The poet speaks

I have never had the slightest flair for writing poetry, yet I was recalling this week that I once won a poetry contest during my young adult years. I still recall the poem - and am not about to share it here because it is just too weird. At that time, it was possible to win a poetry contest even if one was not stoned at the moment (though at least half of contestants undoubtedly were), provided it sounded as if one was. The utterly incomprehensible was taken for profound... and I'm not going to be diverted by whether that was key to my later apophatic leanings.

It therefore is my act of humility today to provide my readers with little bits of original 'poetry.' (What follows may give the impression that I am a cheeky little bitch. I shall respond to this with the exact words I would use were I ever charged before the Inquisition: "Have I ever denied this?") I wrote a blog entry in March (entitled Firstborn here) in which I freely admitted how those who are lifelong 'churchy' types tend to be self-righteous crumbs, rather like the Prodigal Son's elder brother, in time, so, if I seem to take shots at the young here, know it is only because my own generation saddens me. Who thought the super-cool baby boomers would end up arch-conservative, miserable sorts who think a scintillating conversation consists of discussing one's triglycerides or target heart rate?

I suppose I'm also weary because I received an email from another student who skimmed my Internet site and wanted the accelerated, do-it-yourself kit for becoming a mystic. She'd just read the Dark Night of John of the Cross, and remembers when "she went through all of that - a long time ago." Interesting. My guess would be that someone who has been an abbot for fifty years probably has yet to meet someone who has been through the dark night. It must have been a combination of this correspondence and my interior woe that I'm losing command of my foreign languages, but I had a bizarre dream that night, that I was addressing a group of young people and calling out, "Que pasa?," to which they all heartily replied, "Nada!"

Now that conservative politics are quite popular, the young who are very devout sometimes could try the patience of Job with their smugness. (I was ten times more impossible at that age - and I dare say a hundred times that now - but the most tiresome part of such dialogues, which are almost always with total strangers, is that I often agree with them - on the essence, if not always the accidental.) Here is the beginning of a poem for a young woman who presented me with a copy of the Divine Mercy novena and 'stations of the cross for the unborn,' and who apparently thinks her cause for canonisation is assured because she's never had an abortion. (This is in brief - my penance was to hear her for half an hour... supposedly in a chapel set aside for silent prayer...)

Pure as an angel,
And proud as a devil,
My virtue heroic and demeanour stoic,
I'd surely be canonised, or, in its stead,
A beata at least,
Except I'm not dead...

Another of this breed, who informed me that she is guided directly by the Holy Spirit and is in the "new religious life" as a third Order Carmelite (though the singularisation she displayed at one service made me quite certain Teresa of Avila would have kicked her from here to Mars), deserves a poem as well.

I pray at least four times a day
And quarrel in between.
And I attend Mass daily,
Though I mouth off at the scene.
I chant the Office (sometimes, it's quite dusty on the shelf),
And cherish absolution, so I give it to myself.

My 'regulars' know that I love to attend a daily Eucharist, and that, depending on where I am at midday (my favourite time for this), I'll take it where I can. One spot that is sometimes convenient has an entire crop of the sorts I mentioned earlier in this post. I have no idea of how this happened, but there are two very young priests (both of whom undoubtedly would be more comfortable around the time of the Reformation, when stakes were not rare and they might have been just SO glorified by being drawn and quartered) who must be transplants to the diocese, since they say the Tridentine Mass with impeccable rubrics and stone faces, though it was not normative long before they were born. One of them irritates me immensely - his image of a God who is ready to punish the horrid congregation with all sorts of wrath that would make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a mere warm-up would make anyone want to run in the other direction. He brags of having told a homeless man that God would not help him because he was divorced. His sermons are always about sex - even if it is some wonderful feast that deserves a mention. So this poem is for him - he's speaking in the first stanza, I in the second:

Wicked though this earth is,
True Salvation I'll reveal.
My sacrifice is boundless -
Never even copped a feel.
Other men, less noble, would find that they could not -
But I'm a glorious martyr - and just tie it in a knot.

Mouthpiece for the horror, ultimate pastoral mess,
Smug on one great 'virtue'... unaware of all the rest.
A shred of humble knowledge may lead him from the dark -
If he's contrite at 50, after bonking in a park...


As I was writing this, I checked email, and naturally found the usual junk, plus a few items soliciting donations, one of which had to do with a retirement fund for religious Sisters. So I'll close with not only a poem but the one and only song I've ever written - and it's all for ageing solitaries. It loses something without the musical accompaniment, but if you are good and make sure I have three tots of gin, I may sing it for you some day (tongue very firmly in cheek).

Here's a member of a new minority,
A Vatican II casualty,
Catechist, Gregorian musician, sacristan, servant of the clergy,
Alone, I was reduced first to begging,
Then "Franciscan worm" pot-pourri,
Oh, it's not an easy life for a lone ranger nun,
Who's going to take care of me?

The Hours of the Office lack their full effect,
Alone, I can't chant antiphonally,
And hearing my own self-accusations makes Chapter lack efficacy.
I'm my superior and director and, in that regard, I'm deprived educationally,
I can only teach myself what I already know -
Who's going to take care of me?

(Maybe I complain, but the facts remain,
I can't staff my own infirmary,
And there's no retirement fund for a lone ranger nun,
Who's going to take care of me?)

This tune is rather naughty - as this post was haughty,
And I'm no model of charity.
I'll probably be penanced to sing "Who's Sorry Now?" until the latter days of eternity,
Divine plans can seem murky to the proud and quirky,
When the path's been rough vocationally,
So I'll just mutter this prayer - and, for once, stop there,
Who's going to take care of me?

Now, having demonstrated the truth expressed at the outset (that I'm no poet at all), I wish the lot of you blessings for Trinity Sunday. Cheers. Pax et Bonum! Hi-yo, Silver! ;)

For those wondering if scientists can pray

I believe my readers may share the awe I felt in listening to the talk on this web cast, by John Polkinghorne, entitled Can a Scientist Pray?. It deals specifically with prayers of petition, and gave me the impression that at least some scientists are capable of praying very well indeed.

As veterans of this blog know well, I have no understanding of science whatever, beyond wishing the atom had never been split (I say that with regret - my school average was perpetually ruined by my grades in that subject, almost as much as by mathematics.) I didn't have the slightest notion of what a 'quark' is, and my sole knowledge of chaos theory stemmed from that one of my train books... was... (oh, go ahead, Elizabeth - you've already admitted to liking Philippa Gregory, Maeve Binchy, and even Brendan O'Carroll and Nora Roberts' "Enchanted"...) "Jurassic Park." I may feel a sense of great awe seeing a museum exhibit of the DNA molecule ("molecule" probably is the wrong term, but I'm not concerned), but it's more along the lines of "Canticle of the Creatures" than anything technical. I indeed studied some of John Polkinghorne's writings as part of my philosophy of religion requirement a few years back, but it's far beyond me to understand his books. I was pleasantly surprised at how much easier it is to enjoy his clear, witty, and engaging manner of speaking.

I have still another act of humility for today. I always freely admitted to being totally hopeless with matters scientific, yet readers have probably caught on that I'm not exactly in the dark (beyond the great Nada and clouds of unknowing) with respect to prayer. I'm perfectly capable of writing at length on all sorts of topics in that regard, and on ascetic theology. That is why it is difficult to admit that I never really understood prayers of petition at all. (Occupational hazard - I can't help being apophatic, but that does present the dilemma of making anything one says about God make one sound like an agnostic.)

Quarks may be beyond my comprehension (though I've found myself singing "Stardust" a lot today...), but what I loved in the presentation to which I linked was the image it gave me of God as the endless Creator. I also shall spend much time pondering and praying about the idea of prayers of petition uniting our will to God's, and being the source of great power in the process.

I wish all of you many blessings for the glorious feast of Pentecost! (We who love the mystical actually love saying "I don't know" and "don't understand" - thinking of the Trinity and Holy Spirit specifically gives endless possibilities.) Of course, I'm naturally distracted at the moment, trying to decide if the "Pentecost red" for tomorrow's wardrobe (I'm a fright in pure red, but adore fuchsia...) should be my good dress and picture hat from Palm Sunday, or a casual print with fuchsia tights. (The latter may win if the weather is good and I want an airing.) Vanity of vanities... ;)

On 'getting real'

One paradox with which the devout deal constantly (it is universal, but those not in the category of devout do not necessarily think of it much) is that, when we take a peek at our own weakness and sinfulness, we tend to say "but that's not like me!" Granted - sometimes this is quite true, since we all have moments of being puzzlingly inconsistent, or of indeed doing something very much out of character. Yet I cannot be alone in catching myself saying "that's not like me," even if the matter at hand is something I've (grudgingly, reluctantly, but eventually) admitted to just about every time I've expressed contrition during the past 40 years or so.

I remember once learning of a favourite prayer of Francis' - "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" We'll certainly never know the former in total (in fact, the more we seek the answer, the less we realise we know - and that's rather glorious and awe inspiring.) Yet I think it's the answer to the second that we fear the more! We are far more fragile than we like to admit. I no longer have copies of his books on my shelves, but I'm fairly certain it was Thomas Merton who observed that God cannot be present with us in our fantasies because he can only be present in what is real - us.

Even in our moments of being troubled at our actions, I believe that it's actually true that 'that isn't like me,' however many hundreds of times we've had proof that we act in a certain fashion. There's another part of us that cries out for intimacy with our God - which longs to live the values fostered by such intimacy - and which wants to share this in love of neighbour.

