of God. I would imagine these truths could be the topic of twenty sermons, if not a library.

Granted - we cannot help but identify with the basic human situations. Any parent would shudder at the thought of a cheeky adolescent letting Mary and Joseph worry themselves sick while he confounded the doctors in the Temple. (You probably guessed that I'm jealous... I'd have loved to do that, at 12 or now, given the opportunity. Of course, other untoward actions related to the Temple later would have consequences I'd rather not encounter.) Yet, having pored over or heard sermons about the temple incident endlessly, I have to say that I'm rather tired of dwelling on Mary's psychological reactions - or, in this trendy time, Jesus' 'age appropriate behaviour' or his mother's 'parenting.' ("Christian children all should be - kind obedient, good as he..." I love Once in Royal David's City, but always have to stifle a giggle under my handkerchief at that line.) Now that I think of it, though I certainly have read commentaries which stress Jesus' proclaiming his divine Sonship, I doubt I've ever heard a sermon on the topic.

One sermon I did hear recently, about the show-off in the temple, spoke of how Jesus disappeared for three days - just as he did after his Passion. It was not poor as sermons go, but I'll admit that a part of me was bristling. Lord have mercy, can't Jesus ever be allowed to get off the cross?!

Trends swing 'left and right' - and I believe the current stress on family values (which often tries my patience) hasn't been so strong since the last Edward was on the throne. I'm thinking of trends, some brilliant theology, some just illustrations of being controversial or 'cool,' or super-Catholic, which were common at various periods of my life. Lots of those who probably never studied Genesis in depth used to love to make hearers uncomfortable by speculating about how Eve's children must have been fathered by her own sons. I love Raymond Brown, but those who only sampled his writings rather than exploring them in depth either would be up in arms because (for all his superb explanation of the meanings in the visit of the Magi) he did not think the kings appeared literally, or who have to ruin the story of, perhaps, the Visitation by showing how Mary and Elizabeth could not have been cousins.

Franciscans (among others - but it's always somehow more acceptable to laugh at one's own 'relatives') have centuries of arguing points that ignore the powerful essence. Believe me, none of you want to sift through endless sermons about how Mary managed to come through her delivery virgo intacta. It's unfortunate - because Mary's virginity is another awe-inspiring image - and not only in relation to her miraculous conception. (The other members of my blog are gifted in science, which I am not - scientific speculation about how Mary managed to conceive are best left to them, should they be interested.)

I believe that we need to recall two highly important elements in considering Mary's perpetual virginity - rather than harping on membranes. (I well remember yawning through a sermon about how Jesus came through his mother's body the way he did the closed doors after the resurrection... talk about putting the cart before the horse...) Initially, the concept of her virginity (throughout her life, not only in her conception) was based on her being the tabernacle for the Son of God. Especially sacred objects (a chalice, for example) are set aside for worship, not used for other purposes - which does not mean that marriage, child-bearing, or drinking beer from a cup other than a chalice are seen as wicked!

Another critical part of the concept, I believe, is that devotions and beliefs regarding Mary both relate to her Son's identity and have her representing the church. Though Judaism placed a high value on sexual morality, and indeed treatment of this as a part of avoiding idolatry long pre-date the oft maligned 'neurotic' Paul of Tarsus, there was no exaltation of permanent virginity in Judaism. There were philosophical traditions about moving towards celibacy. Religious beliefs fostered on creation as basically wicked saw reproduction as negative (this did not lead to chaste behaviour...) Greek philosophy saw our release from the physical as to be welcomed. Judaism, which had a singular view of the goodness of creation, greatly valued reproduction. Though the idea of our eventual resurrection was popular before Jesus walked the earth, there was no concept of 'heaven' as would develop in Christianity. It occurs to me (though I could be wrong) that it was only in the early Christian era, as Paul's letters illustrate, and after Jesus' resurrection had shown us there was far more to glorified human nature than what there is on earth, that chastity could be seen as a charism and blessing to the Church.

