Late have I loved Thee..

"O Lord, do I love Thee. Thou didst strike on my heart with Thy word and I loved Thee.... But what do I love when I love Thee? Not the beauty of bodies nor the loveliness of seasons, nor the radiance of the light around us, so gladsome to our eyes, nor the sweet melodies of songs of every kind, nor the fragrance of flowers and ointments and spices, nor manna and honey, nor limbs delectable for fleshly embraces. I do not love these things when I love my God. And yet I love a light and a voice and a fragrance and a food and an embrace when I love my God, who is a light, a voice, a fragrance, a food, and an embrace to my inner man.... This it is that I love when I love my God...

That same voice speaks indeed to all men, but only they understand it who join that voice, heard from outside, to the truth that is within them. And the truth says to me: "Neither heaven nor earth nor any body is thy God." Their own nature says the same They see that the substance of a part is less than that of the whole. And now I speak to thee, my soul. Thou art my greater part, since thou quickenest the substance of my body by giving to it life, which no body can give to a body. And thy God is the life of thy life to thee....

Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty so ancient and so new! Too late have I loved Thee. And lo, Thou wert inside me and I outside, and I sought for Thee there, and in all my unsightliness I flung myself on those beautiful things which Thou hast made. Thou wert with me and I was not with Thee. Those beauties kept me away from Thee, though if they had not been in Thee, they would not have been at all. Thou didst call and cry to me and break down my deafness. Thou didst flash and shine on me and put my blindness to flight. Thou didst blow fragrance upon me and I drew breath, and now I pant after Thee. I tasted of Thee and now I hunger and thirst for Thee. Thou didst touch me and I am aflame for Thy peace...."

Undoubtedly, I shall be writing more of my good friend Augustine in honour of his upcoming feast. For today, I (who only read this passage 100 times a year for the past three decades) am thinking that Augustine captured the essence of detachment in this passage. I'm sure it would have occurred to him that Jesus of Nazareth's curing the blind and deaf on earth, wonderful though it was, was an action more pointing to how divine grace can remove our own, figurative inability to hear and to see.

(Slight diversion which a medievalist cannot resist: Augustine would say that the Incarnation came about through Mary's hearing. Those more literal than Augustine would adapt this into fanciful and delightful pictures of the tiny Jesus-foetus sliding down a beam of light into Mary's ear as she encounters Gabriel... so, now we know how the virginal conception was managed...)

Now, shall I detach myself from mediaeval fancies. :) The very word 'detachment,' which was stressed by every great spiritual writer since the catacombs, always made me shiver a bit. Candidly, I have known a few religious in my day who used 'detachment' as a way to glorify their own coldness and indifference to others (God protect anyone from superiors who brag of their detachment... and indulge their cruelty saying it is 'good for the soul.') Far more commonly, and as anyone who's spent time in convents knows, the concept as explained in noviciate was (in practical application, not necessarily 'text') likely to produce a wimpled Stepford Wife. None of us had the slightest concept of detachment then - and my earlier confession about Augustine's words shows that, well into middle age, I'm only beginning to 'get it.' It seemed to mean that one loved no one, and insisted that one's own family did not really matter (even if we made the sacrifice, for their edification, of seeing them on visiting day.) It meant living with raging hunger yet pretending one did not want the apple - being dead on one's feet, and making sure one signed up to sit the vigil from 3-4 AM - of having an expressionless face that was supposed to be recollected but made one look more like a frightened, prissy little fool.

(By now, it is probably apparent that I was never the darling of novice mistresses, but that is another topic for another day.)

My own spiritual director (who shall have a seat in heaven next to Francis of Assisi for not giving up on me) speaks of detachment as being freed from distractions. "Late have I loved" even making the effort of being freed, though this is the true ascetic life. Ever since Satan whispered to Eve, "is it true you cannot eat of any tree in the garden?," distortion and fear are the main distractions. I know that I can be sent into a near panic, whilst offering prayers of gratitude for my solitude, fearing that no one will ever love me because God wants me behind a grille (of sorts), or that I'll lose my warmth and caring for others...

My rare display of humility this evening (...please, don't be so literal... I know full well that humility is not my strong point...) is intended for those readers (who write the loveliest e-mails) who are just getting past their honeymoon period in the life of prayer. (Don't think I should not like to recapture mine! However, I have had a sense, from dealing with my married friends, that honeymoons do fade, and that anyone seeking a perpetual one is soon acting like a half-wit. In the end, it is all about covenant and responsibility.) I can write of 'my' mystics, and of Francis, et al, see their insights, and believe every word. (That anyone, knowing Francis, could think that one's warmth, love, or passion will fade with growth in the spiritual life is amazing. I just hope, with all the sad state of the Near East at the moment, I do not take Francis' tack and try to convert modern day equivalents of the Sultan...)

Why is what is simplest beyond us? The best capsule course in ascetic theology which I have seen was Margaret Mary Funk's "Thoughts Matter in Practising the Spiritual Life." Using John Cassian's principles, she explains the gentle moderation that actually underlines clearing us from distraction. (Fledgling religious may skip this sentence: I am only beginning to see that it is work for three lifetimes. I have this vivid mental picture of how people who are drowning will struggle in such a fashion that they sometimes need to be knocked out for a companion to save their lives...)

Augustine always pined for the control of reason and will mankind would (in his estimation) have had in Eden. He ached for that intuitive longing for God's will, knowing how much we do fall short. The error which we all tend to make is to believe that there was a Paradise (in the sense of perfect bliss on earth.) We long for that form of Paradise - believing that a world without pain, suffering, evil, and so forth would make us respond to God's will. (Didn't work too well with Adam, did it?)

Sigh... I'm going nowhere, or perhaps in too many directions. "Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped..." Perhaps Augustine, even as early as the Confessions, had the inkling that (as Thomas Aquinas would later well express) it is the will which can choose and love. I'm only beginning to truly see this - and it is off-putting. God seems vague, remote, so incomprehensible that all there is can be silence.

...Silence is hardly my natural state. Quiet until tomorrow...

The Sound of Music

Clearly, the sound of music is something which I could not go without for a day... but this post, uncharacteristically, refers to the dreadful musical "The Sound of Music." I appeared in a production of this play, as the Mother Abbess, some years ago. It was not the easiest role for me, given that the nuns in this show are along the lines of cartoon characters. During both "How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria?" and "My Favourite Things," I felt my dignity was severely compromised. But the director wanted an operatic singer for the "Climb Every Mountain," and I was happy to oblige.

The theatre company's director also happened to be a teacher in a Catholic, women's college, of which I was a graduate. As a treat for the nuns there, she had invited all of them (and it was quite a large number) to be guests at the first performance. They were lovely ladies - but led to two of my most uncomfortable 'stage moments'!

The first was during the scene where the stern Abbess is reminding Maria that disappearing on the mountain (...I'd like to see a convent where that could even happen, let alone be tolerated...) had caused great worry to the nuns. I am very short, have the cheeks of a cherub, and was perhaps 23 at the time, and it indeed was quite an effort to get my pint-sized self into the demeanour of an aged Austrian Benedictine. (As well, though any child could see that I am a marshmallow in ten seconds, I am somewhat stern looking now and then.) Well, when I (as the Abbess) informed Maria that she was going to be the Von Trapp governess, Maria's response was, "A Captain in the Navy? Oh, Reverend Mother, he'll be very strict!" The audience of nuns roared with laughter.

Yet the worst was yet to come. Silly though this show can be, it is far from that in the climactic scene where Maria speaks with the Abbess and acknowledges her love for the Captain. For those who have not seen the play, I'll mention that, at that point in the action, Maria has left the Von Trapp home, with no explanation, and has been at the abbey for several days, refusing to speak to anyone. (As is sadly the case with adaptations of the life of Christ and other historical incidents, the impact can be slightly less than adequate because everyone knows how this story turns out.) When the Abbess questions her, Maria, who still intends to be a nun, speaks of how her conflict is "torturing" her. Maria mentions that she would be "ready at this moment to make the vows..." The nuns in the audience broke into such uproarious laughter that I think both the actress playing Maria and I were a bit thrown!

To prevent this entry from being purposely useless, I shall add: it is a good idea to remember that perspective colours everything. :)

Group reunions

This shall be one of my more frivolous posts, though I'm sure I'll manage to tie it into some relevant matter along the way. I am at the age where thinking of the past generally falls into three categories. The first, which I call 'rose coloured glasses syndrome,' paints a vivid picture of one's earlier days as a time of esteem from others, happy times, and successes of every variety. I suppose this is all right, provided it does not make one's life seem either to have been a string of failures since or lead to the creation of a world where everyone whom one once knew is sitting in the evenings, reminiscing about how wonderful one was and what influence one had.

The second is regret for the past and all of one's mistakes. Oh, some of this is quite useful, in the appropriate dosage - I think even the general confession has its uses. But this approach tends to either cast one in the role of a villain when this was not the case - or to fill one with regret for missed opportunities which, in all likelihood, did not exist.

The third is nostalgia, which I'm sure was characteristic of mature years, and not a problem in itself, since shortly after mankind left Eden. (Pining for Paradise is an unequalled regret which, most fortunately, few of us, except for Augustine, would have imagined since.) There are many changes in the world which I sadly, even bitterly, regret, and I'm sure I am not alone. The only danger in nostalgia, when not taken to extreme, is that one may believe one could recapture the happiness by re-creating the circumstances of 30 years ago.

I have often said that, where many people in middle age and beyond have memories that are in 'photograph mode,' my own mind is a video camera. It is possible to look at a picture of a 'senior party' and remember it as an enchanting occasion - a prospect which is impossible if a video captured the image of one's having been in tears or telling jokes which one thought hilarious at the time.