I'm not about to distinguish the nonsense on the Internet forums with undue attention, but, since it is so widespread (and so many people see a 'vocation' to bully or be bullied...), I want to make a distinction between the grace there is in God's removing our self-deception and the 'you have to stop kidding yourself!' line in which on-line bullies so excel. (The latest, I understand, is that self-hatred - especially in relation to 'health' - is supposed to be healthy and to motivate one. Nonsense. Hatred of anyone destroys us, and hatred of ourselves leaves just a shell of fear and shame.) God calls us to be real! Our self-deception, which often leads us into sin but always keeps us from our potential, always needs to be shattered by love and grace. Think of it - whenever we've experienced conversion, after all the self deception, the Truth is enormously refreshing.

Someone asked me an odd question this week, and one which has no answer - so please allow for that I intend no literal exposition of any visions of the afterlife here! (If you really want a clue to the afterlife in such detail... well, try those 'death experience' books, if you can manage to detach yourself from the knowledge that all were penned by people who were alive when they did so.) I was asked what hell must be like, specifically in relation to a discussion of serial killers.

I cannot begin to explain heinous evil, and, lest I have nightmares tonight, I'm not going to dwell on the subject. I've never been one to focus on hell in any case, and, since my idea of evangelism is to focus on our dignity in God's image, and on intimacy with the Beloved, obviously I don't think 'hell' is a part of this. The after-life is beyond our description, however one may long for the greater intimacy which will grow for eternity - and I believe in cosmic redemption even if I cannot define that any more than give one details of heaven (beyond a vague, anthropomorphic residue to my thinking which makes me think that we musicians are distinguished in that we have to work in both lives...) ;)

Yet, awkward though this expression is, perhaps the very means by which we will continue to be called to this intimacy will be in grace stripping us of self deception, allowing us to be fully real. We all have experienced the painful but exhilarating, marvellous embrace of Truth, as I mentioned earlier in this post. I do not believe in a God of vengeance and punishment, but wonder if those who have fallen into heinous evil, gone beyond even having human delicacy and conscience, might find seeing the truth to be hell. (I further see divine power as unlimited in a fashion beyond our comprehension - there's always the chance for this revelation of Truth to lead to purification within us, however horrid our actions may have been.)

I become ill when I even think of heinous violence, and those who have been guilt of this certainly 'saw' it up close... Could their hell be to see it with no gloss, no wicked detachment? Could they, perhaps, see the real agony of the victims, and of everyone associated with them? Or of how such violence infects the world at large - how all of creation grieves and suffers? How God Himself descended to suffer with his creation?

Well, all right - I'm being a bit too ambitious here - but, if those who were close to being totally wicked here had to be completely stripped of self deception (which should be a glorious, joyous, if painful action of grace), and to fully face the totality of the effects of their actions, I wouldn't want to think of a worse hell than that.

Nor would I forget this could mean their redemption.

You mean that wasn't a joke?

I must confess that, since I tend to laugh at myself and most of the world constantly, I frequently fall into a trap which had consequences ranging from 'tripping up' the other (sorry, that pun is unforgivable...) to nearly losing a (figurative) leg. I am not the sort who'd laugh at what another said or did in order to mock - and I'm usually rather good at sensing when someone did not mean to be funny and therefore saving my laughter for later (and sometimes for this blog.) I so love humour that I cannot count the times when I assumed someone had made a marvellous joke - when that was far from the case.

Note to anyone who just might find this blog in an Internet search: if you are featured below, do not be offended, because I happen to be enormously fond of the few friends I mention here. I'm enjoying the lot of you, not being disparaging.

My tendency to the wry and ironic has two 'side effects' for those who are not ones for either. Some of my best jokes lead to others thinking I'm distressed (though, believe me, were I truly distressed, I'd either disappear or, were I caught, leave one with no doubt! Then again, lots of people so love sad stories that they manufacture them nearly as often as I lapse into jester mode. Last week, I was saying an Office in a church, and someone, unknown to me, thought I was ill because I had my head down slightly - to read the psalms - and was moving my mouth a bit, because, though I never read aloud to myself otherwise, I learnt years ago to say prayers aloud even if in a tiny whisper - probably back when one had to say lots of prayers aloud to gain the indulgences. Head bowed - ahem! - someone assumed to be talking to herself out loud - which I only do at home - yes, that's good ammunition for the psycho-babble brigade.) I often forget, as well, that religious humour, which usually appeals in particular to those with huge faith, can be taken as irreverent (which it normally is, and by design) and offensive (never!) by those who are delicate or who came to the faith in full-blown 'late have I loved thee' mode.

I recently saw a dear friend of mine who happens to be an author, and we somehow were speaking of some reviews I write for Amazon. I had no idea she'd known the author of a book I'd reviewed, which was a rather inventive and modern 'take' on the Montagues and Capulets - and which had me nearly doubled over with laughter, because I truly thought it was a spoof on a par with "Shakespeare in Love." (My love for Shakespeare endures, though my memory is rusty - but even I knew that "Ethel the Pirate's Daughter" was a bit off the mark.) My friend, who is a very lovely, sweet sort, and has such empathy with other authors that she cannot bear any negative criticism of them (...obviously, traits which no one would ever see in me...), was very sad to hear this, and reminded me of the author's other works (of which I'd never heard.) Actually, I'd given the book a good rating - how was I to know that the author was troubled that I was one of various people who thought her novel was a string of inside jokes?

How well I remember, after easily twenty years, when I was scrubbing a parish kitchen floor (..."Francis, go and repair my church" ... believe me, everyone takes us up on that one...), and my friend Jane, for my edification and entertainment, was telling me of a 'shocking' incident she'd observed when she and Sadie attended some sort of healing service (conducted by Franciscans, so things mustn't have been all that spit and polish.) Jane was relatively young, but always had an air of someone who'd seen 100 years of suffering which she'd enjoyed immensely. Sadie was as holy as they get, and a bit fey - she saw an image of the Sacred Heart appear on the screen when she watched one Brook Shields film, and asked if it was a religious picture. Sadie was of a shy nature, and was immensely devoted to her husband, who leaned towards being insensitive and was excessively fond of his glass. Sadie and Jane actually had a number of characteristics in common, but one huge difference was that Sadie was inclined to kiss nearly everyone in greeting, where I doubt Jane's kids had ever even seen their mother kiss their father.

"Ah, Elizabeth, I couldn't believe what I was seeing! Sadie kissed this priest! (Scornful look) This little, short priest. Right on the lips! Now, who would even think of kissing a priest, but Sadie went and kissed him - little short man he was, didn't look like much, but she went and kissed him! (Pause) She mustn't be too happy at home."

Jane couldn't be understanding why that last line sent me into gales of laughter. (Well, had I said it, I would have most definitely intended to be funny!) "Ah, Elizabeth, you laugh at nothing! Sadie really kissed a priest! Right on the lips!"

The mental picture of the timid, extremely pious Sadie in the role of wicked woman was so hilarious that I wish I'd been there...

Of course, there are other times when I (often with others) have unintentionally troubled someone because we mistook a flub for a joke. I'm thinking of when I assisted with a retreat for girls aged thirteen or so, who were school-mates. The retreat was held at a building which was inhabited by a few nuns, who still wore the long habit, old-style veil and coif, and who all happened to be of well below average height. (That will figure later.) Retreats for teens, despite all the 'heavy stuff' and their weeping (partly resulting from adolescent emotionalism, partly hormones with no place to take them, and largely from seeing clichés as fresh insights - believe me, you don't want to be over-exposed to the petitions and offertory processions, the latter of which include bringing up lipsticks and school books...), need to have some fun time. The kids decided, during the 'drink soda and giggle' period, that they'd like to put on a little show, and asked permission to wear some of the nuns' summer habits, which they'd seen hanging in an adjacent store room.

The girls adjoined to their 'dressing room,' and dressed in the nuns' habits - without removing their own blue jeans, running shoes, and athletic socks. Since the nuns were so tiny, the normally floor-length habits reached to slightly below the girls' knees (with ample portions of jeans, socks, and running shoes visible...), the coifs looked like white Grim Reaper masks, headbands and veils were as off-balance as the worst of adolescent emotions, and the effect when they appeared 'on stage' was enough to give us misguided souls in the audience the mistaken impression that they'd worked out a comedy sketch.

But this gets worse... The girls began singing "The Sound of Music," horribly off-key, and one of them did (what we thought was) a 'take' on the descant which Liesl sings in the play so terribly that we naturally thought this combination of sights and sounds was the opening to something to top Monty Python. Yes, we roared. I defy nearly anyone to think this was not intended to be funny... but, if I thought we had to contend with weeping at the Eucharist, the amount that resulted from their reaction to our laughter would have been a challenge to Noah.

Then there is my cherished friend Madeline, who has been enormously considerate and generous to me. I'd be first to institute her canonisation proceedings for many reasons, but (and this is the best illustration of my dad's "you've got the book learning, but not the ways of the world" theory on record) I still forget that Madeline not only never catches jokes but never intentionally said anything funny in her life. Madeline and I have known each other for decades, and I know well that, whenever she sees anyone, her greeting invariably is, "You know who died?" (Actually, that is inaccurate - on the rare day when she can't find even a remotely familiar name in the obituaries, there may be such variations as a report of who has a terminal illness or was victim of a disaster. At least 75% of the time, I've never even heard of the deceased.)