Given the eschatological element (and recalling that life-long celibacy could be recognised as a charism only in light of the resurrection, since, as far as I can see, until then children were not only a blessing but the way one tangibly lived on), Mary's perpetual virginity shows us the Church - holy, set apart, and waiting for cosmic redemption.

Lord have mercy, am I long-winded today... but I cannot let the Magi be neglected. Much as I identified with Jesus showing off in adolescence, I have sympathy for the Magi - I may not be big on obedience (I seldom think about it), but I still can see how they had the best of intentions yet, in the name of protocol and respect, let the wrong authority know where they were going...

Don't think for a moment that I don't enjoy not only the exotic images of Matthew's gospel, but the many legends and art works regarding the Magi. I even have a relic of the three kings in my collection (though I do not now recall how I came into this - probably from the same source as the piece of cloth from Mary's veil.) I've heard speculation of all sorts about the identity of the Magi (you'll remember that, in the gospel, we neither know their number nor hear that they are kings) - from their being Zoroastrian (that's rather cool - with that having been the first monotheistic faith, centuries earlier), to their being kings of Persia, Babylon, and Ethiopia. (I hope I never have to encounter this one, but I would imagine that some preacher who is desperately trying to be relevant is out there, either going on about how Persia still can make Christians shudder a bit, or recommending the congregation, if they have indoor plumbing or other massive luxuries, join in a chorus of "We Are the World.") It's hard for a double Capricorn (with all that dreamy side from the Pisces influence) to admit this, but I even get a thrill at the thought of their being astrologers. :) Considering that, well into the early centuries of Christianity, astrology was frightening - the planets had a huge, uncontrollable influence, and could even be seen as demonic - for a star to serve to drawn anyone to the newborn King is commendable.

The image of the Epiphany is utterly glorious in its essence, delightful though I find the accidental. Yahweh already (as we see in later Hebrew scriptures - those who are gluttons for punishment may scroll down to my recent entry about Isaiah) had toppled all idols - including himself. Israel could not understand a God who was totally out of accord with images of the surrounding gods - and who did not grant them power or wealth, but indeed seemed silent when they were over-run by other conquerors (Persia and Babylon on top of the list, of course) - empires bowing before ... all right, I have to let this part out, since I too have a bit of Franciscan sentimentality, this poor little baby... remind us that Yahweh, who remains a perpetual puzzle lest we make him into an idol, is Lord of creation. "A light to enlighten the Gentiles, and the glory of your people, Israel.." Yes, those words are not in Matthew, nor attributed to the Magi, but they'll have me in tears at the Office and Eucharist tomorrow.

Yet what sermons will some be hearing? Someone who is offended that Raymond Brown denied the actual journey of the Magi (while splendidly setting forth its significance) will condemn Modernism (though such speakers probably could not even define Modernism...) Those who are still trying to be cool (...those I heard thirty years ago are usually a bit weary, but, even if I am one of few baby boomers who still wears tie-dye, I'll double the bet that such speakers are in their 50s or 60s) may take on the old "you can't be stupid enough to believe that," therefore cutting off all reflection to prove how smart they are and how stupid the hearers must be. They'll begin the gospel with "The good news in the tradition of Matthew," just to make sure everyone knows Matthew the apostle wasn't the scribe. They then will take Raymond Brown's name in vain and underline their own pomposity. (I prefer my own pomposity. At least it has a mystic bent.) Yet another undoubtedly will focus on the slaughter of the Innocents to speak of the evils of abortion. (I agree about the evil of abortion, of course, but I think it just might be a good idea to think of the Lord of Creation now and then...)