I suppose that part of the reason I can miss things about the past without glorifying my youth is that my areas of special interest (humanities, music, theology and so forth) require many years to develop. I doubt I'll ever acquire wisdom, being far too romantic at heart, but know that those who do are only getting started at age 50. I valued maturity and still do, so I was spared the pain of weeping for my lost youth at 20, then living in a state of anxiety, at 40, that I may have lost my youthful beauty and charm.

I have never attended a group reunion, but know many people who have. It does contain an element, normally reserved to one's young adulthood today but nobly enshrined in the courtly love tradition of the Middle Ages, where the anticipation far exceeds the fulfilment. I'm sure we all remember the formal affair, masquerade party, whatever, which we so eagerly awaited at 16. I have noticed that reunions give promise of a delighted time with old friends (and rekindling of old friendships for today), seeing one's school chums share one's delight in what has transpired in one's life since, and, best of all for those with minds which are not only 'photographs' but taken with a series of complex filters, being reminded of how much one was admired by the others.

When others who have attended reunions tell me of it later, the most common comment is along the lines of 'after five minutes' (sufficient time to show photographs of one's children and grandchildren, and to perhaps mention one's current address, occupation, or cat's name) 'there was nothing to say.' I've known cases where, if "Alice" is aglow thinking of seeing "Shirley," her closest friend at 15, again, Alice will later be saddened to realise that Shirley has not thought of her in years, and does not even remember the time they shopped for silver shoes together.

Of course, sometimes to have people barely remember one is quite merciful. All too often, one indeed shall be remembered... and the memories consist of whatever one would most like to forget (and, indeed, probably did manage to forget.) I have no answer for this one, though it is a topic worthy of pursuit should I ever fully develop my philosophical sense: people not only tend to remember the worst of things about others, but seem to assume that the other will greatly enjoy being reminded of them. Memories of the more positive matters often backfire as well. One lady I knew, who was quite a beauty in her youth but is not particularly attractive today, was saddened at how several people said she 'used to be so pretty,' made the worse with the comment about 'how did she let herself go.'

Perhaps it does happen, but, to date, I have yet to hear of a reunion which led to joyous resumption of past friendships. (Cases where people actually have been in touch over the years, or have had continued involvement with a school, are in another category.) I suppose that, by the half century mark, we should be resigned to that, even when we liked people and enjoyed their company immensely, often our extensive social contact was an indirect result of being involved in the same school, organisation, or other pursuit. Yet I have known those who had such experiences as having a brief hello from a girl to whom they once proposed marriage.

Some of the people who were considered 'winners' during their youth (or who no one would ever have admitted were trying, given the need for group approval at that age) would be exasperating today, assuming they still are as they were then. I remember one fellow, actually quite a good comic actor, who could be hilarious to watch on stage. In social settings, he was always 'on,' and it was de rigeur to rave about just how much he was the best thing about a party. I am sure I am not the only one who found him tolerable for about five minutes. Every other person, it seemed, was merely a starting point for his ridicule, and perish the thought he was not at centre stage for every moment. Heaven knows what he is like today - but one can only hope that he is not still the sort who, during a performance of Frank Langella's 'Dracula,' would shout (at the critical climax when Dracula hurls an object and breaks the mirror in which his reflection cannot be seen) "Seven years bad luck!"

Much as we'd hate to admit it, we really never did know what others thought of us at that age. (We may not now, but that is another topic.) The devoted friends we try to remember from our teenage years were far more likely to be a fickle bunch. The obligatory laughter at the sort of clown I mentioned in the previous paragraph would turn to discussions of what a fool he was in a later conversation. My generation was not one for Victorian traditions of introductions, 'beaux,' and dance cards - and one knows full well what was said about the girl who was 'popular.' This is a mere fact of life, also as old as the earth, but, where we would not be likely to be surprised at this action in our friends' teenaged children, recognition could be sad if, since we were that age, we thought we'd had undying admiration and loyalty.

A few years ago, I saw an Internet discussion forum for 'baby boomers' advertised. I paid the site a visit, imagining fun in sharing memories of the Beatles, fashions, films, and the like. The reality was a collection of frumps, discussing such exciting and fun topics as 'preventative health care' and saving for retirement. I'd be totally out of place at a reunion. I tend to inwardly laugh at people who are trying to be impressive in any case, but would not be able to dispense the expected applause to anyone whose 'accomplishments' had to do with developing hypochondria, exploring the 'self help' aisle, or deciding to wage war against the evils of asparatame. Anyway, even assuming anyone had memories of when I was, for example, a very promising musician would be far more likely to either comment on how fat I am or (based on reunion stories I have heard from friends) remember the time I cried after a performance far more than the performance itself.

Lest this silly entry not contain at least one religious reference, I shall add that, one of these days (probably within a century or two), young scholars will be looking over accounts of things liturgical (or otherwise churchy) and wishing they'd been around during the 1970s. And well they might have such a feeling - because there indeed can be benefits from even the weirdest situations that are recognised only with hindsight. I wonder what they'll be thinking in 500 years? I've studied the mediaeval period in far too much depth not to wonder why people, much later, had happy dreams of knights and ladies... no Plague, no peasants' revolt, no sewage in the street...

Yet another silly fashion observation

Bear with me once again. :) Occasional lapses into the realm of silly are quite necessary to the spiritual life and any other, a fact sadly neglected since the demise of the miracle play and 'boy bishop.' I am in the midst of having a marvellous laugh at the concept of Wait Wear, of which I'd seen mention on another site. (Don't miss it - it should be your best laugh in weeks.) Apparently, many of the young interpret chastity in quite another manner than was traditional. Not that anything about lapses in chastity is new - but I do not recall, in my youth, that the version of not having sex that is ... similar to that used by Bill Clinton was considered particularly pure. Many of my generation - post-contraception, pre-AIDS - laid everything but the Channel Tunnel, but at least called a bonk a bonk.

"Wait Wear" is a selection of knickers with a message. What a fool I am... here I would have thought that women who were silly enough to think it appropriate to broadcast chastity (don't read my words here with uplifted eyebrows - see the Wait Wear site first) would equally broadcast such ... messages. Innocent that I am, I would have thought that those trying to be chaste would not have had anyone reading their underpants in the first place.

My love for fashion is no secret, even if my own sense is totally centred on personal style (which I'm sure, in my case, some would think weird - I know not all women my age would cherish the tie-dye velvet I'm wearing in the photograph.) My sense of justice also reminds me that comments from the middle-aged on the fashions popular with youth, which never were accurate, are particularly inappropriate from those of my generation. (I suppose I could sub-title this post "brought to you by the makers of 'evening hot pants.') Yet I have noticed a very recent and apparently popular trend, I'm sure encouraged by the fashion industry, that has me exceedingly puzzled. Though I doubt advertisements for this style use the phrasing that I shall employ, why is it suddenly considered attractive, and presumably alluring, for young women to walk the streets in their underwear? I saw a group of pretty young things this week, wearing underwear for a blouse and making certain that observers also had a clear view of their thongs.

This does not happen to be an expression of outraged modesty. Modest I am indeed - and I'm romantic enough to think that modesty would have the potential to be quite alluring properly used, not that I would have that goal. :) It is a sigh from an outraged fashion sense.

I am far from being any authority on things romantic, and such knowledge as I may possess is purely theoretical. It is my theory that silks and laces for lingerie could have great potential for making a woman feel more attractive, sensual, whatever. (Oh, good heavens, don't shake your head so! There is more than one meaning of sensual - and the sensual is important in any life. For those of us in 'anchorholds,' it centred on classical music, paintings, and aromatherapy baths.) I have the idea that such items as a pretty chemise can, in the appropriate circumstances, be quite valuable in the manner in which presenting a gift is all the more delightful when it is in lovely wrapping. (I have a vaguer sense that the male will have the exact same attitude towards the gift wrapping that people have towards the wrappings on other gifts, and use precisely the same action, but am not qualified to expound.)

Somehow, the gift wrapping loses its appeal when it is ten for a penny. The present then is placed on a level with the free samples of cheap bath gel that are passed out in front of stores.

I weep for this generation. It is not their morality that brings the tears, but the sad conviction that they have no style. ;)

A most valuable Assumption

That pun is one of my worst, but I shall let it stand. I'm a bit worn - moving house is exhausting for the best of us, and the 'advice' (...that is, gloom of the 'always expect the worst' school, which people somehow so love to dispense) is more exhausting yet. I'm sure I shall be forgiven if I get a little creative in my thoughts about the feast of (take your choice) Saint Mary the Virgin - the Assumption of Our Lady - the Dormition. By all means, see Father Gregory's very insightful words on the subject. They are relatively brief, but capture more about what is essential in the ascetic vocation than I normally manage to fit on a ream of paper.

For all my love of the patristic writers, I know relatively little about Orthodoxy. (Most of that I learnt from Gregory, but that's another topic for another post. If I ever should drop out of minor stiff upper lip mode and decide to become totally Italian for a few posts, I'll undoubtedly start blubbering about my two co-contributors and how valuable they have been in my spiritual life to a degree that would be quite excessive - unless I chose not to write in English.) Yet a few things do strike me. In the western Church (Roman Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, and whoever else is Catholic out there), somehow the ascetic vocation is slightly embarrassing. :) I'm not about to expound here on the history of this (though, fear not, snippets will appear in later entries), but our preoccupation with original sin and fallen nature tends to bring images of hell and punishment. The East has an advantage in another area as well. I do not sense the uncomfortableness with the physical aspects of creation (the Incarnation at the top of the list) which always dims the Western perception of the Light of the World. (I cannot imagine that, were Edward Schillebeecx Orthodox, he'd ever have been acclaimed for reducing the Resurrection to the disciples' 'experience of forgiveness,' for example. But I don't want to be unkind... I've disliked his 'disincarnation' views ever since he said that monastic life could die out with a proper understanding of the theology of marriage... Get me another gin!)