Madeline, who sadly moved from her life-long neighbourhood a few years ago, was telling me that one old friend, who'd remained till recently, now had moved as well. "It's a shame I don't hear from Billy (note to readers - about the old neighbourhood) now. He'd tell me who's dead, who isn't..."

Would you believe that I actually thought Madeline was laughing at herself? ... I was mistaken... I hope I didn't wound the pride of one who's been so good to me.

I'll let you in on something else... Referring to my recent post on capitalism and Genesis (no, I haven't lapsed into senility or lost my principles - if you haven't read the post, see below), I shared the reflection with an acquaintance of mine, who is more reverent than I but not much less wry, and it turned out that he didn't see the humour very well. (...I knew we were 180 degrees around the circle politically, but still hardly thought that Genesis was a mandate for laissez faire... Then again, he was present when - again see a previous post - a snobbish soul expressed her disgusted fear that she'd be in the company of Neanderthal man at the resurrection and, unlike yours truly, didn't have to choke behind a handkerchief...)

The 'speaker' about capitalism in Genesis was quite chilly with me on Sunday - I'm not losing sleep over that one, but it did remind me that I wouldn't have teased him quite so much at the time had I not assumed he was 'doing it on purpose.' What surprised me was that my other acquaintance, with whom I disagree on much but whom I regard highly, didn't think he was doing it on purpose...

So, on cliché buster patrol - it isn't always correct to assume 'laugh and the world laughs with you.' I still will caution anyone (above the age of fourteen) - especially those who have an interest in church involvement and/or the Internet - if you must cry, be sure to do it alone! Crying in the company of church people is always a mistake. Cry on the Internet (or even be mistaken for crying when you are laughing...), and you'll hear from 5,000 amateur shrinks... and no one, not even myself, has enough energy to laugh at that many people in a day.

Here's to the losers - Bless them all!

I almost titled this post "bless us all," but I borrowed the 'toast' above from a Frank Sinatra song I remember hearing. Since I remember nothing but that line, I've no idea to which losers he was referring - perhaps the song had a different flavour if he was performing somewhere such as Las Vegas.

Losers come in many varieties. My post today is dedicated to my own set - the losers who began as talented, even gifted, souls, and who spent years of education, training, and effort at developing the talents.... only to see, looking back decades later, that we not only accomplished nothing in any field that we loved, but that the few steps of which we were proud in our young adult years were so small that we'd be embarrassed to speak of them today. The efforts we made were fine for 'starting out' - provided they had led anywhere.

The blessing and curse of the educated loser is knowing (1) that one has forgotten more than one knows, and (2) that one is a nobody. I'm not sure whether the 'inflated' losers, of whom I'll speak in a moment, are better or worse off than are we. I've read too many great texts, seen too many concerts, and so forth, to have any illusions that I could impress anyone on the planet. The inflated probably have an easier time. Their only trait which I find exasperating is that they tend to assume others know even less than they do - and to have a 'let me teach you' attitude.

I can think of someone I used to know who mentioned constantly that she was 'an interior decorator' - though the only house she'd decorated was her own. (She criticised the 'bad taste' of everyone else on the planet in the process.) I knew yet another, who'd appeared in a single, local stage production (and was outstanding, I must say), who worked with me, and never worked in fewer than 5 references to that play daily. I am sure those two examples suffice.

Sometimes, though not usually, the inflated can be dangerous. I knew a woman once who had wanted to become a psychiatrist, but never achieved this goal. Her work was as a counsellor (not a psychologist - one who counsels students about course work and career planning), and she meddled in ways that could have destroyed them - phoning parents because she thought (often incorrectly) that someone had mental illness or drug problems, recommending commitment to mental hospitals, and the like.

I suppose, were I less realistic, that I could speak of myself as a writer and theologian - after all, I have an Internet site and a blog...

I naturally could speak here of the value we have in being created in the divine image, and I'd mean every word. But religious people too often fall into clichés, so I raise the toast in the heading to all the other losers in my own category.

• To everyone with an advanced degree who was told that she could probably get a good-paying job if she only increased her typing speed, or who was asked, "You don't type? What could you do, be a waitress?"
• To musicians who visit, for example, a strange church, and are asked if they ever considered joining a choir.
• To those who are out of their minds with the horrid jobs they've taken to survive, and who can't share this with their closest friends because their friends think that for someone who won all the awards to be reduced to this is hilarious.
• Fill in the blanks with your own experience
  
• 
  

Why am I so irritable today? The silliest things do set me off. Remember the early days of the Internet? Any page one designed, let alone graphic one produced or MIDI file one sequenced, which looked wonderful in 1998 looks rather dreadful now - technology has changed enormously. Always, there was a problem of how different files sounded or appeared on other computers. I've noticed that some of my MIDI collection (not necessarily those I myself sequenced), which sounded delightful (for computer music, that is) once upon a time, sound like tin cans crashing now. I shall never cease to be amazed at how the same file can sound incredibly different not only on various computers, but that those which sounded great with (defunct) Crescendo can sound like cats wailing with Real or Media Player. For years now, I have contributed MIDI files and ring tones to an on-line site. (Ah, the graveyards to which once promising musicians are laid to rest...) The site owner had liked my contributing sentimental, popular Catholic hymns - the kind which one remembers from first communion or the Tuesday night novena. I sequenced quite a few (not because I thought them to be great compositions... and even one with my dreadful coordination, which makes my skills at the keyboard so bad that I'm convinced I passed my piano proficiency test the first time just so the judges wouldn't have to hear me play again, can manage to pound out better than "Little White Guest.") Some of them, especially those from ten years ago or more, sound dreadful today - but, considering this music never was anything but dreadful, I was glad that someone was enjoying them. Well, today I heard from someone who probably is just as big a loser as I was - who else performs in most Catholic churches? He'd used one of my MIDI files ("Jesus, Jesus Come to Me" - not exactly a song I'd like anyone to know I even knew, let alone one sequenced...), and informed me of how he'd corrected the melody, converted my dreadful string arrangement to grand piano, put in feeling. If he could do that with not only such a horrid song but within the limitations of computer music, he must be quite extraordinary indeed. But it took me almost an hour to laugh!

How does it happen that, the older one gets, the more childish someone realises she is being... and does it anyway? How did I compromise my dignity in even reacting to such silliness - and why would I be insulted because I'm a failure as a musician who knows this is so (though for lack of opportunity, not initial talent), where others take pride in being organists of such merit (which is about two steps below that of a fledgling busker) ?

Educated losers of this world, you are not alone, small comfort though that may be. And I promise to never, ever say that your being a loser is "God's will."

Memories sparked by John Steinbeck

Several weeks ago, at the very discussion group where we were exploring Genesis, someone made an interesting reference to the "Cain and Abel" themes in John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Though I have little familiarity with Steinbeck's work, I had read that book some years ago, and the reference led me to obtain a library copy - in which I became utterly engrossed on a rainy day. The settings (ranches, primitive cities filled with ponds) and the circumstances of most of the characters were not those with which I could identify, and it's amazing that I found it totally absorbing and brilliant in its depiction of human nature.

Some of what follows in this post will be far sadder than 'my usual,' so I'll laugh at my own expense for a moment to begin. What fascinated me most in East of Eden was its wisdom. Two characters in particular, Samuel Hamilton and Lee (the philosopher/servant), illustrated a breadth of knowledge and understanding, though from different perspectives, which made me wish I could meet their counterparts. Another superb touch was that Steinbeck, who cleverly crafted the presentation by blending true stories of his mother's family with relationships between them and the characters he created, explored characters' values, motives, virtues and vices with a deep wisdom of his own, and with rare flair.

The only reason I'm smiling is that, as is true of many hopelessly literary types, I'm constantly looking for companionship with people who not only possess such wisdom but express themselves so brilliantly - and I'm finally catching on that such are rare. :) Secondly, though I more or less caught on in time that this was the case, it did take me years and many mistakes before I realised that even if we overly analytical types may know our own values, motives, and the like, we never can know those of others. We can know people for decades - whether they are friends, foes, or anything in between - and, though we can be aware of traits they have from years of exposure to the demonstration, we practically never know what is behind their actions. (Trust me - one who truly goes one's own way, as I have since my umbilical cord was cut, not only will rarely be known, no matter how high is one's degree of honesty, but will be 'boxed' in stereotypes and, when one does not fit them, be assumed to be faking.)

East of Eden is a lengthy book, and Steinbeck shows a full scope of human strengths and weaknesses - everything from honour to unusual compassion to horrid cruelty and crime. In the case of every major character except one, the reader will know them very thoroughly, and Steinbeck explains their natures in depth. The single exception is Cathy, in Steinbeck's words 'a monster,' who is wicked to an extent that one may observe (thank heavens!) in very few people one meets in the course of a lifetime. (I've seen much in my life, and understand most human weakness, but, on the rare occasion when I've encountered one of the "Cathys" of this world, I can feel only horror.) Steinbeck knew when to leave a personification of (very true, if fortunately rare) evil to an enigma. (Remembering one utter bore I knew in my younger years, who couldn't understand why she was a failure at studying English literature and at writing though she dismissed any discussion of plot, theme, or characterisation with a cackling laugh and "It's only a story!," I shall add that there is no fiction of any worth which does not express enormous truth. Catherine Trask may be Steinbeck's creation, but, if one doubts such people exist, that would be shattered by reading a single newspaper.)