I just had a happy, warm memory. Some years ago, a little church of which I knew had a coffee hour after Vespers, during which they would show a film on a religious theme. They showed Zeffirelli's "Jesus of Nazareth" over the course of Advent and Christmas that year. (Yawn... and of course had to hear protests because Mary doesn't actually see an angel, where I would imagine the protesters have... and because Mary's being in labour denies her immaculate conception and virgin-during status... get me another gin...) Two older ladies were seated near me during the segment where Mary and Joseph are en route to Bethlehem. One said to the other, "I can just picture me, with my sciatica, on that donkey," to which the other replied, "She was a young girl - she wouldn't have sciatica." I find this charming - identifying with the Holy Family can make them seem very near.

I only mentioned that after-thought because I just can't help (having not only been educated by brilliant Dominicans but having obtained my divinity degree from a college which, until recently, was exclusively for Jesuit priests) sighing over how much better my sermons could be than many which I have heard. (I happily was spared excessive 'Franciscan worm' emphases by the fanciness of my education. I'm just eccentric, pompous, and pedantic, having had such good teachers.) Still, the sciatica line reminded me that probably far more people out there want to know about 'he became-a so small' than what I'd have to say.

Can't help thinking of "Little Becket" :)

Today is one of my 'pining' times, since I wish that I were in Canterbury (as I often have been on the 29th of December.) Don't mind me - I'm going to have to include the canticle which mentions "cold and chill, bless the Lord" in my Offices at least till April, since winter is a time when I would be very much inclined to hibernate.

With its being Thomas Becket's feast day, I cannot help but remember a Franciscan friar who was a friend of mine (he died in 1993). He alternated between being exceedingly shy (he once admitted to me that, were there reincarnation, he'd return as a hedge-hog, so he could crawl into a hole and hide) and inclined to the flamboyant. (Indeed, sometimes the two were an amusing combination. I well remember one parish social where Tom was too shy to raise his eyes, but, head bowed, grasped a microphone and sang all 168 verses of "Come back to Erin, Mavaurneen.") He was the size of a jockey, and the only priest I've known who stood on a stool in the pulpit so his head could be visible. Somehow, he reminded me of James Cagney - only shorter, less graceful, and, of course, with a charming brogue rather than the rough tones of New York.

Tom was a choleric man, dramatic in speech and gesture, and inclined to think of himself as Thomas Becket (surprising, I suppose, since those from Kerry generally are not inclined to things English in any sense... I imagine that pre-Reformation images are acceptable to some extent.) When he believed (accurately or not) that those in his congregation were against him, it was inevitable that his next sermon, whatever the gospel text for the day, would include shades of Unam Sanctam and 'lay control,' of how Thomas Becket was executed for not permitting lay control even from a monarch (yes, that's a stretch, but Tom's images tended to the pot-pourri), and a stern repetition of the ominous words, "Will...no one... rid me... of this meddling priest."

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), and not terribly tolerant of my enjoyment of Anglican scholarship, much less my conviction that it would be a miracle indeed were the ICEL to ever match Cranmer's prose. 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!" (Dispense himself?... Well, let's not get diverted here...)

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. :)

Reflections from papas sublime to common

A blessed and happy Christmas (...that is, from now till Candlemas) to all of my readers (I'm assuming there are a few left.) :-) How very much I should like to be profound today! I attended a marvellous Eucharist today, and also viewed a few which were broadcast, and, as usual, just 'do this in remembrance of me' kept me in awe to think we've been doing just that (whatever messes we've got into otherwise) for two thousand years. My mind turned to deification, glory, even (being Franciscan, where the Incarnation is 'he became-a so small' and 'he became-a so dead') to the poverty of the humble little Saviour (yet another Mediterranean peasant who grew up to be anti-Establishment and controversial - see the loose associations that are in my mind today?)

Yes, loose associations are there, I'm afraid. I'm a romantic at heart, and, though I did receive a few nice presents this year (indeed, I just have emerged from a bath laced with salts and aromatherapy oils, followed by a self-massage, for which I used gift items), I still am vaguely disappointed that Father Christmas did not appear. Nor did my fantasy that a favourite friend (who is in perpetual motion - last I heard he was in Bavaria, but he might be on Mars next) would miraculously materialise on my doorstep so we could have a lengthy pub talk for Christmas as we did in times past.