For all my deep affection for Augustine, his preoccupation with our fallen nature left the western church with an uneasy approach to creation. (I'm not referring only to Augustine's using sexual images to illustrate just how far we had fallen. Unlike Augustine, that area is not what the mediaeval theologians would have called my 'principle defect.' However, I suppose Augustine's longing for a world where he'd have total control over his sexual urges, thereby not having passion compromise his use of reason and will at any time, is not so far from my own version, where everything is Victorian, romantic, tea gowns and champagne - no sweat, grunts, or the nuisance of such things as menstruation and labour pains. It is fortunate we both ended up celibates.) We believe creation is good, indeed, but that it could have been perfect - no pain, no earthquakes, etc. - had we not fallen. Thomas Aquinas (and don't think I don't love him) gave an impression that mankind, in falling, messed up the original plan, requiring the Creator to move to an alternate...

The Dormition, as Father Gregory explained, does not need to be connected to original sin, and to death as some sort of failure. All right, blame the Franciscans (my own Order) for the Immaculate Conception... got Aquinas on that one, did they not? :) But Franciscans, awkward though their preaching could be in catering to the popular market, always did emphasise the Incarnation (and our deification) more than concepts of atonement. They glorified Mary as one whose body was a tabernacle, and connecting the Dormition with the Immaculate Conception would not have had the element of salvation from hell fire and the like. (Be kind to Francesco in calling his body 'Brother Ass.' He was preoccupied with his sins, often excessively so, and was concerned with how he'd misused his own temple of the Holy Spirit.)

In all Marian devotion, there are two elements which must be considered. First, all beliefs about Mary are connected directly with Christology. Second, Mary represents the Church. This is not to say that I disbelieve in the literal truth of such dogmas which date from the early centuries of the Church. Yet I believe they have their depth only when we recall how Creation, magnificent but glorified all the more in Christ's assuming the nature of a creature, can be (I'll borrow this from the Orthodox, perhaps wrongly) an icon. Truths which are beyond us can be made clearer, with allowance for our human limitations, when expressed in the physical.

Mary's perpetual virginity, an embarrassment today to those who want to blame the doctrine for every sexual hangup and act of misogyny in history, is very powerful, if we remember that virginity (of the perpetual and committed, not 'true love waits' variety) is eschatological, pointing to that there is more to our existence than what is on earth alone. I'm not suggesting, of course, that belief in this dogma is essential in the manner that truths about Christ and the Trinity are - nor is it part of our creed. Yet what a wonderful image! In this virginity, Mary (who, you'll recall, always is an image of the Church), reminds us of the Church in eschatological expectation, waiting for all to be glorified at the parousia.

I cannot hope to match what Gregory wrote of the Dormition. However, it moves me deeply to think of Mary's being an icon yet again - a reminder of what is eternal, how we all can expect the resurrection, how our bodies shall be glorified in Christ.

I'm getting too disassociated here, so I suppose it is best to stop for the moment. Yet, when I get to the Eucharist next, I'm going to call the Dormition to mind when I recite, (I believe) "in the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting."

Awkward and brief tribute to Lady Poverty

Happy, indeed, is she to whom it is given to share this sacred banquet,
to cling with all her heart to Him.
Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts admire unceasingly,
Whose love inflames our love,
Whose contemplation is our refreshment,
Whose graciousness is our joy,
Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing,
Whose remembrance brings a gentle light,
Whose fragrance will revive the dead,
Whose glorious vision will be the happiness of
all the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem.
-Clare of Assisi

Indeed, this life is unpredictable. I had fully intended to develop a (long overdue) essay on Clare, or, at the very least, to prepare a meditation for the blog. Yet my mind is rather muddled today. The strain of moving house is exhausting, but nothing compared to the images in my mind after watching today's world news, and wondering if a certain world leader is about to seek to use atomic warfare to prove how powerful he is.

I'm too weary to develop a full reflection, but, ever since Michael ('who is like unto God?') cast Lucifer from the heavens, why has the nature of created, intelligent beings always been twisted by the desire for power?

I remember, some years ago, some creative ramblings (the name of the book I do not recall) to the effect that Francis and Clare were rebellious kids, somewhat on the order of 1960s protesters. (That I should like to see more spirit in protest, and not on 'safe' topics such as eliminating smoking, I shall save for another thread.) Though both, to borrow the apt words of Mother Mary Francis ("A Right to be Merry"), walked at right angles to the world, my inclination is to think that Clare, like myself, was quite a sanitised hippie. :)

Clare's embrace of poverty, at first glance, can seem chilling to most. I did not grow up in extreme poverty (though my parents had), and always had necessities of life - though I dare say not what those from more prosperous homes would have considered 'necessary.' I suppose I always was puzzled by those who devote themselves to the pursuit of wealth - they never seem satisfied, and will make anything take second place to having more material goods. But poverty, even when one was not dying in the street, had a bleak side. It meant having no choices - even those like myself, with university degrees, seldom had the ability to use true gifts, because of the pressing need to take any job just to survive. It too often became just working and working and working - not in a creative or satisfying mode, not even with avenues for service. Everything was sheer survival.

The core of vowed poverty is eschatological - with the lives of those so consecrated as icons to the oft-forgotten truth that there is more to creation than this earth. The poverty of the Poor Clares was (and is) beyond that which most would care to embrace. My own convent days (though I was not cloistered), for all of their good aspects, nonetheless involved constant, ravenous hunger - weakness and fatigue - taking three times as long to complete (for example) simple household tasks because, by the time a cloth was granted the high status of 'rag,' it was transparent.

Sorry to make this post so miserable - that is not my intention. I am trying to express that Franciscans really do 'live poor.' At its best, this is very liberating.

The 'other side' of poverty, and one which can grow only quietly (extremes destroy it), is gratitude. It tends to foster an awareness of all of the good of creation, and thankfulness for the simple things we do have.

I am beginning to see that gratitude is the way to the sort of detachment that is holy. That is a topic I must pursue... but, again, that may take another quarter century (if I live that long.) The convent version of detachment meant pretending that the bit of time with family on visiting day was a sacrifice for their sake - excessive rigidity and formality - cultivating the expression of a sphynx to give the impression of being 'recollected.' May I know what any of that means before I die! (And know all the more afterward.)

Blessings for the feast of Clare.

Argue 'by the rules'

I was looking at Father Gregory's blog today, and would encourage those who wish to see an Orthodox (capital O) viewpoint regarding the C of E decision to ordain female bishops to visit.

There are many reasons why one might support the ordination of women or not (and since priesthood is an extension of episcopate rather than vice versa, it follows logically that, if women can be priests, they can be bishops). The path of this argument, which position one chooses, is well worn, so I'll not explore it today. My 'topic' is two-fold. First, by all means argue any theological point in creation - but use the proper basis. Second, do not hide behind my 'old friend' Freud and decide that those with a point of view differing from one's own are using their contrary position as a 'subconscious' cloak for a defect on their part. (Positions on the order of 'Suchandsuch surely would agree with me were s/he not flawed' are odious.)

Individuals who support or oppose the ordination of women may have perfectly solid theological grounds (based in sacramental theology, ecclesiology, or both). I myself have never seen a reason that women could not be ordained, though priests, of either sex, need to be accepted as such by the Church - there is no 'right' to priesthood. (I mention this only because I read something by Andrew Greeley, an occasional bag of wind who is intelligent enough to know better than to make such statements, which pleaded that the reason US nuns cannot be priests is that they cannot violate the sacred 'separation of church and state' and sue their employer for discrimination...) Yet I find it highly irritating when anyone who opposes women's ordination is tarred with a brush of 'he uses theological grounds - but they are only rationalising - he subconsciously is a mysogynist.'

As I've treated of in other posts, I believe that self-deception is the key reason that any one of us falls short of virtue. Indeed, we do need to explore our personal motives for our actions. Yet deciding what is going on in another's 'subconscious' (is that possible? not that I really care) is nonsense.

I frankly am sick to death of quasi-theological arguments which fit everything into one mould. For example, the Roman Catholic positions on contraception, priestly celibacy (in the Latin Rite), the ordination of women, and divorce all have different reasons - they were not cooked up in a vicious kettle of 'let us see what we can do to oppress women today.' (I am a mediaevalist and have studied the patristic era in depth, so this must not be taken to mean I am ignorant of misogyny. But it must not be assumed that Rome opposes divorce because patristic hermits, who had complex ideas about our growing closer to God if we only could be like angels, saw women as a threat. You'll ask what the logic is in that... my point is that there is none.)

It is fine with me if the last sound on this earth before the last judgement is that of well-reasoned theological arguments. (At the general judgement itself, I suppose, the last words will be largely either "but the bugger had it coming to him," "I thought I was justified," or "but we didn't really do it.") Yet I wonder if my own purgatory would be to sit in the company of those who play to the popular 'market' - spouting political correctness, pious sentimentality, or clichés. Using the words of the Bible to justify what the Bible says - using 'fidelity to the magisterium' to justify the same - tucking controversial issues (and I mean 'issue' in the true sense, not as the current and annoying euphemism for 'problem') into a package of "oppression of women" or other politically correct jargon.

If one's actions indeed make one guilty of oppression, it does not matter whether the one oppressed is male or female. Cruelty is not less so because the target has light skin. The poor do not suffer less because of their race or sex. Critical (or fatal) diseases are not less important, or less the reason for compassion and service, if they do not happen to be breast cancer.

Hating or oppressing another for any reason is deplorable - please do not think that I am minimising the evils of true racism, sexism, and the like. But such hatred must not be assumed because one's views do not coincide with what is currently considered 'inclusive.'

