Paltry fruits, you shall know them

I suppose that all of us, whatever our overall passion for a subject, have certain areas which we 'leave for last' in our studies because we find them confusing. I'm blushing to admit this, but, despite my having had previous study of philosophy (and somehow having done well back in those days when I had youthful quickness), I've done just that with Philosophy of Religion. I have no illusions that any of the brilliant scholars who provided 'proofs' for divine existence really thought that this ever could be proven - though the best of them were great men of prayer who knew that God was so beyond us that no description could scratch the surface. (Today, it is worse yet, because we are so Enlightened that we know better to think that it's generally assumed there is a God in the first place. In fact, being agnostic is more a mark of intelligence today than otherwise, in certain circles.)

Those who read this blog must have caught on some time ago that I most definitely am a believer... who fell down an apophatic 'rabbit hole' and is able to set forth doctrine ad infinitum, with an odd identity crisis of 'I cannot describe anything about God - sometimes I'm in doubt of whether there is a God, but I'm sure I received his Body and Blood today.' I'm trying to make myself enjoy the particular subject - I'm mad about theology, in case that was not obvious, but philosophy of religion leaves me even more confused than usual. So, let me have a little reflection here and there. (Ideas are a good thing, indeed... Anselm's work always left me wondering both why what one could imagine meant that it could be proven to be real. I sometimes imagine what it would be like were a genie to give me three wishes.)

I always laughed a bit (inwardly, not on exam papers) about the design argument. Not that it is funny in itself, but because of the excessive enthusiasm with which it was embraced. (William Paley made it sound like a biology text.) At most, all the design argument proves is that it is logically probable that an intelligent source created the universe. I doubt Darwin's work would have been so upsetting had anyone stopped to consider that creation does not require some assembly line production of creatures, each model custom designed, with the environment carefully set to foster their best features.

At the moment, I am reviewing the 'argument from religious experience.' (I began with that one because I grew sick of the cosmological argument about a quarter century ago - just wrote a paper a few months ago about the design argument, albeit to 'prove' that half the evangelicals who lost their faith in the 1800s had little faith to lose - and I'm saving 'divine simplicity' for those dreary winter days when I'm more or less grounded.) I'm very cautious about 'religious experience,' even if I do come from a tradition based entirely on the witness of those who saw the Risen Christ, some centuries after Yahweh appeared in a burning bush, all the more so because I am of a generation where the friend who 'met Jesus' last week or laid hands on someone who was healed yesterday was also likely to be the one to interrupt a party with 'quiet! the ladders are sleeping in the attic!'

I have never had any strange religious experiences - which is fortunate, because I not only doubt I'd survive them but would never dream of revealing the messages I received. (I never awakened the ladders in the attic, either, goody two shoes that I was.) Yet I truly believe that I have had many striking religious experiences - which I know I could never use to prove anything. I can be stricken with awe at how I believe God worked in my life (with a little luck, not ending the prayer of thanksgiving with "and where in hell were You when that happened?") I know this does not prove existence of a God - an unbeliever would probably think I was 'conditioned' to think it was God's work, or that I'd abandon everything with a few good bonks.

Today, I was reading some selections from William James' "The Varieties of Religious Experience." (An interesting work, I must admit.) I am reflecting - not enough to draw a conclusion, which I'll save for later - on how James reacted to two of my favourite mystics, both Carmelites.

William James saw Teresa of Avila as a woman of huge intellect and other gifts, who placed all at the service of her religious ideals. His problem with her ideals was that they were "paltry according to our present way of thinking." He wrote that, "in the main, (Teresa's) idea of religion seems ... an endless amatory flirtation between the devotee and deity." James equally sees John of the Cross as going to absurd extremes - and such fanaticism (in these and other saints) as stemming from a narrow intellectual outlook. He concedes that Teresa would have insisted that 'by their fruits you shall know them' - but finds the fruits to be rather a disappointing crop.

When he gets to Francis of Assisi, I'm leaving the room.

I'm just wondering (and I'm no expert on James, and also loathe psychology, which was his field) if my totally unscientific mind may disagree. James' approach was that all varied and conflicting creeds have elements of uneasiness of some sort in the individual's situation, and a 'solution' where one is saved from wrongness by connection with higher powers. I believe that Teresa (who indeed was flirtatious, even with God) and John (who could be exceedingly extreme.. and I normally would not qualify that adjective) were past being concerned with their own inadequacy, wrongness, and so forth. The mystics who had the most intense relationships with God reached a point of indifference about the relationship - because they no longer were focussing on themselves or what they felt.