So, in the ultimate loose association, I shall mention that I have two of my 'papas' on my mind at the moment - Papa Sam, of course, and Papa Benedict. I'll give the latter the respect he is due as patriarch of the West (not just of a dizzy family), and explain a thought I had which I'm sure was far from the essence of what this brilliant theologian had to say in his homily for Midnight Mass. Papa Benedict mentioned, in speaking of those who inwardly, instinctively long for the divine, but do not embrace awareness and response, that they are 'tone deaf.'

I found that to be excellent on two counts. As my regulars know, I consider the divine to be within our worship's grasp, but to be essentially unknowable - very beyond our limited grasp. (Don't be discouraged - it makes for a very interesting journey, where love burns white hot and has nowhere to go except becoming more intense - once we respond in love to one level of awareness, we recognise our inadequacy and burn for the second. Burning is on my mind today, not only because we celibates do tend to 'burn' a bit now and then, but because I feel, to borrow my dad's expression, that I 'have a book of matches in my stomach', since I ate too much yesterday and two other times within the past week.) Given the nature of the person, I often think of a similarity there is between music (indeed, all of the arts) and our limited way of expressing ideas and feelings about God. Except for the occasional musicologist who is a technician, and can write of augmented sixth chords for 100 pages without being able to enjoy the best of concerts, who could describe music? It must be experienced - and even then, and regardless of how many years we've devoted to its study or how great our passion, it is beyond description. I realise the analogy is faulty, of course, for it is mankind who composes and performs music! But let us just say that, though I can write endlessly about the spiritual life and theology (surprise!), and rarely 'feel' anything at prayer, I would no more think I could describe the divine than I would hazard to tell someone about Verdi or Beethoven if they'd never heard the works of either performed.

On a level more practical than sublime, though Papa Benedict is not a singer, he comes of the only nation of which I know where congregational singing during the liturgy is quite robust and outstanding (whether Lutheran or Catholic... and Catholic music which is well performed overall, not only in miracle spots such as Westminster Cathedral, is rarer than heroic sanctity.) The liturgical reforms at Maria Laach gave promise of a liturgical renaissance... a promise in which I firmly believed once upon a time, though I think the parousia is more likely to come in my lifetime than fulfilment of that hope. I could be wrong, but it seems to me that he looks pained during some of the choral parts of the papal Masses - yes, Catholic music overall is so dreadful that even the Sistine Choir is terrible, and doesn't seem to even have mastered the Missa de Angelis which I've been known to spoon feed to choirs in out of the way Franciscan churches. No wonder Papa Benedict would think of an analogy to being tone deaf... (Actually, in Italy, though congregational singing in the land of opera is just as awful as it is elsewhere, I'll grant that it's enthusiastic and good and loud. Painful, but passionate...)

Now, how on earth am I to move from brilliant and sophisticated Benedict to Papa Sam? Easy! With the Depression having further limited even my always limited resources (Franciscans are supposed to think that's kind of cool... but, unlike Francesco, I neither had a rich papa nor got into trouble related to excessive resources, so I'll admit it's not exactly a joy ride however much it makes one grateful for everything one has...oh, wait a minute... that's praise and thanksgiving... no, Elizabeth, no more Eucharistic rambling...), I haven't had a chance for even the occasional finger-full of brandy (I favour Grand Marnier, Drambuie and the like... as long as all one can hope to have on one's shelf is cheap Merlot, one may as well as pine for the best) recently. I also have not had too many plates of rich foods which I love. In the past week, I over-indulged (at least by my standards) on both on the two opportunities I had to do so. I therefore know what Sam meant when he'd say, vividly if not with sophistication, "I gotta football in my stomach..."