Others in the book are guilty of horrible actions, some involving criminal behaviour. Yet Cathy is the most chilling, not only because there is no counter-balancing good or even humanity, but because her wickedness is for its own sake. There is no motive. As a teenager, she murders her own parents - who are decent and even doting. Cathy is vicious not only for no reason, but with clear hatred for any goodness or decency she observes. She is aware of only evil, is totally mired in deceit and the desire to destroy others, and has contempt for any manifestation of love and caring in any sense. Frequently, her most vicious cruelty is reserved for those who have loved or been kind to her.

Though I observed it 'at a distance' (it had nothing to do with me, nor were the victims my acquaintances), my first exposure to senseless evil (when I was perhaps 8 years of age) would leave me with a terror of violence and deceit that haunted my youth - to this day, I cannot even watch news broadcasts, because my horror of violence has such intensity. Children are nowhere near as stupid as many adults think (or probably hope) they are, and certainly, at that age, I would have had some idea that violence and crime existed. Yet my initial encounter with the knowledge that there was evil in this world that had no motive, and the concurrent awareness that divine power (guardian angels, whomever) does not protect even the most innocent, was overwhelming.

When I was 8 or so, there were two incidents of horrible murders (not connected with each other), both of boys who were no older than I. To this day (and I'm shrinking with horror as I write this), I remember the newspaper account of one of them. No one had witnessed the crime, which involved a child's being burnt, cut, and finally stabbed fatally, but there had been people who overheard the child's screams. I cannot even bring myself to recall the pleading, imploring words here, but they will be in my memory till I die.

I suppose I could have had some vague understanding, despite my horror, of how someone might be a thief, or even have been violent towards another who was also involved with crime or who had wronged him, or how one could kill a crime victim to avoid being identified. (I don't mean that this does not sicken me!) Yet, despite my extreme youth, this was treading into new territory - the stuff of nightmares. Torture and murder of an innocent little child was a new concept to me. Evil for its own sake, and assuredly deceit to lure the child to his death, left me with a feeling of having looked Satan in the eye - and knowing no divine power would protect even the most helpless.

I never once shared this - until now. Perhaps that is fortunate. My mother was ridiculously over-protective, fearful (as she would tell me later, from the day I entered kindergarten) of the 'bad influences' that kids who, perhaps, used rough language, had germs, and so forth might be on me, and she never wanted me out of her sight. She feared my studious nature - some Victorian left-over, since this could lead to brain fever, various 'female troubles,' and men's hating me for not being an imbecile. (There really were Victorian opinions of that type - and many Victorians were very much alive in my mother's time, though it's beyond me how she met them.) For me to mention this incident may have meant my being restricted from reading at all. I already had learnt that confiding in adults meant either an awkward attempt to 'laugh it off' and mock, or a shocked reaction that 'you shouldn't know those things.' (This even if someone said 'hell' outside the pulpit! I'm sure that, then and now, there would be those who had greater objections to East of Eden because there is acceptance of houses of prostitution than that Cathy kills or destroys others.)

I'm sure this trait of mine has deeper roots, and am not suggesting it sprung from this first awareness of senseless evil, but I can see, now, that it set me apart in a fashion that often saddened me. Children, of course, know only what is part of their own lives. I so despised cruelty, violence, and deceit that I was completely puzzled even by its milder manifestations - the kids ganging up on the class scapegoat, the 'friend' who turns another against her friend and becomes the new best friend in the process, and so forth. When I was 12 or so, one of our teachers (very unwisely) had the entire class complete a questionnaire, with one of the questions being who it was in the class whom they considered their closest friend, and why. (Since the teacher was looking for votes for the vivacious, popular, rah-rah types, the response led to her loathing me - I'd never get beyond a passing grade from her after that point, and was the target of constant sarcasm and contempt if I participated in class.) Oddly enough, I received by far the most votes. I say 'oddly,' because I was rarely invited to a party or otherwise socially involved. Yet I do recall that others had confided in me, because, whatever flaws I had (and still do), they knew they would never be betrayed, mocked, or used. Then as now, I'd bite anyone's head off for being condescending, but, unusually for that age, I was incapable of deceit and had an unusual degree of compassion.

To lapse out of playing at being 'refined' for a moment, this naturally meant that I would grow up to be the sucker of the world...

I suppose I'm ravelling this thread because my mind knows what my emotions never can fully accept. The 'Cathys' of this world will remain enigmas. For all our weakness and, at times, wickedness, there is much good in most of us - and there are a thousand decent people, at least, for every "Cathy," even if the Cathys make better 'press.' But theists have to struggle, always, with knowing that divine power does not protect this world from evil, even that most senseless.

Many of us who are overly analytical and sensitive are artists (which I use loosely to mean any of the arts and humanities.) How ironic that we live for beauty, and are so highly sensual - yet forget that one can place a penny of darkness over one's iris and blot out any amount of sunlight. I'll 'hear' the screams of that murdered child (of which I knew only from a news article) for always - and, as another two examples, material I covered when I later wrote papers on organised crime and the Holocaust will be in my nightmares if I live to be 105.

I'm not suggesting, of course, that all but the tiniest percentage of humans are the likes of Cathy (even if those who are make many headlines.) Yet there is so much vengeance and cruelty, however on a small scale it is by comparison, which one encounters constantly that it is easy to see only the darkness. I'll never know the answer to this, but it strikes me that I understand many human weaknesses (in fact, I often wonder 'what the fuss is about' with what leads to at least pretended shock in others), but live in fear of the dark side - yet, on the rare occasions when I've viewed true evil, I'd be the type to invite Jack the Ripper in to tea, especially if he convinced me he'd had a striking conversion.

A constant theme, and one explored in great detail, in East of Eden has to do with "thou mayest" triumph over evil. This is explored in a context of differing versions of the text of Genesis - in one, God seems to promise 'you will triumph, which seems counter-intuitive - in the other, it seems a command. We are free - we may triumph. I'll spare you any ideas about divine grace for a moment - Steinbeck's development of the theme is crucial. We have choices.

Cathy and husband Adam (yes, their twins do expound on the Cain and Abel theme in their actions) have two very different sons, Caleb and Aaron. Caleb exhibits much of his mother's tendency to cruelty and vengeance, but his feelings towards Aron (the two As being 'a little fancy') are a combination of sheltering and intense envy. The boys do not know, in childhood, that their mother abandoned them, shot their father, and ultimately became madam of a house of prostitution which caters to those wishing to engage in violent, degrading sexual acts. Cal will learn of this (indeed, will both visit as a customer and later meeting his mother), where Aron continues to believe, as his father had told him, that his mother had died.

Though Caleb does not murder his brother, in a scene of twisted rage and envy, he takes Aron to see a 'surprise' - the 'circus' at this whorehouse, where Aron first sees who his mother is. (Aron disappears, joins the military, and is killed.) The 'timshel' (thou mayest) which Adam will say to Caleb is the crux of the theme's expression. Cal has done horrid things, but he needs to see that, whatever ancestry he has, he is not his mother - he remains free - he can triumph over evil. Caleb, unlike Cathy, acts with motives (even when they are wicked), and feels remorse - he is seeking love, indeed tries to 'buy it,' and his rage towards his twin reaches its peak when he meets Cathy, and realises that Adam's love for Aron must stem from that Aron looks like his mother, whom Adam loved and for whom he mourned.

There will never be an explanation for heinous evil. We can only hope we'll never be its source or victim - and no one must believe s/he is bound by fate, or beyond hope.

To what 'heresy' emotions can bring one...

I've been privileged to know a number of creative, very artistic people in my day - and know I'm not alone in that the same sensitivity, passion, and imagination which is our gift has its troublesome side. I know I'm stating this crudely, but the same intensity and vision which are behind the aesthetic or intellectual depth give one a huge awareness of the darkness. As a simple example, though everyone is conscious of the evil in this world, and equally knows that for every heinous sort there are undoubtedly thousands who are decent or even laudable, I've found I am not the only artist who cannot watch a news broadcast without feeling ill.

I was re-reading the frank, troubled post I composed yesterday. There is no chance that I'll delete or edit its contents, since it was utterly honest. Yet it was later on that I saw how the matters I mentioned could be counter-balanced by the very content of the liturgical texts from the same Sunday! (I'm not suggesting this cancels any of the 'darkness' - heaven knows that John, my favourite gospel, for all its stress on the Logos, love, and glory, makes both light and dark vivid realities.)

I believe that most of us who are devout have times when our emotions, which bring forth powerful feelings that can be a huge contrast to what we actually believe, temporarily make us confused heretics. :) Centuries before Jesus walked this earth, Israel stood alone amongst her neighbours in seeing creation as good, rather than a regrettable accident brought forth by the hands of a demi-urge. The manner of expression in the Hebrew scriptures is difficult for us to comprehend (and Lord knows I've learnt the scope of commentaries it is best to consult - almost as many as Christians need, since we are the odd hybrid of Israelite theology and Greek philosophy), but there hardly was some vengeful, wicked god of the OT who (we hope...) mellowed once His son was crucified by His decree. (Please - if you do not understand irony, read no further!) That does not erase that, in one form or another, most Christians of the west have millennia of images of (in a nutshell) a devil who might not be equal to God (at least by the time of the parousia), but who is far more powerful on earth.