...sigh... Had God not placed certain gifts in a flawed vessel (I'm referring to health, not sex!), I might have been a wonderful priest... :) .... but I would never be envious of anyone who had the peculiar burdens of being a bishop.

I know you believe you understand what you think I said...

but I am not sure you realise that what you heard was not what I meant.

I cannot recall where I read the line I used to begin this entry - it sounds like the sort of thing I must have seen printed on a shirt or something. Yet, though it momentarily seems silly, it reminds me of a situation I have seen on countless occasions. People seldom really listen, and confuse 'listening' with just picking up on key words in order to share their response.

In "The Spiral Staircase," Karen Armstrong writes of symptoms she had during and after her time in convent life, and about which she consulted various psychiatrists. Karen is not mentally ill at all, but has temporal lobe epilepsy, and her symptoms were 'textbook' for that problem. Yet the psychiatrists, who undoubtedly could have spouted off the symptoms for temporal lobe epilepsy with no provocation, not only did not pick up on the ailment but would not let Karen discuss anything else of her choosing. Freud has been king for nearly two centuries (yes, often in the church as well - what on earth did this man do that made him so influential?). Since Karen entered a convent at age 17, and remained there for seven years, she was immediately 'boxed' as having problems stemming from childhood, etc., etc.. After all, what could be a greater symptom of mental illness than becoming a nun?

I am no expert on Freud, though, from what little I do know of him, I dare say he was more twisted than most mental patients. Who, for the past century, has been able to even write honestly of the human condition, without wondering what Freudian interpretation readers would give the words? Lord have mercy, I can just imagine if Julian of Norwich saw some shrink and spoke of her visions of Christ's blood. (Christ's blood, I must add, does not revolt me... besides its being a symbol of redemption, I recall that I just drank some this morning.)

Within the pastoral realm, it is most unfortunate that 'boxing' people, and deciding that 'this must mean that,' is no less common than it is elsewhere. Few people would understand my life of prayer - and, indeed, even the devout would see it as negative. After all, why would someone with my education not be after making the most money possible? It is assumed that celibates (well, when it is not assumed they are crazy - being a heavy woman, I've been asked if I'm hiding behind a wall of fat because I'd been raped - and there is not a word of truth in that!) have 'nothing to do' if they are not constantly chained to office desks. (Scholarly pursuits, apparently, are 'doing nothing.') Honestly, there are days when I think I'll spend forty years in purgatory if one more person tells me I need "something to do." (I dare say I 'do' more in a day than most in a week, even if it has not lined my pockets with gold.)

I apologise, dear friends, for the poor quality of my writing at the moment. I'm in the midst of moving to a new flat. Though I am quite satisfied with the place I found, the exhaustion of all that goes into moving is compounded by puzzlement over why so many people just love to see the dark side. I've heard, just this week, every possible thing that can go wrong. Pessimistic by nature, the last thing I need is fuel for the fire - but one question I'll take to the grave is why people take such pleasure in trying to make others more tense and worried.

I've been a scholar for many years, and there is nothing I have learnt more than that one never has all of the answers... more learning means more questions. I think, deep down, that those who do not listen but spout clichés, and those who love to trouble others, would like to be thought of as having superior knowledge. Why is the implicit condescension not apparent to them?

People who are trying to convince me that all sorts of catastrophes are ahead, or that the right doctor could cure me of my religious commitment, are an annoyance. I have stuffed none of them up the chimney, largely because I never did have a fireplace. Yet, again to refer briefly to the pastoral realm, it is extremely dangerous to make generalisations or 'box' people. All communication and understanding is cut off as a result.

Another 'film thought'

I love good dramas, and, as far as film versions go, I'd give "Vera Drake" five stars. It was totally absorbing - acting superb - excellent ensemble. Imelda Staunton was outstanding.

Obviously, film reviews are not what I provide here. :) Yet the character of Vera brought several points to mind. When Vera is 'helping girls in trouble,' one never knows whether, based on previous experience (her own?), she does not expect there can be dangerous effects, or whether she is aware of but chooses to ignore this. The girl who nearly dies as a result of the abortion is saved only because she was not alone when she began to convulse. Vera is totally distraught at the news - and it appears that such a possibility would never have occurred to her.

At first glance, Vera seems to be a good-hearted sort who would drop in on anyone with a problem - even if only to offer a cup of tea. (That in fact is Vera's suggestion in any circumstance - and, for all that my own cups of tea are highly therapeutic, and I can think of no situation where a cup makes things any worse, her involvement with others is peripheral. Perhaps her sister-in-law, who sees Vera more as a busybody than having a 'heart of gold,' would not be alone in that assessment.) Yet there is complexity here which reminded me of an attitude I've seen in many, including those within the church, who seek to be involved in others' lives - with good intentions but a lack of prudence. Vera chooses to ignore the underlying problems.

We see Vera perform several abortions before the one which nearly causes a death, and several of the ladies clearly are deeply worried about possible consequences, one actually amazed that Vera will not be returning to see if she is all right, another asking point blank if she can die. ("What you need now is a nice cup of tea, dear.") The question is unanswered. Is Vera narrow of vision, where her own experience is the boundary and no other possibility admitted? Or does she not care to look at gruesome alternatives?

I made mention, in another post, of how those within the church too often are ready to shrug off those in need with stock answers. Lesson one in pastoral care (in any sense) should be "do not assume you know others' experience."

Pax et Bonum... it is a bit too hot for me to develop this now but, be forewarned, it is a topic to which I shall return. :)

"That's all they're showing this year"

I happen to know two women, who have no connection with each other, both of whom are hairdressers. I would imagine that their customers go on about various details of their lives, and coincidentally both of them use the trite line I quoted as header for this post. Mention to either one that you painted your kitchen a particular colour, have a certain decor, are wearing a new outfit, whatever, and the inevitable comment will be, "That's all they're showing this year."

I suppose some people find that complimentary - I would not. Whether I have designed a room, a dress, curtains, or an Internet site, I value personal style and creative expression, not the opinions or trends which "they" would encourage "this year." I, in fact, would find it insulting that anyone would think my selections were based on trying to conform to some silly trend.

The hairdressers, of course, are using a stock line that is harmless. Yet it is unfortunate that, in my many years of church work, too many people, who were in positions that involved education or counsel, or who spoke or published for the masses, had a tendency to parrot trendy lines. For example, in answer to a serious question or criticism, I knew one Sister in a prominent position who would always say, "That's the way the church is moving." Another would respond, in similar situations, invariably with, "You have to be very open to change." That is not an answer - only a way to cut off a question.

In pastoral situations, it could be worse still. When I worked in a university campus ministry, one nun loved for people to confide in her, and indeed encouraged this immensely. Yet those who truly wished some sort of response or guidance would inevitably hear, "We like our lives tucked in neat little boxes."

No one loves words more than I, or clichés less. Most of the time, when another is troubled, there is nothing we can do - but, in such situations, listening in itself is preferable to cutting people off with a stock phrase. The latter only shows that one is not caring for the other, but just wishes to seem wise.

A wee tale of the value of casuistry

Between a question I was asked recently, and what I've been reading about the proper Victorians' shock at Alphonsus Liguori's casuistry, I wonder why 'Catholic guilt' is given such emphasis. Then again, my family is from the diocese which bordered on Alphonsus', and I have no genetic pre-disposition to excessive guilt. Our attitude was that God was, after all, our Father - and, anyway, we were very close with His mother. :)

If I were to be Thomistic for a moment, Thomas treated of grave sin as that which involved reflection and consent. In brief, casuistry admits that, if there is any doubt that gravity, use of reason, or consent of the will were deficient, such doubt cannot co-exist with certainty! I dare say that Alphonsus knew a person or two who would justify even murder, depending on the victim. (Of course, I think that, deep down, we know that the grave sins usually did involve reflection and consent... and the surest sign of certainty is when we are doing mental gymnastics to determine that we lacked use of reason or will in relation to our own sins... Alphonsus did not intend his instructions in moral theology to be a 'do it yourself' kit.) :) But I should like to share a little story I heard in childhood which is profound in its simplicity.

Terrence was the son of two thieves and, from earliest childhood, his parents had taught him the craft. One day, when he was sent out to pick pockets, a harsh rainstorm arose, and he ducked into the local Catholic church (where he'd been baptised - though he'd not been much of a visitor since) for shelter.

A group of children were gathered there, listening to a sermon explaining how to make one's first Confession, preparatory to their doing so that day. Terrence's interest was sparked, and he decided to join them.

Terrence confessed his disobedience, in that he had sat listening to the sermon when he'd been sent out to pick pockets.

Briefest of thoughts on the day that London was 'blasted'

To my knowledge, all of my friends are safe, and for that I am very grateful. When I am upset, I tend to (to quote my spiritual father) worship at the altar of fear, rather than that of the true God - and so it has been today. I therefore encourage my readers to visit Father Gregory's blog, where one may find a reflection that has wisdom spiritual and earthly! :)

There is little that I can say, because I shall never understand attacks of this type. Why, since Cain and Abel, has a desire for power or control tended to equate to violence?

God grant us peace. As shaken as I am by what happened today, I tremble the more to think of what certain world leaders (I'm thinking of one who used a terrorist attack a few years back as an occasion to threaten eleven nations, none of whom were even involved, with atomic bombs*) might use this as an excuse for unleashing.

Auschwitz and Hiroshima (just as two examples) indeed cured the world of the mindset of Victorian optimism (and God keep us from ever falling into that again, because we can only meet God and neighbour in the real world, however fallen.) It is a shame that it did not cure mankind of the desire to crush and kill and destroy.

*My mentioning that the nations were not involved in the attack is not to be taken to mean that I think atomic warfare is moral in any case!!