But the most vivid related memory is the unsympathetic line Sam uttered if one had any illness which was self-inflicted, such as a hangover, sunburn, or an upset stomach. Even if one was sick, shivering, and the like, he'd call out, "Die! Die! I don't feel sorry for you! You have to learn to respect (liquor, the sun, whatever.)"

So, how can I be profound today when I have not one but two papas making me think of two sensitive areas - being tone deaf and "die! I don't feel sorry for you"? I therefore will just close with a common Italian expression (literally true, especially at Christmas when we kiss everyone in sight, but also with a figurative charm), "ti abbraccio con tanto affetto." Yes, my friends, I embrace you with great affection. May this Christmas season mark a fresh coming of the Incarnate Saviour into our lives.

Gift greater than Himself God doth not know. Gift greater than His God no man can see.

NB - If anyone has missed my classic post, 'The great-a God, he became-a so small' , it's one of my funniest recollections - give it a look. :)

Comfort ye, my people

Blessings to all of my readers for the season of Advent. (Anyone who thinks that most of December constitutes "Christmas" will receive forty years in Purgatory - and don't think I'm not connected. Granted - I send my Christmas cards and decorate in early December, but that is more to be reminded of the light of the world and the Incarnation.) It is such a glorious time - and probably one which fades in consciousness, because, even if Lent is grudgingly kept as a time of penance for Easter people (no, I haven't been sampling the wassail bowl yet - in my youth, we couldn't think of penance because we were an Easter people, and couldn't think too much of the resurrection because Jesus would have had to be dead first), Advent is a bit of an embarrassment.

Someone I know (a dedicated church-goer, I must add) was telling me that she knew the difference between Lent and Advent. Lent is when we give things up, Advent when we try to do something good. Get me another gin... (For the record, fasting is useless unless one also knows how to feast. But that's another topic for another post.)

Israel knew it from ancient times - the early church Fathers preached on the topic - but we've forgotten that our faith looks both backwards and forwards. (Anyone who sees the ultimate end as judgement and condemnation will receive 100 years in purgatory.) I have been privileged to study Old Testament theology in some depth, with insight from brilliant scholars, both Jewish and Christian, and there is a lesson we can learn from ancient Israel. We really have nothing we can offer except worship - and a vocation of being icons of the transcendent God. Yet those of us who are Christian need to take care, in reading the Old Testament, that we do not think only of the unique immanence in Jesus.

I could undoubtedly write a book on Isaiah, or at least quote a hundred far better minds than mine who already did so. What I record here is a mere sampling. I'm referring here specifically to "Deutero-Isaiah" - the 'third book,' comprising the 40th through 55th chapters. Israel had returned from the Babylonian exile, and was confronted with conflicting demands of Babylonian culture. Jerusalem had far less splendour than the great empires of the time! Perhaps this can remind of Yahweh's transcendence and utter mystery. He chose a nation, but without splendour such as that of empires - it is a call, for each of us, for the old notions to die. It is first in Deutero-Isaiah that one sees constant themes of redeeming love; suffering that is vicarious rather than punishing; and striking monotheism.

Christians can easily forget, since Judaism developed in wisdom enormously post-exile (long before Jesus and the apostles), that Yahweh's precedence over any other god was long established for Israel, but monotheism a much later development. Yahweh surely was proving to be a most puzzling God, and the people of Israel, surrounded by cosmological myths of Babylon (which perhaps spurred an interest in creation), were faced with paradox. Yahweh's transcendence and immanence are strong in Isaiah. Israel was to share in a glory they could only grasp from afar, yet were its icon to all nations. They are called as a nation - despite never having been more than a small nation state, and now are returning to a crushed Jerusalem.