I gave a thought, last evening, to the liturgical texts and anthems I'd read or hear. Surely, Good Shepherd Sunday does not leave one with an image of a vengeful God - and, in case one wasn't paying attention during that reading, the beautiful post-resurrection experience of Peter ("do you love me?") is a second chance at an image of utter love, healing, and redemption. I'd heard the Te Deum and Jubilate Deo at Matins - hardly canticles to place one in a state of upset. The choir presented a magnificent arrangement of "Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us - therefore let us keep the feast; Not with the old leaven of malice and wickedness, but the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth." The offertory anthem was John Ireland's "Greater love hath no man," which combines several texts. I believe quoting the opening line, "many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it...", then jumping ahead to our being called out of darkness into His marvellous light," can capture the general thrust. The communion anthem was from the Song of Solomon - "set me as a seal upon thine heart.. many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it."

To top it off, I heard a lovely sermon, referring both to Peter's encounter with the Risen Lord and to the beloved disciple, which treated of the constant themes of love (divine, and expressed in our love for each other) in the Johannine writings. (Even if memories of one intriguing commentary, which set forth the fascinating point that this exhortation well might have been directed to Johannine Christians who were not in an especially loving relationship to those who favoured Paul did not deter me. The last sounds on this earth undoubtedly shall be arguments between believers.) Then, just in case I hadn't got the idea by then, the reading from Hebrews at Vespers was a wonderful treatment of Jesus' sacrifice and how he is perfecting those who are being sanctified.

(My lectio divina recently has been from James Alison and Margaret Barker's work - a few examples are below. Anyone who can't be inspired to awe and praise by these probably is due to be pronounced dead.)

I'm not in a mood to explore post-Reformation history today (that's a first, isn't it?), but surely I do understand some of the roots of the idea (which I learnt in childhood) that faith is a battleground - with Satan (or Cromwell) always seeming to take the upper hand. So may I raise a toast to my fellow 'emotional heretics,' who pale with fear at 'false gods', even on days when worship and scripture should have us so saturated with love that such would never enter our minds. (It doesn't really enter our minds now, does it?)

Takes imagination to find the laissez faire in Genesis...

Those seeking some economic or political exploration here will sadly be disappointed. I was in business management for too many years not to know that what exists 'on paper' has small relation to reality - for example, when 'the economy is good,' it tends to mean '95% of the population are so broke that they are forced into usurious loans.' When grocery prices have doubled, statistics will insist they rose by 6%. I well remember a puzzling, if clever (and misleading), presentation to the effect that someone who drives could save a small fortune (the figures clearly were manipulated) by taking the train (this assuming that anyone who had a train nearby would drive in the first place, but I'm too logical deep down.) The basis for this argument was that someone whose car is worth more than some houses was commuting 160 miles a day - the 'savings' was in depreciation of the vehicle's value (and there was no allowance for the cost of taking the train, or how one would get there.)

In an odd fashion, a thought that made me smirk earlier this week came back to haunt me today. My regulars (are there any, I wonder?) will recall that, a few years ago, I did an extensive study of the 19th century theological trends. I'm no fan of the Enlightenment, but I do see irony in that, when deism was enormously popular (and the Creator apparently had little interest in engaging with the cosmos once it was set in motion), there still were ideas that, for example, Protestant England was blessed - not having endured famine or the murder of the monarch as did France, or the crises in Belgium and so forth. There was much emphasis on such divine favour, despite that the general pattern of belief was in a God who washed his hands after creating the universe. As well, there was a general belief that miracles in the New Testament could be used to prove Christ's divinity (even if later miracles were 'superstition.') I sense a loose connection - that one needs some flavour of the miraculous to believe God intervenes now and then, where I think my old friend Thomas would have cautioned against such a view, with it leaving implicit that God isn't around much in the first place.

(Those who doubt that the bizarre 'divine favour reflected in military or economic superiority, real or supposed' idea is still alive should recall the weirder idea, popular in at least a few Internet circles around 9 years ago, that God had removed a 'veil of protection' from North America - where I had it on good authority that both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans remained intact.)

Now, where is this taking me? I am all but worn out from keeping my mouth shut (which I occasionally am capable of doing, when I know that doing otherwise would come to nothing) from an encounter this morning that a really expert writer could have used for a satirical sketch. I was at a church coffee hour, seeking, in vain, for congenial company. (This is not to say that such does not exist - only that people I know and with whom I would enjoy conversing seemed to be in short supply today.) Earlier today, I'd attended a presentation that had to do with Yahweh and the 'sacrifice of the first-born,' and it seems that being a friend of God's was about the worst fate one could have - when one was not murdered, the best one could hope for was exile and humiliation. I'll take sacrifices of praise and thanksgiving, please, and it did occur to me that the sordid characters we were studying (Jacob and Esau, Cain and Abel, Joseph and Jacob's other wonderful sons who inherited many dispositions towards filial and fraternal piety from their father) had no love in them whatever. I hardly thought that God was responsible for their humiliation and exile - if one is an outcast for fratricide, I can't say I'm all that sympathetic. I can certainly see that, if one was the object of divine favour (even if one was a trickster to get this), others, out of envy, rage, and covetousness, might act out in violence - and anyone who is cheeky enough to report dreams which indicate his family members are going to fall down in homage before him would be something of a trial. But, even before my third coffee, I was seeing far more that God's purposes (covenant, Israel as his chosen) cannot be thwarted by human wickedness - not that He was the source of the evil in itself.

When I was seeking my own release from 'exile' at this coffee hour, another who attended the class referenced my admission that I had been puzzled, and, in an exposition of mental gymnastics that should qualify him for Sophistry Olympics, related the OT accounts we'd been exploring to capitalism.

I've seen 19th century speeches and writings that should have prepared me for some of this - Jacob Marley always was a good man of business... Yet I doubt I've ever heard of capitalism's being related to Genesis. I'm uncertain of what the market economy could have been in the time of Cain and Abel (in fact, I'm still wondering from where both Mrs Cain and the hordes who would seek to kill Cain materialised.) This impromptu speech (my saying I didn't see the connection only led to a repeated, "Why not?," which is invariably a sophist's refuge, and never acceptable other than in philosophical arguments based on the principle of credulity) related Joseph (of the many coloured coat) to the talented capitalist who God chose because he was the only one who could accomplish the goal of wealth. (Ah, references to famines and favour once again...) This genius even told me that 'there is no poverty with capitalism,' which I found surprising since I've worked with the homeless for seven years and spent far longer watching them huddle together with makeshift 'huts' of cardboard. If I had a transcript of the entire exposition, I still doubt I could make sense of any of this. (Nor could anyone, I suspect - even if they don't wear a Franciscan tau cross.)

...Let me see if I can piece together at least a few bits... Oh, now I can see... It wasn't that the divine election of Israel (Jacob) showed that grace cannot be thwarted even if the human instrument has a lion's share of failings. God blessed capitalism, and even minted the concept millennia in advance. Grace is not a free gift, but one bought with manipulation. See one's (equally dreadful) brother in danger of dying of hunger, and make sure he signs over the birthright and blessing before sharing a few lentils... profitable, that.

Why am I suddenly remembering a Charles Schulz cartoon I saw many years ago? Pianist Schroeder told Charlie Brown "I have perfect pitch!," to which Charlie replied, "you mean a perfect pitch - and what does it matter, since baseball season is over?" I feel like quoting Schroeder's line - that sometimes I feel like putting in for a transfer to another comic strip. The loose association with comic strips just brought yet another to mind. This one showed a dinosaur addressing a convention of his own kind, announcing bad news: "The climate is changing, the mammals are taking over, and we all have a brain the size of a walnut."

If my illogical silliness seems inappropriate, I'll admit that I'm using it to shield myself from an element of darkness that is more illogical still, and assuredly would not have been the author's intent. (This apart from that violence, which usually arises from a thirst for power, terrifies me in any event.) I cannot help but shudder, on another level, at the thought of God's wanting sacrifice (death, exile, humiliation) for his Chosen (which I am associating here with Israel.) The constant struggles which the Hebrews endured in the OT times are tragic but not unusual - what makes me cringe is what they endured in the Christian era (and heaven knows that, in the 'enlightened' modern era, renaissance onward, much of it was the worst - particularly in the very 'advanced' 20th century.)

I must obtain a copy of the book on which these presentations are based. I enjoyed another work by the same author, which leads me to think there is an element (perhaps too lengthy or complicated to be referenced in full) other than the 'bare bones' I referenced above. I can only say that, based on the presentation if not the text, I don't think I would have liked that 'god' very much - I may have seen if Zeus, Isis, or Vishnu might present a better deal.

The collection was supreme even in Malachi's day

For all that I've grown to enjoy Old Testament studies (...late have I loved thee...), a few of the books are so puzzling and dreadful that even I don't have the inclination to their study. (It's bad enough that, just a few years back, I had to complete a paper on Amos, which left me utterly spent.) What follows is a far cry from exegesis - I'm merely giggling at how our own experiences can colour perspective. I'm very glad that I've risen from the grave of management and resumed my true identity as musician and scholarly sort, but, now and then, my many years in business management trigger such associations.