Films can jar the memory

The problem with being a film buff, the more if one's preference is drama, is that some of the best acted presentations can jar deep memories. Yesterday, I saw "The Magdalene Sisters," undoubtedly one of the best-acted and most horrifying films in recent years.

I shall not comment here about the details of the Magdalene laundries - that misery is amply documented elsewhere. Yet, for all that my life is quite different from the unfortunate women who were housed there, certain religious themes presented were all too familiar to me. (In fact, the Order which educated me staffed some of the reformatories and 'penitent' houses in Ireland - though the attitude was hardly exclusive to those in such apostolates.) The idea that one can never atone enough for one's own sins, that suffering and sacrifice (by which I mean that beyond what one encounters naturally in life) is the way to holiness, and the general image of an angry God who must punish us to purge our weakness, is a grim memory I can never seem to shake.

Oddly enough, this in no way corresponds to what I believe, let alone to my intellectual convictions about the faith. But the emotional goblins, introduced at such a young age, indeed do reappear from time to time. I knew full well, viewing "The Magdalene Sisters," that, horrid though the abuse these girls received was, the lives of the nuns were probably no better. The headmistress (I am not about to say warden) reminded me vividly of nuns I knew in youth - capable of charm, humour, and engaging ways, yet brutal. I doubt this was born of hatred. I think those who behaved in this fashion genuinely believed they were saving others from going wrong - perhaps even from hell. Convent life, too often, equally was a way of personal 'redemptive suffering.'

Perhaps that today, when it seems that self-esteem reigns, one's personal desires are exalted, and we have little sense of personal sin at all, it is, at least in part, an over-reaction to the ways that were still popular only a few decades ago.

Franciscans stress 'penance' a good deal, yet, for all that Francis could torture himself (without imposing the same practises on the others), true penance is beautiful - a continuous metanoia. The difference between self-torture and genuine penance are as vast as those between a destructive storm and a peaceful, refreshing bath (heavy on the aromatherapy oils for me, please.) Penance is not inflicting pain. It consists of, first, acknowledging that actions have consequences. Oh, all of us are aware of natural consequences - but, even when there are few or none for an action, the spiritual consequences remain - the intimacy with God is hampered (and not because of a lack of initiative on His part.) Beyond this, it essentially consists in seeking to conform one's life to the gospel.

Is it ever possible to strike the proper balance...

Brief 'notes' on computer music

With the caveat that one must not expect an orchestra when one hears MIDI files, those of you who have asked about my sequenced folk and spiritual selections may hear some of them at Laura's MIDI Heaven.

Clarification - mysticism and prayer

I received an e-mail today from a reader who disliked my essay on mysticism, believing that I had disassociated mysticism from prayer. That was not at all my intention, and I wished to record a few points here. (Perhaps the essay needs some updating in any case.)

First, I am amazed at how much mail I receive from people who had no idea that mysticism had any relation to Christianity, thinking it the exclusive province of New Age and Buddhist traditions. If I may quote myself for a moment: "Christian mysticism sees growth in spirituality as involving an ever deepening, personal relationship with God. The mystic, whose longing for a total bond with the Beloved, is not seeking nothingness, nor to “find the God within.” His Lover is also a Person, albeit one Divine. Since true contemplation is a gift of grace from God Himself, the mystic remains fully (and, perhaps, anxiously) aware that his own accomplishments and efforts cannot attain this union."

I had assumed (probably unwisely - though I treat of this in other essays) that it was understood that Christian mystics have a life centred on prayer and the sacraments. That reminds me of an important point. The writers to whom I refer on my site (such as the author of the Cloud of Unknowing) were addressing their words to a person or persons with whom they had a continued personal relationship, and whom they knew were committed to a life of prayer. If there is no reference to the need for prayer and sacrament, this does not mean that they are unimportant, much less that the mystic is 'beyond' them. These would be so integral to the mystic's life that they would require no reference.

One common mistake is to consider writings, such as Walter Hilton's Ladder of Perfection or the works of Teresa of Avila, as if they were a handbook. Those called to heights of contemplation are responding to a special grace - they are not superior to others, and it is not a matter of personal achievement. Though Walter, Teresa, et al indeed were referring to what one would expect (or how one should behave) at a certain point on the 'ladder,' this does not mean 'follow this step and proceed to the next.' That really is not in our hands. There are mystics whose lives contain many unusual experiences and consolations - others who face a sense of emptiness and desolation.

Bear with me - I am of a generation when 'contemplative prayer' (not necessarily properly understood, and with no consideration of discernment) was a hot topic. One could hear instructions such as 'do this particular prayer for a month, and you'll reach the prayer of quiet.'

I may be expressing this awkwardly, but we need to recall that Christ's Church is a 'whole.' That divine grace may ordain that one person is a mystic, another not so, has nothing to do with achievement or relative value. :) There are mystics, such as Richard Rolle, whose writings are exquisite (well, at their best), but who never could get past anger and tunnel vision. Margery Kempe, who I doubt was a mystic but who certainly thought herself one, thought herself a beacon of instruction for others, but her writings do not show true compassion even for her own husband - yet her will seems turned in the right direction.

Prayer indeed would be primary in the life of the mystic. Yet we cannot decide 'if I pray in this fashion or that, mysticism shall follow naturally.'

I do thank the writer I mentioned, who has reminded me that I need to expand and clarify what I included in the essay on mysticism itself.

Happy Midsummer's Day to all.

Fashion diversion

Now and then, I must go from the sublime to the earthy. I have a lifelong love for fashion (indeed, am a trained dressmaker), and my prejudiced views on that topic shall be recorded here for posterity. As a middle-aged woman (never a beauty, but in the fateful era of life where one questions "am I still pretty?," even if candour would make me admit I never was), some of the 'tips' I shall record are aimed at my age group - but the general standards apply to all ladies.

John Steinbeck once made a memorable comment and, though he was referring to children, it applies equally to some women: if the fashion became to hang pork chops round the neck, it would be a sad one who did not wear pork chops. For all that I shake my head at the dreadful new style of strapless wedding gowns, in total candour I've seen worse in my day. Those with long memories may remember (much as they choose to forget) the ludicrous spectacle of 'evening hot pants.' Or wedding dresses some in my day chose to wear - the top appearing to be a formal gown, but the skirt the size of a postage stamp. Fad and style are not synonymous! Of course, those like myself, who do have a personal style, will always have others who, assuming one does not know what is 'in,' instruct one in the topic... but at least we shall never blush to, for example, look at old pictures of ourselves in velvet short-shorts.

Here are a few of my 'rules.'

• Do not believe that drawing a black line under your eyes 'looks like your eyelashes.' The effect is similar to that of a raccoon.


• Running shoes, white socks, and sweat suits are for sports activities only. Full stop. They do not make you look youthful - only sloppy.


• The most shapely legs on the planet would look terrible in (visible) socks.


• Whatever your size, obtain clothing that fits in the first place. Skin tight clothing gives one's rear view the appearance of a hippopatamus - never believe that wearing tight clothes makes you look slimmer, or that clothing that fits 'adds inches.' And I said "fits in the first place," not "fits after massive corsetry which you do not realise has pushed all your skin into the form of a hump on the upper part of the back."


• For reasons I shall never understand, a woman who chops off her hair will receive compliments at once (usually 'you look younger') - even if she looks terrible. Use some judgement here. Do you really wish to look like a highly effeminate man?


• If you wax or shave your legs, don't forget the toes. The combined effect of smooth legs, sandles, and long hair on the toes is far from flattering.


• Skirts that are half way up the thigh or shorter should be reserved to those under 25.


• Keep your judgement intact. Whatever fashion magazines called stunning in March they will call dowdy in June.


• Being transformed into a dowdy frump in the name of 'looking professional' is a crime.

Having revealed how very un-spiritual I can be now and then... I wish you all the best. :)

Humanity as icons of divine love

From a homily by Gregory of Nyssa

This is the blessedness of the pure of heart: in seeing their own purity, they see the divine Archetype mirrored in themselves.

Those who look at the sun in a mirror, even if they do not look directly at the sky, see its radiance in the reflection just as truly as those who look directly at the sun's orb. It is the same, says the Lord, with you. Even though you are unable to contemplate and see the inaccessible light, you will find what you seek within yourself, provided you return to the beauty and grace of that image which was originally placed in you. For God is purity; he is free from sin and a stranger to all evil. If this can be said of you, then God will surely be within you. If your mind is untainted by any evil, free from sin, and purified from all stain, then indeed you are blessed, because your sight is keen and clear. Once purified, you see things that others cannot see. When the mists of sin no longer cloud the eye of your soul, you see that blessed vision clearly in the peace and purity of your own heart. That vision is nothing else than the holiness, the purity, the simplicity, and all the other glorious reflections of God's nature, through which God Himself is seen.

It is quite a task indeed to write a single syllable after quoting glorious words such as these! :)

My love for the patristic writings has increased with age - even if it seems an unusual development in a medievalist. The Cappadoccians, of whom Gregory is perhaps the most prominent, lived in an era following the conversion of Constantine, and one in which 12 church councils took place within 23 years. I often need to remind myself, steeped in post 1000AD history as I am, of the world at the time - and that the magnificent Cappadoccians were not preaching to packed churches, but largely in the midst of paganism. (I wonder if any of those around them understood them at the time?) Many ascetics had taken off for the desert - to be criticised, sometimes with justification (it could be a way to avoid military service and taxation...), as a burden on right-thinking people who had to end up being their support. Many a nut case had taken off in this manner, and Gregory's brother, +Basil of Caesarea, stressed an antidote of combining social concern, common monastic life, care for the poor, and manual labour as a way of true charity and balance in the ascetic vocation.