Crushed by the Babylonian exile, and still under Persian dominion (though Cyrus was one to announce commissions from the gods of whomever he was addressing at the moment), it indeed must have appeared that the gods of Babylon or Persia 'had the edge' - and that Yahweh called his own to a sort of glory which has no element of earthly wealth and power. Isaiah, unlike some other prophets, is expressing no hope for a restored monarchy, other than that of God Himself. Israel's faith, as with that seen in much later Christian thought, is largely orthopraxy and hope - one is striving for a share in glory, but can barely grasp the concept, and it seems fulfilment is always in the future (and glimpses of it never understood at the time.)

Here is a God who is transcendent, yet suffers with his people. One wonders if, during the time in Babylon, Israelites had generally felt they could worship Yahweh on other gods' territory. Yahweh is lord of all nations and of history, working even through pagans such as Cyrus or Pharaoh. One could receive the impression, in creation myths of other cultures, whatever their relationship to Genesis in genre, that creation is an accident, and mankind here to be the servant of the gods - where, for Israel, the nation makes present, and this to the edification of other nations, the transcendent God. Israel suffered consequences for her own infidelity, yet, and this strikingly in Isaiah, suffering is not a punishment for sin, and indeed may be vicarious. It occurs to me that the bond between Israel and Yahweh has an intimacy where (in the immanent) they seem nearly identical. Varies scholars differ on the identity of the Suffering Servant: a prophet, Israel, or God Himself - and the interpretation can vary from line to line!

Klaus Koch, in The Prophets focuses on the eschatological, with this occurring within history. Israel, in its history, is servant of God, "in the light of an ultimate, divine purpose - which has not attained its goal but gives promise of a future." Atonement means liberation from spheres of human misdeeds and consequent disaster - it is not appeasement (as was typical in tales of the old gods.) The attack on idols is a precedent. It is not only a concept of Yahweh as pure, transcendent spirit - God's spirit is manifested visibly in the world. What is rejected is a God at the disposal of humans - artefacts being dependent on their makers.

I'm on verge of writing that book I promised I wouldn't - so let me just leave you with a few points to ponder from George Angus Knight's Servant Theology. Knight terms the 'servant chapters' of Isaiah (40-55) as "the answer to the why for Jeremiah or Habakkuk." The chapters are a poem about God's relationship to his servant Israel, in whom he has determined to glorify himself. "(Isaiah's) great contribution to our biblical faith is insistence that the living Word of the living God began to be united with the very flesh of God's son Israel." Word and divine action are conjoined at every great moment in Israel's story - 'Comfort ye' interposes angelic beings between the word of God and the word of the prophet. Despite the tragedy of captivity, God's purpose for the universe is his word of comfort to his covenant people.

Knight's thought continues: Despite the tragedy of captivity, God's purpose for the universe is his word of comfort to his covenant people. Divine righteousness deals with sin and evil, saving us out of negation into God's joyous way of life. "Both Cyrus and Israel are used by God to establish his rule of saving love." God is actively creative, saving love - goodness is not static.

I promise to write a humorous entry very soon, but, as long as I've gone this far, I'll mention a few more of Knight's excellent thoughts:

• "The glory of the Lord shall be revealed." Contrast to much of the past, when none could see God and live.
• "So wholly other is Yahweh, so positive when (our) thoughts and life are merely negative, that, if man essays to conceive of God in any form at all, (there is eventual) blasphemy." The negative cannot conceive of the positive - one is left only with an idol of gold. (Elizabeth adds: the more one cherishes one's faith and worship, perhaps the more one fears or even feels that there is no God. Actually, as I was fortunate to be reminded today, it actually is that there are no gods! The 'gods' who need appeasement, placating, and the like are the old ones - who are highly powerful versions of ourselves at our worst.)
• We cannot know God as he is in himself - but he allows us to behold his glory, however much it is beyond our understanding.
• The Lord of Hosts reminds us that this is a sacramental universe - a unified cosmos (heaven and earth.) God's hosts can be angels and Israel
• Pain Israel refused to bear (they had broken the covenant; refused to be the sacrificial beast in 43:24) was concomitant with being the Servant of God to the world. Therefore, God Himself ultimately is the Servant. (44:28 - Cyrus is an historical instrument of cosmic purpose, unaware.)