Just this morning, I was sleepily listening to a presentation related to the images of the first-born (whether sacrificed, redeemed, sent into exile, or humiliated) in the Hebrew scriptures. It struck me, as it often has, that Genesis would make nearly any family one knows seem far from dysfunctional by comparison. Isaac, Rebekah, Esau and Jacob, Laban (he and Jacob deserved each other), Abraham and his 'sister' in Egypt, are a sorry lot. It is a constant portrayal of hatred, swindling, attempted or intended (and, in a few cases, accomplished) fratricide, deceit and the like. I haven't yet read the commentary on which this presentation was based, but must get to that soon, since the pattern here was rather dismal.

Allowing for that I was half-asleep, I don't recall precisely why the book of Malachi was referenced. Much as Esau was a potential murderer, Jacob was a deceitful trickster for whom I have no fondness either. Malachi begins with the Lord's saying "Jacob I love, but Esau I hate..." (Yes, pedantic sorts - I know Jacob and Israel are one and the same - humour me, since I'm just ravelling a silly thread.) Towards the end of this brief book, one learns that God was irate at being defrauded - but blessings still could result if one heeded the summons to "Bring in the tithes!"

I loathe the image of God in Malachi, and anywhere else where God needs to be placated. Yet I had a "Eureka" sound in my mind which perhaps only church professionals of long-standing can fully appreciate. Jacob was a deceitful trickster, where Esau was rather common... No wonder God loves deceitful tricksters, since they bring in far more tithes.

Moving into my own life-time... Indeed, I do believe one must contribute, as one is able, to one's church. I see this as having spiritual value, returning what we can in thanksgiving. What I cannot stand is when the faith is treated as if it were a consumer product, and I've seen such approaches on various occasions.

I well remember one fund-raiser whom I knew (not a deceitful trickster, I must add - there wasn't a large supply of those at the time, so members of that set were reserved for insurance) whom I privately called "The Pardoner." His reasoning (by no means unique to him!) seemed to be as follows. People do not value their faith and church because it is available to all and not costly. They only will find it valuable if it costs them considerable money. (Whether those without riches, such as Jesus of Nazareth or Francis of Assisi, were to be consigned to a dungeon or handed a loaded pistol in order that they might take the only way out was left to the imagination. It would assuredly be bad form to have anyone present who'd tell any rich young man*, however smug, to give everything to the poor.) The Pardoner never did explain how to address the 'problem' of churches being available to all. He was Catholic, so I doubt that any theories of election and God's invariably choosing only the rich were in his theology, but it certainly was implicit that indiscriminate admissions of the poor would decrease the value of the premium product - I suppose as happens when travel miles used to give one access to seating in business class every 100 years.) Ergo, if one can convince people that they must pay a fortune for the privilege of attending church, this premium product will become appealing.

Feel faint or drop dead if you must - but expect a high price tag if you want me to share any of my lentils with you... Though the passages from Malachi made me shudder, I couldn't help but think, "Things haven't changed much, have they?"

*Note: Gluttons for punishment may see All these I have observed from my youth for further commentary on the rich young man - or look below for more on the first-born.

For all of you 'ancient' guys

It would be most appropriate, particularly in the Easter season, were this post heading to indicate an upcoming commentary on the patristic era (or perhaps the Old Testament), but I've decided to focus on a sort of 'valentine' for the guys of my generation who seem to see themselves as being perhaps 105. Of course, opening any Internet search engine today makes it understandable. Those of my parents' generation (except for members of my family, who were living into their 90s even in the 19th century) may have tended to die younger, but at least were not inundated with advertisements about every illness under the sun (nor were they bloody bores who thought those around them were interested in their cholesterol counts and target heart rates.)

Just recently, on a very rainy day, I was commiserating with a delightful fellow I know, Eddie, admitting that, though I'm a double Capricorn and live backwards, I wasn't exactly thrilled with the hearing loss, need for stronger contact lenses, arthritis pain and the like which is part and parcel of ageing a bit. (Note to the busybody element: I often say that those who irritate me will get 40 years in purgatory. Anyone who e-mails me about doctors, nutritionists, vitamins, acupuncture and the like will be in purgatory till the end of the world!) Unlike Eddie, I did see a positive side - I'm just reaching what could be an age of wisdom. Eddie's manner of speaking, which I love, cannot be captured on paper, but he commented, "What do you want wisdom for? I'll take before the aches and pains!"

Women may have the 'name' (though I came from a mother who could dance the hully-gully at 84 - and, if you saw me now, dancing in the street at the festivals and wearing mini skirts, tie dye, and fishnet stockings, you'd know "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now"), but I know it's hard for guys to age. I cannot resist sharing two little tales which amuse me (as always, completely true.)

One Franciscan friar who was a friend had a very odd habit of making lists. (He was only five feet tall - one of his lists, for example, was of all the saints who were short.) He also was a bit paranoid, as alcoholics often are. I well remember his 60th birthday. He grumbled to me then told me his latest list. "I'm 60! Do you know what that means? Do you know what happens to a man at 60? You wake up one morning - you can't pee. What if anyone at the chapel knew I couldn't pee?! They'd be accusing me of misbehaving sexually! So, I'm making a list of all the saints and popes who had prostate trouble!" (To Friar X, this was logical. I'm still trying to figure out how anyone other than himself could have known if he couldn't pee...)

When I was an archdiocesan manager, one of the areas under my direction was the automotive fleet. For a number of years, the auxiliary bishops all were provided with cars. One of them (a charming man, I might add) just happened to be due for a new car when he was approaching a milestone birthday. Everything was 'what's more sporty?' When I was speaking to the auto dealer (and questions with bishops can be endless), I had to keep asking about this-or-that which was 'more sporty.' The dealer, though he'd never met this bishop, said to me, "What happened? Has he hit 60?"

So, this Franciscan jester wishes all of the guys whatever is more sporty - and adds the intercession that they remain capable of peeing for eternity. And I'll add one more comment about perspective. (Remember - I have to laugh as well. Most women my age are afraid of losing their looks - I never had them - nor do I need to fear having a spouse dump me for change in a few twenties. My fear of ageing is "I'm alone...") I was wearing a sleeveless dress on Sunday, rather 1960s retro. When I went to a park in between the Eucharist and Evensong, a teenage girl, who saw me from the back at first, called out a compliment about the cool dress and picture hat - then, when she saw my face, said, "Oh, you're old!" (With a sensitivity common to adolescents, this was a mere statement of fact, and I doubt she even knew that not all women would have cracked up laughing, which is what I did. Eat your heart out, kid, the violet and turquoise blended eye make-up has turned my green eyes into emeralds...) On Monday, I went to the gym - there's a wide scope of ages in the classes aimed at those past their first youth, and a few ladies there were near 90, another celebrating her 93rd birthday that very day. At one point, we were doing exercises that involved stretch - kicks sideways and forwards. On the way out, two gossiping Jewish women (I mention their religion only because it's an Orthodox Jewish gym, with a number of members of all ages who are Hasidic and wear long skirts even on cardio machines, so my knee length shorts are daring to some) saw me and muttered to each other, "She could kick high! But she's got all her legs out!" The other said, "Eh, she's a young girl!"

A word about Global Zero

Global Zero - for those of you interested in signing a petition related to nuclear disarmament

I was glad to learn that Presidents Obama and Medvedev have signed an agreement to reduce their nuclear arsenals. I am hoping that next week's meeting, involving many world leaders, will have a favourable outcome.

I seldom write of political matters, though I have strong convictions - all, naturally, based on my religious beliefs. It may seem odd that I therefore don't address such issues more often. Yet I am cautious, because idealists such as myself sometimes find it difficult to present such commentary in a manner which would be readily understood, especially by those with other viewpoints (who also are strong in religious commitment or humanist principles.)

I am fundamentally pacifist, in case that was not obvious. I know little of military strategy, and am not qualified to address those details. But this much is certain in my mind - there is no theory of just war that can include atomic bombs as a moral option. The devastation is utterly out of proportion to the justification of a military target. This was true in 1945, when the effects of the blast were known - and all the more later, since today we know the horrors of the radiation.

Moving into my usual loose association mode - aside from Shakespeare and the Bible, I believe that no author (in the English language) is more widely quoted than Dickens, nor are his lines more recognisable. (In fact, perhaps he wins for that last - because, half the time, those quoting Shakespeare or scripture don't know the source.) Just about everyone would immediately recognise, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." Indeed, that is a brilliant line, because it applies to every place in every era.

I am delighted with many technological advances, many of which one could never have dreamt even within my own lifetime. I love being able to conduct research and contact friends all over the globe from the computer - and one will hear no complaints that I can have music at hand wherever I am. :) Many fatal diseases, in particular those which caused many to die before their fifth birthdays (years or even days...), can be prevented or cured. This is beginning to sound trite already, so I'll refrain from further examples, but the technology today is quite enriching and marvellous.

Sadly, the other side of this is that, in the last world war and since, there was the technology to eliminate thousands of lives in an hour. I am very glad to see that Russia and the United States, who achieved enormous military power at the end of that last war, and who were sworn enemies throughout the 'cold war' years, are taking an initiative together.

Many prelates need to make many apologies

Between the pope, the Archbishop of Canterbury, various bishops of Ireland, and a Vatican official who compared ++Rowan Williams' comments last week to Nazi anti-Semitism, it occurs to me that even the most dedicated, brilliant minds in the Church (of which ++Rowan and Papa Benedict indeed may be counted) can be victims of zeal exceeding prudence, or of seeming prudence exceeding responsibility. The tragedy here is enough to nearly hear echoes of "Quo vadis, Lord?" (and what followed.)