I will say this for Teresa and John (though their experiences were at opposite ends of the spectrum, one filled with 'consolations,' the other in a dark night.) I doubt they would have seen experience as proof of divine existence. The first reservation about their own experiences would have been 'is this God or the devil?' (Or is it just myself?)

I must close with a delicious reflection by J. L. Mackie. He mentiones how Soren Kierkegaard sees those in pagan territories as praying to the true God when they pray to the idols in good faith. Though I am sure S. K. has a point, Mackie mentions how this is not an argument for the Christian God, since one could argue that Osiris, Vishnu, et al, are equally tolerant when Christians go through their false rituals.

Now, I'm off to see if I have the energy to participate on a theology forum, where someone has raised the wonderful question of whether C. S. Lewis' "Jesus was either mad, bad, or God" is logical. I already noticed, to my delight, that someone commented that the 'mad or bad' exclusions are also applied to Lucy when she fell into Narnia.

Saint Mary the Virgin

I do grow so tired, now and then, of the endless fights over Mary's perpetual virginity or lack of same. There are times when, for example in Roman Catholic commentaries and theological works, the authors (whose topics actually have nothing to do with this specific matter) have to include footnotes about, for example, Jesus' brothers' having really been cousins - and one's attention is distracted from the topic of, for example, how the Magnificat is a superb example of Luke's showing us how devout children of Israel acknowledged the Incarnate Lord. Those of very Protestant dispositions - who have no concept of evangelical counsels, even if they are evangelical in other senses, and who place 99% of their emphasis on 'family values' - can progress from 'Catholics think sex is dirty' to 'the Catholic Church forbids people to have sex' to gushy reminiscences of losing their own virginity (in the marriage bed, of course) which strike me as more prurient than honest pornography. (None of this has anything to do with Mary's perpetual virginity, of course. It is based on her body's having been a tabernacle, and on that which is set apart - sacred vessels being a prime example.)

The reason I am treating of this topic, on this feast, is because it still is worth saying, even in these post-Freudian days: virginity or chastity for the sake of the kingdom has nothing on earth to do with sex being wrong, marriage being seen as inferior by the committed celibate, or consecrated life's denying the universal call to holiness. (Yes, Augustine had a highly negative view, but he was always pining for what he imagined it would be like in Eden - where mankind would have use of reason and will to an extent where, in his words not mine, a man could control his erections. Bear with Augustine - much of his own problem was that he could not.)

Every dogma or pious belief about Mary has two elements. The belief is related first to Christology - for any honour due Mary, the Queen Mum of the heavenly courts, derives from the unique identity of her Son, God Incarnate. The second element is that Mary represents the Church. In her virginity, which has a strong eschatological dimension of which I shall treat in a moment, we have an icon of the Church, in expectation of Christ's final glory at the parousia.

Yes, celibacy (often far from chaste) or virginity (...at least in some form) was valued by philosophers who were pagan, but Christian celibacy does not have to do with the power of the goddess Diana or being free of distractions from intellectual pursuits (even if that latter is a nice bonus at times.) Consecrated chastity, in a Christian tradition, has quite another dimension. It was quite revolutionary, as we can see already in the letters of Paul, that those with the charisma could be unmarried (by choice, not widowhood), and this contribution be seen as of special value to the Church.

Ancient Judaism had no concept of an afterlife. Any continuation of one's life, in a sense, was through one's descendants. By the time that Jesus walked the earth, the concept of the resurrection had developed in Judaism, though it was not universally accepted and was thought to belong to the end of time. (That there was a surprise in store shortly in that regard I'll save for another post.) It occurs to me that it was only in light of the resurrection that total, committed chastity (no descendants) could be truly valued, because it also was then that the idea of a life beyond this one - in glory, with the new dignity Christ brought to our nature in his resurrection and ascension, not in Hades, not in reincarnation - was recognised.