When I use such works for lectio, or even when I utter words of the liturgy (as I do many times - daily), I'm struck with awe, and concurrently with the idea that I don't understand it at all. Maybe I'm getting the idea...

Jeremiah was a Bullfrog (revisited)

This is a slightly edited 're-run' - but I'm including this post because, coincidentally, during the past month I've heard from a few people I knew in youth. World War II and baby boom babies - this one's for you (us.) :)

As my readers know, I have no fondness for frogdom, and indeed think that John the Divine had a point when he spoke of evil spirits coming forth as same. No, that just happened to be the beginning of song "Joy to the World," which just came up on my CD player. The time has come, once again, when I must dose myself with a plentiful amount of rock music from the 1960s-70s. I spent nearly two hours last night, dosing myself with Bob Dylan, for example. I also did not realise two Sundays ago, when I (uncharacteristically) attended a small eight o'clock service at a very formal church, that, when we came to the point of exchanging the Peace (in this spread out and small group), that I flashed the old peace sign (the one that resembled Winston Churchill's V for Victory... don't I wish peace could be seen as victory...), perhaps to the astonishment of the staid crowd.

With my young adults years having been the 'what's your sign?' era, I'll note that I was born with both sun and ascendant in Capricorn (moon in Pisces, in case anyone is taking notes - that's where I get the romantic side), and as a double Cappy I am entitled to be born old and live backwards, somewhat after the fashion of Merlin and with that troublesome moon making me even more inclined, at heart, to the magical. :) I also shall share the recollection that, old though I was in my teens, I once took a modern dance class, and ended up performing to "Joy to the World" (yes, the one that begins with Jeremiah) - in hot pants, no less. Then as now, I was the most awkward of creatures - and even then I was no sylph - but I was enough of a free spirit at heart not to care if I danced like rather an unbalanced trained seal.

When I was in my young adult years, priests and Religious of the generation before mine (who'd had an equally awkward time, coming to maturity in the age of twin sets and formality, and then trying desperately to be cool and relevant in a period when people were psyched out on... more than incense and innocence) occasionally tried to draw in the young. It worked, to some extent, because some universities and parishes which had basements where it was possible to sit on the floor for Mass and receive communion to "My Sweet Lord - Alleluia, Hare Krishna" catered to the youth culture of the time. One favourite 'meditation' technique was to seek Christ through Modern Music. Some over-enthusiastic sorts, who'd begin sermons with "How ya doin'?", would speak about or write of how lyrics to popular songs set forth the Christian message. (The congregation would be in awe, loving, everyone joining hands... but sometimes would look as if they were on drugs, which half of them undoubtedly were.) I once remember a highly innocent novice mistress, who somehow heard an obscure John Denver selection, and thought that 'talk of poems, prayers, and promises, and things that we believe in' would make a lovely selection for reception day. I can still remember my embarrassment at having to explain to her what it meant to 'pass the pipe around.'

Naive I am, but I have a certain native sense, and I thought then (and think now) that half of those inspirational lyrics were about sex and drugs. However, now that I am well into middle age, and years of an unconventional but intense life of prayer have had their effect, I shall concede that, even when I am listening to rock music (as I am right now), a lyric here or there will remind me of some aspect of the Christian life, so bear with me if I accidentally type any of them...

Saving up your money for a rainy day, giving all your clothes to charity,
Last night the wife said, oh boy when you're dead,
You don't take nothing with you but your soul, Think!

I'm tempted to add that the refrain more than expresses my feelings on some days, but I have the good taste not to add its lyrics here... (Believe it or not, when one has devoted decades to a Church-centred life, one could sing that lyric with particular gusto.)