Is it any accident that the Risen Saviour greeted the Twelve with peace and words about forgiveness? His risen body still bore the wounds of the cross - He would suffer with his Church, much as he would remain with us, till the end.

Sad though the situations are, it is no sense ignoring them. These few links, and the other pages linked from them, can give those unaware some idea of the matters.

• Vatican turns its fire on the media - from The Tablet
• Archbishop of Canterbury sorry over abuse comments BBC News
• Cardinal Sean Brady says abusers cannot hide BBC News
• Vatican declined to defrock US priest who abused boys New York Times

My (rarely dominant) pragmatic side is sighing that this should be some Easter season - for "A says we did this - but B did even worse..." I'm sighing once again since the media reports mention that Pope Benedict did not mention the sex abuse scandals in his Easter address. What would one expect - "Christ is Risen - let's talk about sex crimes"? I'm seeing more and more that Christ had wisdom in not answering Pontius Pilate or the High Priest - entirely because it wouldn't have done any good.

Though this does not have to do with sexual abuse, coincidentally I recently was doing research about the industrial schools, Magdalene laundries, mother and baby homes, and other institutions the Catholic Church maintained in Ireland. (One of the reformatories was staffed by the congregation of Sisters who were my own teachers in childhood, though I know nothing of its operation. Several were staffed by the Good Shepherd nuns, whom I had long admired.) I believe that Dante may have reserved a section of hell for the practises of which I read. Yet it was clear that there were those who were more creating a purgatory - atonement for sin, to avoid punishment in the next life, and to prevent further offences on earth.

Without agreeing at all with many approaches, I could see (just from points of view to which I'd had exposure overall, not in relation to such institutions) how very complex they are. Punitive attitudes could be viewed as penitential - encouragement to remain in an institution for life could be intended to shield the 'fallen' from jeopardising salvation by being in occasions of further sin. Removing children from mothers who did not live in accord with Christian sexual morality was intended to protect the children's souls. A life of penance for the 'Magdalene' was atonement that would shield her from future sin and satisfy some supposed divine need for justice. Fear of being sent to institutions where the life was dreadful would be hoped to deter 'falling' - and kindness and support to, for example, unwed mothers was judged to encourage immorality. (I have noticed, and this with deep sadness, that the 'fallen' who were not criminals often ended up institutionalised because they received no love or support from their own families!) I hardly would justify the methods, but I can see very clearly how difficult it is to 'step into the shoes' of those who, probably with noble intentions (and a desire to present alternatives to the workhouse or prison), employed approaches that today would be seen as abusive and degrading. Children who had been sexually abused by outside acquaintances or family members (and who had to testify in court - not in a fashion such as would be the case today) would often have been warned not to say the dirty things that were done to them - as if the child were sinning in speaking of having been a victim of criminal violence.

Indeed, it is perfectly true that many people were subjected to abuse of some kind, whether sexual or otherwise. Yet the truth tends to be mixed with lies in perceptions. Those who dedicated themselves to staffing institutions, and this in a time when social services as we know them were unknown, had mindsets and methods which would make one cringe today, yet most of them were seeking to serve, to observe the gospels, and to care for the spiritual welfare of those in their charge. If I seem to be defending abuse, or even an image of a God who wants us to hate ourselves enough to become lovable, that is very far from true! My pain is in that the minority who were infected by hatred or power, and caused horrible damage, will be the ones who are remembered - and that those who were sincere will be tarred with that brush unjustly.

"Covering things up" would have devastating consequences. Those guilty of heinous crimes indeed inflicted permanent, devastating damage - and there are enough documented cases of when those in authority were guilty of effectively letting this run rampant by neglect of their own responsibility. Still, in times (not so far off, as I'll treat below) when there was not much known about certain crimes, the idea of keeping things secret to prevent scandal did have a basis, however the outcome can shock us now. Scandal often does turn people against the Church (if not the faith.) Things also escalate, and by no means only in relation to sex crimes. If someone, for example, were a missionary and later was found to have been guilty of stealing on a large scale, the tendency would be for headlines about this not to lead to "Suchandsuch was a thief" but "see, and that group pretended they cared for the poor, when they all were only looking for wealth and power."

++Rowan is a brilliant theologian, but (though I dislike Jansen just as much as Calvin...) undoubtedly opened wounds that go back for centuries in saying the RC Church in Ireland, faced with trying to survive despite the mistakes of the hierarchy, had lost its credibility. In relation to the US priest (who was terminally ill), Pope Benedict, then facing a dilemma, I'm sure, of how much Rome should interfere in a diocese, and perhaps seeing nothing to be favourable in defrocking a priest who was near death (and making huge headlines in the process), has to seem one step short of an accomplice. I dare-say that, had Cardinal Ratzinger defrocked the priest in Milwaukee, there would have been headlines of another sort - the big, bad, paternalistic Grand Inquisitor, with his European ways, having dared to meddle in the affairs of the "American Catholic Church." (For the record - there is nothing in canon law at all which prevents reporting criminals who are clergy to the police. In cases of dioceses, religious communities and the like, Rome rarely becomes involved on any local level - it is left to superiors and bishops.)

Satan's lies are so clever. (I'm speaking figuratively, yet mourning for the Church in total - those mentioned in the articles, other than the criminals of course, are often among the best of clergy.) They are lies mixed with truth to attack - and those who truly are devout can find they've had their noblest, most charitable instincts 'used' in the process. Perhaps my own great innocence and naivete are showing here, but I can easily imagine (before the details of paedophilia were known as they are now) that the re-assignment of one who seemed to be cured of his tendency was viewed as charitable and discreet.

I hope no one will mind my quoting from a post of my own, which I composed when a forum on which I participated then was discussing the Geoghan case, and ensuing scandal, which occurred in Boston. This follows here:

I was sure Satan was laughing aloud at the aftermath of the paedophile scandals in Boston some years ago. (No - I am not a paedophile, nor was I ever a victim of one - and I don't know a soul in Boston and have never even been there.) In reading of the incidents, I certainly was chilled by such sheer wickedness as that of Geoghan - a predator who targeted the young children of single mothers primarily. I was also very pained to see that, despite his having repeated incidents reported, there was no move to remove him from being in the company of children. But there is another, more subtle, work of the Liar from the Beginning, which has a wider scale and, overall, a destructive effect on far more people. First, if a priest who is completely innocent were to be accused of paedophilia, he would be assumed to be guilty even if there were not a trace of evidence. (The moment the accusation hit the media, I'm sure many people would remember, perhaps, that he once said hello to their kids in front of church...) If he were to be completely cleared in an investigation, it would be assumed that he was guilty and the church was 'covering up.' As well, priests in general are cut off from the work with others (not only children, though I knew many a kid to have great benefit from association with the clergy) which once had a large role in bringing the gospel message to others in a tangible fashion. There is a popular assumption that every priest is either a paedophile or shielded one.

Anyone who is expecting me to defend the likes of Geoghan, or to minimise the grave actions of those who actually did shield him or others like him, must be drinking perfume. Yet I can see elements which could have made bishops or superiors who were in good faith make honest mistakes which today can look like conspiracies.

When I read of the case in Boston and some others, it struck me that, even in the fields of psychiatry and criminal justice, in depth knowledge of paedophilia is very recent. Some paedophiles, priests or otherwise, who were returned to jobs in which they would deal with children had been pronounced 'cured.' True paedophiles (and sex criminals of all kinds) are often deceitful, charming, and capable of manipulating anyone - often including prison psychiatrists, parole boards and the like. Those who were in the priesthood (though they'd have only been a tiny percentage) would have had the violent criminal's ability to be a chameleon - sensing what mattered to others, and meeting the description. In a climate which so emphasised obedience and conformity, I've no doubt that they seemed models of both.

Sex criminals, contrary to notions which I still am amazed to hear, are not, for example, overwhelmed by a young girl's beauty or giving in to pressure coming from celibacy. (They normally are far from celibate. They've had sexual experience on every part of the spectrum, and often with more than one person at a time!) It is far from a weakness springing from attraction - it is an attack - a perverse need for power that those with no conscience will express in a fashion which involves degradation, terror, manipulation and so forth.

There are many examples one can give of how, in psychiatry, notions about molesters which were prominent only a few decades ago were mistaken. (And I'm not even referring to the presumption that those who really are celibates just have to be sick!) For example, parents whose daughters had been molested were not supposed to express horror - it was assumed that the girl must not feel 'guilty,' or she would be inhibited in her later sex life. The sad truth is that those subjected to such horrid abuse will have a host of problems, the least likely to be 'inhibition.' Those who were victims of such abuse may have an enormous drive towards violent, degrading sexual acts - the 'deviant' who would make others shudder not so long ago too often was horribly damaged as a childhood victim. They may never be capable of loving sexual relationships later, and those who are devout will have neither marriage nor enriching, loving celibacy as an option. They will face no choice except total continence with perverse drives always haunting them - and not only because of the abuse but the other sort of 'cover up' (where the horrors could not be admitted lest they feel 'guilt') - also flawed but well intentioned, and based on a way of thinking that was in accord with the 'wisdom' of science at the time. It isn't only those who are religious who can be mistaken...

I've grown weary of the chestnut that Roman priests would not be paedophiles (...the number who are apparently is grossly overestimated) if they only could marry. Marriage is no cure for the situation - it only gives paedophiles kids of their own to torment, and wives to degrade with the weapon of that insufficient variety of acts is what makes the wives to blame for the crimes.