Consecrated life always was a haven for weird ideas, regretfully. Some of the earliest monastics (and here I mean those sincere, not those trying merely to escape taxation and military service) wished to be angelic... even eating and sleeping were too physical for their tastes. Others in Augustine's era (though not Augustine himself, for all that he never completely shed his Manichean skin) believed that God's clothing Adam and Eve in animal skins meant that we never would have had human bodies had it not been for the 'fall.' In truth, consecrated chastity is eschatological. It is an icon of a church which recognises that our lives on earth, the children who may come from us, precious though they are, are not 'all there is.'

There is surely no denial of the physical. God became Man - the Eucharist is his Body and Blood (don't ask me how) - his resurrection reminds us that not only an immortal soul but our bodies will live eternally.

What has got into me tonight? (I doubt the Pimms was enough to set me off on this.) I suppose it is that I am so weary of two extremes into which Christians sometimes fall - either total embarrassment about the physical (no, I don't mean just sex - I mean feeling uneasy about the concept of a physical resurrection, for example), or a glorification of sex which makes the 'nitty gritty' of dealing with one's sexuality rather sordid in any setting except magical evangelical marriage beds. I have read books and heard sermons where a discussion of sex, in marriage, could not admit to physical desire per se - it all was along the lines of an 'overwhelming need to enfold the other with love' and the like. I am one of the most naive of creatures, but, as just one example, most fortunate that even I was not stupid enough to think that no man would want to have sex unless he was transported with love! (I cannot think of anything more dangerous for a young innocent to believe...)

Sex indeed is wonderful in the divine plan - it is a share in divine, creative power. But let us not think that the life of those consecrated to chastity is not so in its own way. Chastity may have other benefits to the Church - perhaps endless dedication to a ministry in a fashion that would be inappropriate for one with a family, or complete immersion in a life of prayer - but, in itself, it is an icon to remind us of the divine glory which, through Christ, we all have a share.

End of sermon - there will be no more entries such as this any time soon... Blessings for the feast of the Assumption.

Odd images of Martha and Mary

One dear friend of mine, a brilliant woman but not one all that conversant with theology, could never bear mention of Martha and Mary. She would bristle, annoyed that Jesus 'told Martha to get back to the kitchen!' I have many a New Testament text in my library yet, even allowing for that my Latin and Greek can use improvement, I have yet to see any edition which has Jesus saying any such thing. I would not blame Him if he had (apart from the indiscretion of Martha's usurping the servants' position in the first place were she to do so.) With the way the anxious Martha was needling her sister, I would have told her to go to the market.

Martha or Mary are so seldom understood - sometimes with hilarious, if unfortunate, results.

On Saturdays, I often attend a midday service at a charming Anglican church near the library where I am a permanent fixture. The vicar is a welcoming, pleasant man whom I regard highly, but his preaching, shall we say, shall never be compared with that of John Wesley, nor even with Fulton J. Sheen whose folksy genre is well known. I found myself in tears from suppressed laughter at his sermon today - and am still trying to decide whether he meant it to be funny at all. (Correction - I think he did intend humour, but not for the reasons that made me nearly fall on the floor.)

Content was along these lines:

"Most of us have to work. We all know people with a more passive approach to life, and they usually have people to wait on and take care of them. I never had that - I might like to try it, but I'm not good-looking or rich enough to find someone to support me. I picture myself flipping hamburgers. I cannot understand Mary's sitting listening to Jesus, so I leave it to your own meditation. Let us just hope that, in heaven, Martha gets to rest while Mary does the work."

I come from a Franciscan background, and, if Francis' gift for contemplation is undeniable, nonetheless the Order is one where constant work (whether 'in the vineyard,' because of demands of the house or neighbourhood, or for no reason other than that superiors fear a moment unoccupied might lead the underlings to idle and useless talk) is the norm. I'm an anomaly in being an intellectual Franciscan. Bonaventure, Anthony of Padua, and John Dun Scotus notwithstanding, the intellectual sorts are an embarrassment. It is stressed that Bonaventure was cooking when he received his cardinal's hat, and that Anthony was so unprepossessing that no one even knew he was a priest until there was a situation where one was immediately needed.

I was an avid Martha for many years, I must add (and, like many Franciscans, unfortunately neglected my intellectual development in the process.) Adjusting to the life of 'a Mary' is difficult. A part of me cherishes the life - the other teases that it has no value and is mere indulgence. I alternate between gratitude, even awe, that I could be privileged to have intimicy with Christ and serve his Church in a hidden but special manner - and the knowledge that 99% of people, including the clergy, well might hope that Mary is flipping burgers in heaven while Martha gets a rest. (Calvinist influence, undoubtedly... I have papers on that topic, which I shall be happy to photocopy for anyone interested.)