How very innocent I was then (I still am - I've just lived longer.) I admired those who could step out of the mainstream - not care for convention - risk security to seek peace and love - and so forth. (I still would admire this, since, much as I walk my own path, the fear of not having basic security has hampered me.) Promiscuity held no appeal for me, and my earnest mindset was such that I could have plenty of both highs and bad trips without any help from drugs, so I had no inclination there as well. But I was radical in many ways, and indeed still am. (It never occurred to this working class kid that many of those who were 'dropping out' of society did not have the slightest need to fear whether they'd have a roof over their heads tomorrow...)

And I work in his factory, and I curse the life I'm living,
and I curse my poverty, and I wish that I could be Richard Cory.

Note that Simon and Garfunkel wisely included a repetition of this refrain even after the final verse, in which we learn that Richard Cory put a bullet through his head. Telling, that.

Sorry, the oddest passages from CDs are coming forth at inopportune times. I still am very much into 'peace and love,' and rather sad that many of my own generation have become very conservative, and quite devoid of a social conscience. (That Richard Cory puts a bullet in his head underlines that wealth does not mean joy... but anyone who has had the dreadful jobs I had, even after I had a doctoral degree, has cursed the life and the poverty. Francis of Assisi, pray for us...)

Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end - we'd sing and dance forever and a day... Oh, my friends, we're older but no wiser, for in our hearts the dreams are still the same. Actually, I wish that were true universally - it still is for yours truly.

The other man's grass is always greener,
The sun shines brighter on the other side.
Yes, Petula, point taken.

You're my first love, you're my last; you're my future, you're my past... all I'll ever need is you.
No, Elizabeth, stop right now - no sentimentality to that degree! Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.

How about "I don't care too much for money - money can't buy me love?" (Actually, when I was in my twenties that well might have been heard at a 'youth liturgy.' Little did I know the kids who were non-conformists to the most drastic degree had trust funds...)

My religious path has been far from conventional. It started out rather like a love affair - and I was never a sort for groups, but a more private, retiring sort, who prayed in silence. (That this was not an era when discernment was valued, and that my loving but misguided heart led me to a temporary Gnosticism I have treated elsewhere.) It was later that I would still believe avidly, yet see God as unknowable even if Incarnate... and discover that those of us who are not well-suited to an Establishment, however defined, have to deal with loneliness and isolation, and the pain of being misunderstood when we would ache for love and respect.

No, I am not on a whinge fest! I suppose I am laying bare a bit of what it is like to be a burnt idealist - one whose ideals are no less strong, but who has reached the blushing point of admitting that much of the spiritual life is just 'going through the motions.' I'm not suggesting for a moment that this does not mean genuine belief or devotion. But there are no ecstatic moments, no piercing insights, no elation - just going on with the liturgy - and leaning on wisdom that goes back to the fourth century hermits (and what a crowd of hippies they were!) and psalms that are far older.

Since I've shown my cynical side (standard equipment for burnt idealists) in this post, I must lighten it just a bit with a funny story. (This anecdote is perfectly true, though some of you may think it is dramatic licence. I can assure you that I could never make up anything like this...) I'm remembering, c. 1969, when my cousins' son was baptised. It was a 1969 special: conducted in their home, with a candle in the shape of a peace sign. Believe it or not, as a gesture of communal fellowship or something, everyone joined in a popular song - my cousin would tell me later she only thought of this one because it was a chart topper and this happened to be a very rainy day. Yes - they all sang "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head." It is three times as amusing because the proud parents, who at that time considered listening to the Godspell record at breakfast to be wonderful alternative worship, were completely unaware of the humour of using such a song at a baptism!

From Godspell, not the hymnal: Turn back, O man, forswear thy foolish ways... See you later, I'm going to the front of the the-A-tre... Sigh! One old acquaintance reminded me of when I performed that, though I hadn't thought of it in years. :)

Pray for me, my readers. :) Peace and love.