If bishops were clearly aware of crimes of this type, particularly multiple incidents, it is horrifying if they continued to keep the perpetrator in service. Yet I wonder if that often was the case. A singular, minor incident (were that all that was known) could be misinterpreted. Sadly, the still prevalent idea that this is a lapse in chastity rather than a violent crime could distort perspective (and this bearing in mind, as I mentioned earlier, that those in criminal justice and psychiatry did not understand the situation in any fullness until very recently.)

Most lapses in chastity are the result of human weakness. One could have had an affair with a woman (or man) and still be a good priest. It certainly is possible (and common) for people in any state of life to repent of fornication or adultery. The sin would need to be dealt with, of course, and I'm not denying the spiritual damage which would require much healing, or the other consequences which could arise. But such sins as fornication do not indicate perverse needs for power, violence and the like - nor does an incident of such an occurrence mean a continuing tendency. It is abuse of a normal inclination, not indication of the nature of a psychopath. Certainly, a priest who fell into fornication could have painful remorse as part of such repentance. The sex criminal will fake it brilliantly, but, where the idealistic and innocent could see his going on pleasantly as showing a great faith in divine mercy, the sad truth is that he has no conscience (or true remorse) at all.

Anyone, in any state of life, could have compassion on one who, for example, committed fornication and repented. Unfortunately, the violence of the paedophile could be mistaken for a lapse in chastity - perhaps because one supposed that little boys were more available or something along those lines.

Lies could keep violent criminals in business. They also can make perfectly good and innocent people suspect. (I believe Francis of Assisi was quite correct in placing destroying someone's reputation on a par with murder.) No wonder Satan always was called Father of Lies.

The sad part is that humanity does not at all need any preternatural beings to propagate lies - or to justify motives to themselves. Many of us can do that very well on our own. True tragedies are enough to make our skin crawl, but we can blow these up into "everyone is this way," and it is then that the Father of Lies, appealing to our best nature and true convictions, has us in the palm of his hand.

From the sublime to the ridiculous (or, Christ is Risen - Yeh)

Christ is Risen!

It fascinates me that many of us mortals are highly complex. (The trouble is that, when I meet those who are basically simple, including 98% of Franciscans of course, I tend to take this for a wry joke, but that's another topic for another post.) I'm laughing at myself even more than usual this week. I'm an irreverent (if pious) peasant with very high-brow tastes in liturgy and music - renaissance lady who loves the salty talk of the pub - at once totally Romantic and flavoured with the pragmatism which dominates in nearly everyone in my family - I could go on, but I think you get the picture. For anyone new to this blog (...only the chronically over-religious are repeat visitors...), I'll comment that I tend to forget, since it is so much a part of me, that I'm really into the liturgy, scriptures, and theological writings, to the point where many of my gestures are based on these. I've caught on that this isn't totally universal. I know better by now than to 'greet one another with a holy kiss' unless I'm amongst Italian Franciscans (there are breeds of Christian who'll take this as an attempt to make them), and I don't try to reconcile with anyone before Communion (because they are likely to hang out on the Internet and think this is manipulative.) Yet I still forget that not everyone is going to greet other Christians, from now till Trinity Sunday, with "Christ is Risen!"

I get so wrapped in liturgy that those who know my irreverent side may mistake this for being theatrical. I wept a good deal last week - during the Palm Sunday procession, when I saw the lilies on the cross at the Vigil, when I heard 'on the night he was betrayed' on Wednesday (though I've heard those words in the Eucharistic prayer no less than 300 times a year since I was aged 12.) The services last week were utterly out of this world! I thought someone might have to find a butterfly net to get me off the ceiling, in case I levitated. (What if I floated out of turn and harmed one of the new stained glass windows, for which there was a capital campaign?)

Jumping ahead, because I'm in a silly mood today... One of my guilty pleasures is found in the Agnes Browne novels, penned by the hilarious Brendan O'Carroll. I tucked them into my bag to read on the train for my endless travelling to church last week. They are far from being great literature, but the conversations in them are some of the funniest in print, especially if (as I am indeed) one is acquainted with people who actually talk as do Brendan's characters. I genuinely do know people who, for example, would say "by the time I caught up to you, you were gone," and it's probably a bad sign that I understand exactly what they mean.

Brendan's priceless Agnes Browne uses the expression I know so well, "yeh." This is not to be mistaken for a German Ja or New York Yeah, since it means nothing (or whatever one wants it to mean.) One example of its use will be noted in telephone conversations between close family or friends. If one is phoning anyone in those categories, no "good morning" or "hello" is required when the other party answers, since decorum is unnecessary (and possibly stuffy) with intimates. It is not necessary to identify oneself, since one's voice will be assumed to be recognised at once. Ergo, when the other answers, one may merely say "yeh."

On Easter morning, a friend phoned me, and, when the caller ID made me aware it was a Christian on the other end, I naturally (...for me) answered with "Christ is Risen!" She responded, "Yeh." (That's not quite as bad as another friend who said, "Lor', Elizabeth, did I wake you up?")

I have no addiction whatever to children. (Not that I can't take individual children.... sometimes. But not en masse!) I always sit in the chantry (a little section that is a separate chapel, though it doesn't have any wall separating it from the main seating) for the Easter vigil, so I won't be cramped and can sing out. (I really do shout "The Lord is risen indeed," and I just soar on the splendid "Christus vincit!" arrangement, which has notes above the staff.) We (...thank God...) had only one baptism this year. I could handle that the baby howled throughout most of his baptism - little babies I do love. But I hadn't been banking on that relatives of said child would crowd the chantry with a host of toddlers. (My guess is that, with the vigil being so long, the little ones were hidden somewhere and just appeared for the baptism and afterwards.)

I remembered how I once heard a Church of England priest (a strong-boned, somewhat androgynous, tall woman, who nonetheless had a bell-like soprano voice like an angel) chant the Eucharistic prayer impeccably in a church where I mystery worshipped. (It never fails... let me mystery worship any place totally unfamiliar, and it will be the one Sunday of the year when there is a special service aimed at little children.) She had the kids join her around the altar during the prayer, and (being a mother, and therefore knowing all too well how tiny ones are), said, right before time, "now, I'm going to sing this prayer, and I don't want anyone doing this (and she illustrated hands clamped over the ears and giggling.)"

Naturally, at the Vigil, the kids covered their ears and giggled when I sang out "Jesus Christ is risen today," but, when I hit the high notes on the "Christus Vincit!", they not only did the ear thing but utterly cracked up. (Well, all right... I'll admit that I grinned and winked at their young mothers... who, unlike the priest I mentioned, probably were new to the game - the toddlers were probably their first children. Kids always do that, as I well know. But I almost laughed myself, remembering how an old friend of mine, also one not to suffer little children to come unto him, used to mutter, "lollipop sucking, sticky little bastards..." I didn't go so far as to make such a comment - but I'm stupid enough not to catch on that the infants hardly would have caught my own weird humour when I muttered pleasantly, and in Latin, "all you holy virgins, pray for us.")

For Easter, I utterly dressed to kill - heels (despite that my foot, on which my iron fell two weeks ago, still isn't fully healed), picture hat with a flower - so none of the Baptists, or even Jehovah's Witnesses, in my neighbourhood felt they had to pass me tracts. There are many churches in my neighbourhood. The Anglican thoroughbreds look like horses. The Catholics and Methodists look as if they are on their way to the gym or a picnic. The 'non denominational' evangelical group wear tee shirts printed with slogans that misquote the scriptures, and are just so 'happy' I wonder what they've been snorting. But the Baptists and Jehovah's Witnesses look as if they are about to have tea with the queen. (One of them cornered me not long ago, for some reason thinking I was a Muslim. I also had two at the bus stop preach at me that Satan is in control of the world. I rarely show off, but those two got an ear full, all very restrained of course, but quoting everyone from John in Greek to the patristic writers. After all, they came to me!)

I really did want to write some striking meditation on resurrection, deification, and the like today. But between "yeh," Brendan O'Carroll, the lollipop suckers, and so forth, I decided to let my silly light shine before men. I sometimes catch on that my perspective is a bit weird. (My more pragmatic relatives thought that "Easter duty" meant "putting collection," and my ultra-pragmatic father, insulted when my mother wanted him to make sacramental confession the night he was dying, filled the hospital hallway with his shouted, "Did I kill somebody? Did I steal?" How I OD'd on the mystical I do not expect to discover in this life.)

Some time ago, I made the comment on a theology forum that, however orthodox one might be (and my orthodoxy could not be questioned), one does come to realise that about the best one could hope for is that Christians will agree on the first four words of the Nicene Creed. It did not occur to me that, whenever I mention a text that is part of the Eucharist, I automatically but unknowingly think of the Latin version. (Yes, pedantic sorts, I know the Nicene Creed was originally in Greek! But I've discovered that, when one is studying ICEL English texts, one must always go back to the Latin 'originals' for the comfort of knowing that these translations are even worse than my Greek...) Another on the forum immediately posted, "I believe in One?". Would you believe it took me a minute to catch on?

I raise a glass to my readers... and to the endless weird Christians who have remembered, through two millennia, that there's more to this season than chocolate, eggs, and rabbits. I'll raise a second glass, after all this Lenten fasting, to those who didn't remember - every family needs its diversity of thought.. :-)