The life of the contemplative is not, and never was, understood. The mystics of whom I have written on my site had to live with the doubt, questioning, uncomfortableness, to which I have made reference on this entry. They were valued, in an era when purgatory seemed to loom, as intercessors, but I doubt too many people saw them as anything except puzzling, totally dependent oddities. (Essays on those from the 4th century who really were parasites seeking exemption from taxes or the military also are available on request...) The 14th century "Rule for Anchoresses" gives the impression, considering how much its author cautions against this, that the solitaries were thought of, if at all, as ready ears for village gossip.

Martha would see Jesus raise Lazarus from the dead, and would confess that He was the Christ - she cannot be seen as having a lack of inspiration or openness to same, and one cannot be much more intimate with Jesus than having him as a dinner companion. Martha well may have provided at least a part of the support for the Son of Man who had no place to rest his head. Yet she herself could not see the 'best part' which Mary had chosen.

So, through the centuries, the Marys of this world shall inspire a frown. If recognition of this ever troubles me, I shall laugh at the memory of this new image: Mary flipping the hamburgers, Martha finally not troubled and anxious.

Common sense, anyone?

I am not suggesting that I possess this in any great degree. My dad, who was no model of academic intelligence but had his share of street smarts, used to say of many of the educated "They got the book learning, but not the ways of the world!" (Of course, it probably is obvious who it was that he usually meant.) Concedo!

I'm thinking of the few cherished friends I have, whom I see as possessing good sense, with whom I share ideas to achieve some balance. (I'm hopeless - not only a sheer romantic, and so caught up in intellectual ideals and ascetic theology that I always have this vague, underlying sense that everyone is looking to get to Teresa's seventh mansion. I'd have Jack the Ripper in for tea and believe him when he convinced me that he had great trust in divine mercy, never seeing he had no conscience at all.) They invariably are very honest (with themselves, not only with others) and can see things clearly.

I also have a few, equally cherished friends, talented and intelligent as they may be, who would pour ice cold water into a hot glass beaker and be astonished that it shattered, or who would wonder if the cat did not have respect for the fine home with which she was provided were she to drag in a mouse. Some have the most marvellous ideas... but whether these are 'workable' would elude them.

Some years back, I recall reading of a multiple choice test of general knowledge (questions such as 'what was Shakespeare's name?') which was administered to people of various backgrounds. The more formal education they had, the worse the scores. I understand well - perpetual students, myself among them, are so used to 'revisionist histories' and to hearing that what they learnt twenty years ago is no longer considered valid, that we are always looking for the 'trick question.'

I certainly believe there is such a thing as common sense, though in the current climate we'll need to use some version of Occam's razor to find it.

Nothing is allowed to just be any more. We cannot see the obvious, because we over-analyse, filtering everything through all sorts of versions of psychology, looking for the hidden motive (for example, someone who merely likes privacy will be assumed to either be a criminal or be either repressing memories of or sheltering one), losing a moral sense because we are so busy looking for the hidden reasons why we act that we cannot admit to the actions (and our genuine motives) themselves.

It seems to me that, at some time within the past 30 years, people have become extremely self absorbed - and the odd result was that meddling in others' lives, always being ready with 'advice,' complaining of others at the slightest provocation, and so forth has increased. Perhaps we are so unaware of having any human value that we're forever seeking worth. And common sense has got lost in the shuffle.

I'm thinking of a very silly example I saw on an Internet forum. The mother of a teenaged girl was telling of how her daughter had declined an invitation from a boy who seemed interested in her. Said mother, plus many of the others on the forum, had all sorts of reflections about, for example, how the girl may have fantasies of another man and prefer fantasy to the reality of relationships, etc., etc., etc.. It did not seem to occur to any of them that perhaps the girl did not like the boy who extended the invitation or that she well may not care to be spending time with "John" when she's hoping for some interest from "Paul."