The unknowability of God was stressed by Plato, Philo, and Clement of Alexandria – what distinguished Basil (Synod of Constantinople, 360) is less the idea than its use. He had to defend himself against charges of agnosticism – and develop a distinction between incomprehensible being and the comprehensible activity of God.

Now, why do I combine Basil's treatment of monastic life (which Benedict himself would urge his monks to read centuries later) with his brother's wonderful words on our being 'mirrors'? I suppose because I always see a white-hot passion in the Cappadoccians' writings. The unknowability of God was not the pathway to a dark cloud, but an awareness that there is little that we can know of the divine nature - without this preventing our transformation.

It is regrettable that, for many centuries, there was far too much stress on avoiding hell, and those such as Calvin had a pessimism about our nature that made it seem we were basically wicked. Redemption was viewed as salvation from hell fire - rather than as the burning fire of love I mentioned in the previous paragraph. Our weakness and sinfulness tarnish the mirror somewhat... and I'm beginning to learn (well, perhaps I always knew deep down, but I'm a romantic, and we do not become practical until our later years) that the life of prayer, which one hopes disposes oneself for transformation, often boils down to what Basil set forth (even if one does not live in a monastery.) It is largely 'going through the motions,' admitting the limitations of one's own vision, and turning one's will in the right direction.

This, I hasten to add, is more than enough to fill three lifetimes...

Unless one has been hopelessly corrupted by the 'self esteem crowd,' I suppose that most of us have some awareness of our weakness. Yet I am seeing, more and more, that there are far more rampant, and often crippling, distractions (to borrow my spiritual director's apt term) in our lives than blatant sin. The education of the will, as it were, seems to consist in much 'going through the motions' regardless of the distractions at hand.

My current distraction being frustration at wanting to say much and writing so poorly tonight that I'd best get off to recite Compline...

Dinosauria and design

I have a lifelong love for dinosaurs - they absolutely fascinate me. The only 'down side' to my passion for them is that it means that I never miss an opportunity to visit a natural history museum. Invariably, when I choose to do so will be a day when many children are there for the same purpose... and to children I have no addiction whatever. Recently, I was quite delighted when a museum staff member let me hold a T. rex's tooth!

I have no gifts for science in the least, but it is amazing what can cause awe for me. (I'll devote other blog entries, I'm sure, to how I felt when viewing the pictures of the planets and their moons, and when I saw the diagram of DNA.) Looking up at those massive skeletons (my favourite is Triceratops), and recalling how these majestic creatures ruled the Earth for millions of years longer than mankind has existed, gives me further awe for the vastness of creation.

I often have thought how thrilling it must have been for the early paleontologists (less than two centuries ago) to have found the first dinosaur fossils. Yet I must smile, knowing that, for everyone who was inspired at the time, there were at least 2 Victorian minds saddened by becoming aware of these monstrosities (sorry, Creator!) :) whose discovery shook up the concept that earth was 6,000 years old - who became extinct, a horrifying thought in the days when it was assumed that God created each species individually, and with the characteristics it needed to survive - and that these animals seemed to have no purpose.

Part of the reason that I love dinosaurs, I suppose, is that they are a reminder of just how little we do know and understand.

On another note (but one related), I saw an embroidered pillow once which read, "Of all the things I've ever lost, I miss my mind the most." I wonder if that was made by another middle-aged scholar? Lord have mercy, do I miss the quickness I once had - the fluency in all the languages a musicologist studies, where, sadly, I barely remember all that much about music now - the analytical sense.... Sigh! I'm hoping I take ever my mother's family, because, if so, I'll have another 40 years ahead of me. I hope that nothing happens to interrupt my resuming my scholarly pursuits - and that, before my ashes are scattered in St James' Park, I have the mental ability that I had a quarter century ago, before I embarked on the (I thought then, temporary) hated years of business management and telecommunications.

In my day, I did love philosophy - but it is difficult resuming this again. (I doubt I actually know more than I did then... in truth, I know less for all I have forgotten.) I was extremely sad this year, because (for reasons I'll not mention here) circumstances prevented my sitting my exams for my divinity degree. I hope to do so next May, and, as a 'head start,' (I normally do two exams - but perhaps next year I'll do three) I've been studying Philosophy of Religion. I'm rather embarrassed - people young enough to be my children probably are having an easier time - and, in my case, I've studied most of this in the past. Yet I do enjoy looking through it all, now that I am at the age that could be the beginning of wisdom. Is any one of the arguments more complex or difficult than 'divine simplicity'? :)

Yet my musing on my beloved dinosaurs led me to smile. Yes, I respect Paley and others for their efforts, but the design argument was never intended to be a science or history text. :) Who (well, besides Hume... but he predated Paley by about 30 years anyway... I suppose Paley just ignored his objections..) would have thought that it would seem a blow to faith to consider that species could become extinct?

I believe that anyone studying theology needs a background in the philosophy of religion. It is valuable training in reason, and, after all, none of the philosophical arguments can do more than, at best, concede that (to use design as an example) a creative intelligence is more likely than not. They certainly cannot prove the existence of a God who has all of the attributes with which Jewish and Christian belief would endow him, much less one who became Incarnate.

Not all assets are transferrable

(And I wrote that header without even checking to see if 'transferrable' is a word... humility must be catching up with me...)

Most people are fascinated with asking about the inner workings of convents, and I answer a question here and there. No, I have no tales of hair shirts, lesbianism, being locked in a barn with the rats, nor of anything else that is grotesque. Most of us were highly decent people, even if the sort of gooey love and respect of which the old books used to speak would have been a laugh. The most tragic element, in my experience, was that adult women were treated as if they were infants. I once read a theory that this was in order to keep them pre-pubescent and therefore more easily celibate, but that's too simple - and, in Assisi, the pre-pubescent fortunately are not sheltered or uncomfortable with the human condition. I think it was more a misguided attempt to 'remake' Sisters in an unreal mould of obedience and docility. Of course, superiors, believing theirs were the voices of God, could all too easily fall into seeing their own impatience, rudeness, rage, whatever as 'good for the others' soul.' (Ahem!)

In the particular Order which I entered, the Sisters (though not cloistered) had little contact with those outside the community save for that necessary in their professions. Though even the friars can have a tendency to maintain an idealistic innocence under all the exposure to the elements, the men had one advantage - most were priests, and Franciscans who spend a good deal of time in the confessional - Franciscan parishes welcome all, so any true naivete should not endure all that long. The nuns, though not ignorant, did tend to have excessive faith in human nature. I think that, deep down, we all wished that everyone was good, all failures were mere weaknesses, and ... well, to take it to an extreme (but one that I would encounter!) that criminal sociopaths have enormous trust in God and his mercy (when, as we'd never realise, they do not fret because they have no consciences at all.)

How well I remember Anne, a very lovely Sister who used to visit a prison (for hardened criminals) when there was an evening Mass each week. One of the inmates told Anne that it was a shame that only those attending Mass got to see her good example. Fortunately, a guard intercepted her when she took the inmate's advice to use the passage way to where the cells were...

But let's take this on a simpler level. Today, though much past religious practise indeed did need revision, there can be a tendency to see some customs as unhealthy when, in the convent context, they had their points. The problem was if one used them on the outside, the more if one met people who were, shall I say, not exactly focussed on ascetic theology.

Francis had placed a provision in the rule that, in any case of discord between the friars, they should 'immediately and humbly ask pardon of the other.' In our particular congregation, that had been more formalised. It was customary, if another started or involved one in a row, and later made an apology, to respond with "and I am sorry that I provoked you."

This, in a setting where all understand the custom, and the underlying humility and charity it is supposed to demonstrate (...even when the actual feelings may be smug and self-righteous...), is not a demonstration of the unhealthy. There are no implications of "I deserve to have you mistreat me - I think I am worth no better - I am to blame for what you did" or anything of the sort. Anyway, both people involved in the argument would have had to accuse themselves to the superior, and the verdict was highly unlikely to be 'not guilty' for either. (I once was penanced to three days of silence - probably the most appropriate penance in the Order's 700 year history.)

Unfortunately, when we are 'raised' with such customs and may grudgingly admit they can be useful, we can forget that there are characters on this earth who would not be edified by the example of humility and charity we're hoping we are presenting. (It was a big year for edification... I doubt we even realised the implicit condescension in our having to 'edify' our parents when we wrote them, as if the good and dedicated people who'd raised us needed their daughters' help to rescue them from their failings.) :) I well remember when one of the less pleasant people with whom I dealt, and whom I had in no way wronged, felt I'd offended her. Most fortunately, one of the friars (the one who told a man en route to rehab that, if he returned before his treatment was complete, said friar would 'break his fucking legs'... the treatment was successful) intercepted the message I nearly sent. "I am sorry I provoked you," if directed to the individual I mentioned, would only have been taken as further proof of weakness and a capacity for manipulation.

Admittedly, there are other times when we must have seemed a prissy little crop of snobs. (I was more intelligent and educated than the others - which is not saying much - so I came across as a cheeky and proud snob, which at the time was perfectly true.) Our community had retained most of the 'old ways' in an era when many congregations were modernising (is that a word?), some becoming quite secular. I suppose that the lowered eyes and demeanour as if we were sterile and feared someone would touch and contaminate us were taught to us in order that we not glance up and see modern touches that would be appealing. But, of course, that was never disclosed. No, our manner was supposed to demonstrate that we were 'recollected,' and therefore provide edification for these 'wicked' modern nuns who turned up at inter-community functions.

Forgive us - anyone who'd act 'edifying,' or concentrate on 'setting a good example,' to her own mother and father is temporarily beyond hope. ;)

Here's to John Macquarrie!