On another forum, a regular contributor (the sort who is always going on and on about herself - usually in reference to how much weight she's lost this year), was full of woe about her own adolescent daughter. She fears said daughter has 'body image issues,' instilled by her exposure to Barbie dolls. I daresay to imagine her daughter has such problems is quite believable - but I am inclined to doubt that any doll was the source. (For the record, to my knowledge it is only neurotic mothers, not kids, who are torturing themselves with concerns about comparison with foot high, plastic women.)

Thirty years ago, a total bore (and the self absorbed are in that category as a rule) might realise she was just a bore. Today, she's more likely to think that those around her cannot deal with changes in herself (about which, I'm sure, they all think all night, and which are of paramount importance to them), and will be exploring whether she needs to enlighten all and sundry or go to therapy.

Some of the basic principles of common sense would include recognition that everyone is different - that we never know either the pain or joy which another may have in whatever circumstances - that we must not assume another's motives - that actions have consequences (this to be used in evaluating our own situation) - that the decision one made in 1969, which did not have the effects one expected, was not motivated by subconscious hatred for oneself just because what was promising then was no longer so in 1984 - that not everyone is seeking one's advice (and practically no one is) - that, if a church organises a social club for young, unmarried adults, those in attendance are not there because they feel the Church gives insufficient attention to 'single life as vocation' (in fact, that is the last option they wish to fulfil) - that recognising one's own limitations is part of maturity, not 'putting oneself down' - that we're all going to do things we regret or which are stupid (especially in youth), but that there are many cases where one can only learn by experience - that the crook who passes bad cheques each week is not going to reform just because you trusted him with your money.

I recall a news report I once heard regarding a parade. One float contained a huge balloon which was diverted, crushing into the crowd, with the danger that someone might be smothered. A policeman, who had a knife, cut into the balloon to prevent this, and lots of 'protestors' saw this as 'violence'. My niece, Alison, who was all of 4 years old at the time, heard the report, and turned to me, puzzled, saying, "But that was not a person - that was a balloon!" I breathed a sigh of relief that she already was showing signs of the common sense which I imagine she inherited from Sam.

Clarence told me...

Some years ago, I knew a lovely Franciscan Sister - the sort of genuinely sweet lady whose desire to be helpful to others is totally embedded in her nature. The congregation to which Anne belonged had Sisters in a wide variety of ministries, and a few of them (far more worldly wise, of course!) were chaplains in a prison. The chaplaincy there had a weekly, evening Eucharist, and on occasion Anne had attended.

It happened that, one week, the Sister who was part of the chaplaincy was unable to be present for the Eucharist, and Anne decided to attend on her own. One of the prisoners, Clarence, had told Anne that it was quite a shame that only those who attended the Eucharist were able to see her witness, and that she could do much good if she accompanied him to where she would find the other inmates. Fortunately, one of the guards intercepted Anne's effort! When he asked her why she had not thought of the dangers which could have awaited her, she replied, simply, "Clarence told me to come."

It is a warm memory, but I have noticed that, even with religious people who have had a great deal of exposure to the elements, or who may have had dark clouds in their own past, some have the innocence of a child in one area or another. I am in that category, but I am far from alone. There are cases where, no matter how much one may love and care for prisoners (for example), and regardless of what classes one has attended or books one has studied, recognition of a 'two edged sword' of one's blind spot (which usually is the other side of a virtue which has become second nature) is crucial. Anne's own desire to be a witness to the gospel was so much a part of her that it would not have entered her mind that Clarence and friends may have had a different motive.

Unfortunately, some of the very practises which religious were taught, as acts of humility, charity and the like, do not transplant well beyond the (real or figurative) monastery. In the community which I entered, there was a custom wherein, if two Sisters had an argument, and even if Sister A was responsible and had been rattling Sister B's chains for months, A had to apologise to B, then B had to respond with "I'm sorry I provoked you." There is some sense in this - it often, if not always, takes two to make an argument - and the response was intended to be humble and charitable. Were one to do the same in a far different setting, the hearer would undoubtedly see it as final evidence of one's own weakness.

There have been times when I have dealt with the criminal element (fortunately very few - I am so convinced that everyone's goal is union with God in some way, and that basically everyone is enthralled by ascetic theology, that I may eventually have invited a latter day Jack the Ripper in for tea. Both I and a Sister of my acquaintance, hoping for his repentance, wrote to Ted Bundy assuring him of our prayers for his salvation... you will never hear me defend the death penalty, but I do think it most forunate that he was not going to be let out...) Far more often, I have been shocked by more subtle wickedness, which does not involve physical violence but seeks to destroy others, or to perjure oneself for perceived gain.