Just this morning, I read an online discussion of the use of 'president' rather than 'celebrant' to describe priests (or is using that term going to offend the 'we are a priestly people' crowd?) at the (select your preference) Mass, Eucharist, Communion Office. One contributor reminded me, all too well, of the liturgical committee discussions from a recent era. He insisted that 'celebrant' implies that the congregation are not all celebrating together.

I doubt that would occur to 99% of people, and to no one at all who did not attend committees of the sort I described or, worse yet, 'workshops.' Ideas which never would occur to people were spoken of as if they had far-ranging implications, whether for good or ill, and that disagreement with the earnest sort who presented this wisdom either indicated a lack of 'education' or some sort of resistance to the Holy Spirit.

I have had the privilege of studying many works of liturgical scholarship, some brilliant, others worth a look even if they are less distinguished. I particularly admire John Macquarrie's work, because it both shows a pastoral knowledge all too rare amongst the usual people (including me) who are caught up in theories and lofty concepts, and because he has the courage to say what others would fear was... well, let us say illustrative of a lack of 'education.'

Macquarrie, for example, though freely admitting that Confirmation as a rite apart from baptism was an accident of history (and one which stemmed from practical conditions, not theological considerations), reminds his readers not to overlook the value which this rite has developed during the past 5 centuries or so. He is cautious about administering Communion to infants - though the correct liturgical line is 'why excommunicate the young' - because of messages this may give which would evade those of us who spend too much time in libraries. I also appreciate that he has the honesty to admit that no one except liturgical scholars places such total emphasis on baptism.

I must add, of course, lest I seem uneducated, that I fully understand that (over)emphasis on baptism. Liturgists, unlike most of the world (including theologians of other varieties), are very focussed on public worship and sacraments, which I'm sure all are agreed are a privilege of baptism. Unfortunately, when such concepts are severed from the strictly liturgical connection, and freely interpreted by those who well may be unaware of the original context, we can be left with the distressing image of 'no vocation except baptism - the rest does not matter.' (Yes, I'm a cynic - but I have firsthand knowledge of how many in religious life were suddenly faced with the idea that their consecration was not a vocation, and that their contribution, which previously was presented as a blessing, was not appreciated.)

Liturgists are quite right to emphasise sign and symbol, yet, looking back to some idyllic fourth century rite (before all those troublesome Frankish innovations), they can forget that gestures may have quite a different meaning to those who are more used to what has developed over the past 1500 years. I well remember when, for example, the ancient practise of all standing for the Eucharistic Prayer was heralded. Trouble was, for all that worshippers in the patristic time (in the midst of their pagan neighbours) were equally unlikely to have Gregory of Nyssa in the next pew, the implications of standing which have been maintained in the Orthodox church were long superseded in the West. Standing for the Eucharistic prayer, whether people agreed or not, was taken for a denial of ordained ministry (or even the real presence), or as a lack of reverence. I dislike the practise myself.

Yes, I have read Annibale Bugnini. It is fun to see a firsthand view (and one for which the idealism would top mine at my most ethereal) of what liturgical innovations would mean, right from the time of Mediator Dei. But there were some huge mistakes along the way, where what happened in practise was a far cry from visions of branch outposts of Maria Laach on every corner. My vote for the worst RC innovation was the 'communion procession.' Bugnini and friends had an image of a glorious procession, everyone raising a voice in a common hymn of praise - probably a cross between the best of Corpus Christi processions and heavenly choirs at the last judgement. The result was more likely stumbling up to communion, a child in one hand and hymnal in another, being urged along by a song leader who is under oath to 'get the people to sing.'

I always hated hymns at communion, and still prefer reception kneeling (where one can find that.) I well remember discussions of this, usually led by someone who had two weeks of liturgical training (more than most priests) and remembered that Communion was the time when hymns were most important. The people who hated it saw it as a distraction and lack of reverence - those who loved it either applauded the lack of reverence (shades of Jesus is my friend) or liked having something to occupy them in the queue.

Looking back to antiquity can be very enriching - and I myself adore many patristic writings. Yet to transport 21st century congregations into what is imagined to be 4th century liturgy can be a case of tunnel vision.

Heavenly extended family

Years back, I was a director of music in a Franciscan parish. It was a friendly, casual environment, with a congregation consisting largely of Italian immigrants and their children. I love the Italian attitude towards God, Mary, and the other saints (an idea to which I'll be returning.) Perhaps southern Italians are not the most avid churchgoers (Cranmer would never approve), and, as far as worship is concerned, they generally are more attracted to devotions than to liturgy and sacrament. The church is their father's house, and they are quite comfortable there (when they do visit - which may not be anywhere near as frequent as time with their earthly parents, whose care is a large and godly responsibility.) Italian people will wave, shake hands, kiss in greeting, talk, laugh, play with their children, and so forth in church.

In the parish where I served, the cook, Mary, was a blunt, down to earth sort. The chief sorrow of Mary's life was the corns on her feet, and anyone within earshot would hear the details - though it was far from her only topic of conversation. Who knows a parish inside out better than the cook?

Once, I shared a silly joke with Mary, about a man who always made the wrong decisions. I'll spare my readers the details, but the joke ends with the man falling out of an aircraft, and calling out, mid-air, "Saint Francis, help me." A big hand comes from the sky and grasps him, but a voice asks, "Francis Xavier or Francis of Assisi." I'd told this joke to several people, with one response being, "It must have been Francis of Assisi!," the other, "Oh, if it were the wrong one, I can't believe he'd drop him." But Mary, very matter of fact but with an undertone of annoyance, informed me that, "It's no use talking to Saint Francis. Do you know how many times I have told him about the corns on my feet?!"

For all that I tend to get lost in speculation about our deification, disappearing into a quiet and sometimes dark haze of apophatic mist, a part of me longs for the simplicity and trust of those - such as I met at the parish, and a number of people within my own family - who can turn over temporal needs to the saints.

Surprised? Well, please do not write me some stern lecture about how saints are unnecessary, God should not be made inapproachable, Jesus as the only mediator, and the like. My mother used to pour out woes to Saint Mary, shout at Saint Anthony if he did not 'come through,' bring temporal needs to the Infant of Prague. (How I wish I could do it with the simple trust she had!) God was hardly inapproachable - she gave him bloody hell at my dad's funeral, for causing her to be left alone. The saints were extended family. Just as one might tell a sister about this problem, another sister about that one, one's cousin about another (especially if he was well connected), my mother did this with the saints.

One Sicilian devotion (of which I was unaware, since my own family is from Avellino) was to "Our Lady of Miracles." The parish I mentioned had a little alcove where her statue, complete with other figures of those who had been healed through her intercession, was displayed, to be placed near the sanctuary for her feast day. When the church was remodelled, and the "lateral altars" removed, the section to the right of the altar was designed to contain the tabernacle (a ghastly, modern one which resembled a 1970s ice bucket.) One devout man, irate at the change, asked, "Why don't they take out that box and put Our Lady of Miracles there?"

I was young and foolish then, and undoubtedly made some comment about devotion to the Eucharist. (Which naturally would hold today!) But a remote, mystical, incomprehensible God - the very one that I somehow have been called to worship - would be too difficult with which to identify. A peasant woman, who must have felt just awful travelling to Jerusalem on a donkey in a state of advanced pregnancy - whose cheeky adolescent son contradicted his elders and disappeared for three days, not even offering an apology when his distraught parents found him - who well may have been a widow whose only son left her alone to go about with all that dangerous preaching - and who suffered the agony of watching her beloved son executed - is far more likely to be a confidante.

I attended a small Italian festival today, in a little Benedictine house near my home. The chapel is devotional grotesque - the sort of nightmare one might have if one combined garlic and Saint Anthony's oil, tossed it on pasta, and ate it right before bed. The grounds are inviting and lovely, and open to all in a spirit of OSB hospiality. I was unfamiliar with the particular Marian devotion. The procession was led by a nun, who sang Italian hymns into a microphone in a voice which must be the worst on the planet, and those processing joined in with great fervour, largely in voices no better than hers, but good and loud. (I was saddened, missing the days when I had a polished operatic voice, but joined in the songs nonetheless - with a bit of pathos, remembering my deceased family members and the priests I'd once known there who also have gone to the next life.) There were copes and incense in abundance, and everyone recited the rosary in Italian - what did it matter if one ate a sausage or drank wine and beer from paper cups en route?

I'm going to blush and 'tell one on myself.' One lady, hearing my rough peasant accent on the Ave Maria, approached me, asking my 'region.' She burst into tears when I mentioned Teora - she herself is from the neighbouring town. I'm sensitive about all of my accents, ruefully recalling when a professor of music told me that my Italian 'sounded like the fish market.' I once commented, in front of a simple man I knew, that, for all my operatic training and concentration on diction, my Italian would have the 'market' accent of Teora. (I'm not even going to tell you what my English sounds like... though fortunately, thanks to the Sisters from Cork, at least my grammar, vocabulary, and diction are usually impeccable.) Carlos responded, with a degree of truth that evades us overly intellectual sorts, "But that's great - that's who you are."

Carlos, of course, was correct. And today's feast moved me deeply, because folk religion, simple peasant faith, earthiness, pragmatic views of life, and so forth are also part of who I am. When I returned home, I took out my mother's old book of novenas, and petitioned Saint Anthony to help me in my flat hunting. In fact, I addressed Anthony in Italian dialect (yes, he was Portuguese, but who's counting?), going into such detail as, "I know there is not terribly much in my price range, and I'm indeed grateful to have a roof over my head at all, but, after all, this flat will be my monastery - please help me find one I'll really like, and don't forget that I need to be near the bus or train."

I'll let all of you know if the prayer works. Had it been my mother who uttered the same words, Anthony would arrange for her to be informed of the perfect property on his feast day tomorrow.

I'm mad about Chaucer!

Now and then, I receive e-mail from irate Christian souls who, I assume, are relatively selective about what parts of my site they have read. They tend, unwittingly of course, to be slightly higher on the entertainment scale than even those who note only my reference to unicorns and assume my domain is New Age. (New covenant, perhaps, but hardly new age in the common parlance, whatever my addiction to aromatherapy oils and herbal medicine.) One exceedingly earnest 'sermon' scolded me severely for including the essay on Chaucer's Miller's Tale. The writer was irate that I could see humour in a story which makes light of adultery and features an astrologer. I naturally am left with puzzlement that anyone could read the Miller's tale and find it to be anything but hilarious.

I doubt that too many Internet writers who devote extensive time to Francis of Assisi, Julian of Norwich, and company are looking to promote adultery - and Chaucer's treatment of the astrologer itself hardly shows encouragement for consulting masters of that art. Still, without in any way adopting his philosophy, I somehow can understand how Swinburne, in the Victorian age which so glorified 'example' and what today would be termed 'family values,' could prefer the old gods, and sadly muse about 'Thou hast conquered, O pale Galiliean...'

The pale Galilean and I have had more than a passing acquaintance, and it probably is clear that I have rather a different attitude towards Jesus (the real one - not the androgynous goody-good who appears in some of the worst of religious art) than Swinburne's. Yet it does irk me when art and literature, which can reach magnificence in reflecting the human condition, are expected to be sanitised.

Before I proceed to my few reflections on Chaucer, I'll make one statement to protect my "Safe Surf" rating. (The few readers who know me personally probably have been dissolved in laughter since the first paragraph - whatever weaknesses I possess, I doubt too many baby boomers are more strait-laced than I in their personal behaviour.) I believe it is foolish and dangerous to ... start what one cannot finish, and it is quite a troublesome distraction in the process. Were Chaucer's writings pornographic, degrading, or even likely to push one's sexual arousal to a high point on the scale, yes, I would think they should be approached with caution. But they are not - his bawdiness is comfortable, realistic, and exceedingly funny, and I cannot imagine anyone's reading the tales of the Miller or Reeve with any reaction except laughter. The correspondent whose e-mail inspired this post is of another breed - the sort who host sites which caution parents about a harmless film which features wine glasses on a table. The human condition is of no interest - art must be sacrificed to a disinfected world where, I suppose, quiet little children spend all their time fawning over the perfection they have found in their parents. The Bible would need to be heavily censored. Any pleasure, however harmless, would be suspect - consuming a croissant would be a fault when it could have been given to the poor (though the poor must be kept at a distance.) No one, including in marriage, could have sex without dwelling on scripture verses or sacramental images a la Kingsley.

I'm mad about Chaucer - but somehow saying that is second only to admitting to a passion for Shakespeare in making me blush to think the obvious answer is 'who isn't?' His characters and use of language have a delightful richness. (I read the tales aloud, in Middle English, now and then.) Of course, the Canterbury Tales is hardly a religious work, yet Chaucer provides us with a picture of the Church that was apt and colourful - and I can testify, from my many years in religious ministry, that each of the characters still exists in abundance, even if seldom in such a clever and wry portrayal. The Miller or Reeve would be welcome to join me for an ale - but I would not care to sit next to the Pardoner. (Anyone who thinks the Pardoner is defunct has not seen the tactics that I've observed in some - don't shake your head, I said some) of those in fund raising.)

Those in the Middle Ages were no better or worse than those since, though they lived closely with the reality of pain, war, death, and the like to an extent where they, unlike some today, could not pretend that these could be avoided, or that children could be protected if they were sheltered from the knowledge of human weakness. The 'pilgrimage' itself has a hearty realism - aside from a vague hope for blessing, most of the characters are far from prettily devout, and the churchmen are worse than the miller. Judging from my Internet searches (some key word searches can lead one to the oddest sites), there are characters out there, hoisting religious banners, who cry out to be worked into a modern version of Chaucer's prologue. I do not have his gifts, of course, but shall admit that I've written one... how I wish I had the courage to post it here. I would not even mind a bit of salty language... I've read the writings of both Martin Luther and Thomas More, whose filthy mouths were at their worst when they took shots at each other, and therefore can handle anything.

And why do I not? It is not only a recognition that I am not the poet or observer of nature such as Geoffrey Chaucer was. :) It is more because, between political correctness, Freudian crap and the other amply spread pop psychology, and other sad accretions of the modern era, it is difficult to express the sense of the ridiculous. People are too quick to take offence.

Perhaps I should post the first poll on my site to ask if such a parody would be acceptable...

Are we any less ridiculous than those of other eras? Certainly not - the Church has been a ship of fools since the apostles could not 'get' the parable of the sower and were arguing about who'd sit at the Master's right hand - and the higher ups have made asses of themselves since Peter and Paul confronted one another at Antioch. I dare say that I would not need to develop caricatures, because there are many people who are caricatures in themselves. Extreme feminists who see everything as the oppression of women - 'conservatives' who write the sort of e-mail I mentioned above - visitors to the EWTN site, where all worries about moral theology seem to be on the order of 'I fear I may be getting more pleasure than I'm giving' - nut cases who think Osama bin Laden was God's instrument in taking away the US's 'veil of protection' (as far as I know, both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans still exist and have not been moved) - well, I could go on. Dare I do so? :)

I would imagine that most Christians are troubled when they first realise that they are a bit of a sham. I know it pains me - but perhaps that is my first step towards growth, since the years of Franciscan romance (a blessed thing, that!) need to give way to a bit more terra firma, lest I begin acting like a half-wit. Chaucer's characters, like ourselves, are all too genuine. Yet, where the Wife of Bath (I must write an essay on that wonderful tale) or the Miller can be honest, the cultured Prioress or the various clerks, being more schooled in things churchly, have a facade which fools none of the peasants but could indeed fool the 'actors.'

I've known some wonderful people in my years of church work - even a few, here and there, who were worthy of canonisation. (Those in that category were not at all self-absorbed, and had no idea they were special.) I may call myself a sham (as we all are), but am not denying my own genuine commitment - to do so would not only be dishonest but would deny the gratitude to the God who gave me the grace to wish to know him at all. That does not mean that we all do not have our impossible days - or that we are not capable of being major shites - or that we cannot be blinded by one goal and not see we are about to step off a cliff.

"..Absalon hath kissed her nether eye; Nicholas is branded cross the bum; and may God lead us all to Kingdom's Come."

Brief thoughts about Anthony of Padua

Sermons of Anthony of Padua
Article on Saint Anthony from Wikipedia

Francis of Assisi had rather a dim view of Anthony. Anthony was originally an Augustinian, in itself enough to trouble the far from cerebral Francis, and famously a Franciscan who did not let it be known that he was a priest until his services as preacher were necessary. In the single preserved bit of correspondence from Francis to Anthony, he cautions the young friar that theological studies can turn the friars from the gospel.

Well, as we all know, though Franciscans as a group will not be noted as having a huge quantity of theologians, Anthony's words and example did no one any harm. :) I must smile. There probably is no saint to which there is a more extensive devotion, yet Anthony is remembered more for what he, as 'saint of miracles,' is supposed to be able to obtain than for being one of the greatest theologians of the Order of Friars Minor.

I shall leave my readers with one thought from Anthony's writings. "Our speech is alive when our works speak!" Eloquent though Anthony was, and much as the Franciscan friars were generally engaging and enthusiastic preachers, words can never touch the essence of God, which is so beyond our comprehension. Actions of worship and devotion (in a day when books were expensive and Communion rare, the friars recited the breviary and encouraged the Eucharist), and those in which we seek to act with love towards neighbour, are really all that we have to offer.

One notable excess in wake of the Reformation was a negative attitude towards 'good works.' Considering what went on right before the Reformation, this is quite understandable! Though doctrine had no provisions for 'buying one's way into heaven' (or, at any rate, out of purgatory), it was widely believed - and this because of actions. There were times when preaching on merit would give one the impression (well, if one read the works today) of a giant cash machine, with one's credit limit raised by further permissions to use Christ's treasury. But the backlash was unfortunate - in extreme cases, a stress on personal 'conversion' as if this could be a singular event (...I dare say that conversion, for any sincere Christian, ceases, at the least, when the doctor says to hold the CPR and asks for the time... and even then there is plenty of transformation ahead..). It is no accident, I'm sure, that, the more 'conversion' of this type was stressed, often the less emphasis there was on charity towards others or on liturgy.

The older and wearier I get (heavens, did I have zeal in youth, when I believe I thought I was Michael the Archangel), the more I see that seeking to act with worship and love (or, more properly, just going out and doing it whether we have loving emotions or not) is the only way that one can respond to God. Franciscans were vivid, anthropomorphic, and emotional - and their stress on Christ's 'poor' humanity was quite regular. Yet, and this in addition to their liturgical emphasis (common for monastics, but certainly notable in a Rule which is 30 paragraphs, half quotes from scripture), there was a reminder to act with love - even if that meant kissing the leper and seeing Christ. It was a "life of penance" - that is, constant turning to get one's own life in accord with the gospel.

I often wonder how well Anthony did with actually seeking to teach the friars theology! The early friars were generally uneducated and rather unruly - many very young, some a step above vagabonds. Francis left the rule 'live the gospel,' yet one less saintly than himself could be left wondering what on earth this meant. They had an obligation to correct (or to accuse themselves of faults to) one another - which I find rather amusing, since most times the knowledge of one would be just as slim as that of the other. (Not everyone was Bonaventure or Duns Scotus.)

I equally wonder why Anthony was so great a worker of miracles... perhaps the exhortation to act, in an Order where there was far more talking than in others, had to be brought vividly to life, and the Saviour was accommodating in making this quite dramatic.