I mention this because recognition of our own limitations - and of our own strengths, without losing awareness that the other side of them often makes us vulnerable - is vital. I possess my share of vices (and, unlike Anne, I doubt anyone would describe me as sweet), but, ever since childhood, I always have been totally honest. It just is not in me to lie - and, since I always assume others are being truthful, this has led to much hurt, manipulation, betrayal, and sometimes actual danger.

In my early adult years, my zeal greatly exceeded my prudence, and I had times of being highly judgemental. Though I fortunately, after years, was able to get past this, the root sprouted a problematic seed. I fell into a pattern of so avoiding judging, and of (sometimes very stupidly) assuming good intentions and motives on the part of others, that what little judgement in the best sense (not that I had much in the first place) fell by the wayside.

I'd best not attend the Eucharist in any prisons any time soon.

Feast of Mary Magdalene

I do love this great saint - who was the first witness of the resurrection. It is unfortunate that she, Mary of Bethany, and the sinful woman who anointed Jesus ended up a composite in the Christian hagiography. All three of them (along with Martha) have much to tell us about Jesus' amazing attitude towards women, yet it is somehow lost in the same loss of distinction.

I must admit that, particularly during lengthy train rides, I sometimes indulge in Philippa Gregory novels. Her recent one about Mary Magdalene, though it does omit the usual misconception about Mary's having been a prostitute, frightened me terribly. Philippa was weaving a tale based on Jesus' having 'cast seven devils' out of Mary (I suppose the temptation to wonder what they were is overwhelming), and she describes things demonic with a vivid touch which left my skin crawling. (Admittedly, I shudder at the gospel's noli me tangere as well.)

Mary Magdalene was the first witness of the resurrection - not one of the Twelve, but, in the sense in which it would be used within a generation, as such a witness she was the first apostle. (Apostles other than the 12, such as Paul, were distinguished by being witnesses of the Risen Christ.) Martha confessed that Jesus was the Son of the Living God, the Christ (perhaps not so dramatically as did Peter, but I assume a bit less impulsively.) Mary of Bethany shows us the disciple - truly listening. The sinful woman who anointed Jesus' feet (unfortunately in rather an exagerrated situation - not stopping to think of how this was just not done at formal dinners) shows us transforming grace from hearing the word and seeking reconciliation.

I am not at any peak of energy at the moment. The heat is beastly, yet its being stormy means the cat wants to snuggle, and, for all my love of summer, I am not at my best when I'm sweating to this degree. I'm not able to be insightful or original for the moment. So, I shall merely raise a Pimms and toast Mary, the first of the apostles in the infant Christian Church.

With apologies to Paris Leary, I shall add one more: "To all our desires. May they all be hot and holy."

Anniversary in the new flat

Yes, it is a year since I found my 'new' home - and this is an expression of my gratitude, and also a bit of 'rerun' fun for those who themselves are flat hunting. This being more or less holiday time, I'm providing an excerpt from my original notes when I moved.

Here's the excerpt... and it all still holds. :)

It's adequate for one person, certainly (three rooms, not a studio), and I'm gradually getting used to that, if I sit back in the computer chair, I may tumble into the bed. The location is good - bus and train nearby, stores walking distance. For a Franciscan, this is nearly a palace. It is a late Victorian building, once a home for a family and (I suppose) their servants, now split up into six flats. I have what probably was the servants' quarters (though, when I commented about this to the man who fixed the faucet, he said "it was probably just the cellar.")

But I'll reveal that I do have to whinge a bit. I'm not all that fond of housekeeping, but am meticulous about the cleanliness of kitchen and bathroom. It is taking me some time to adjust to that I must share the latter with the cat, who tends to need the loo just when I'm about to relax in a hot tub. Talk about destroying the one sensual moment of most of my days... The bathroom/toilet is directly next to the kitchen, and neither have windows, so I have this odd feeling that I am spending half my life either dumping the cat's box, sponging the floor, or burning incense (it is lavender or vanilla, but, somehow, in the close quarters, has a scent which makes it seem as if I'm smoking cannabis.)

Between all the lifting, carrying, and climbing up and down the back stairs, my back aches and my feet are badly blistered. Which makes me want to sink into a hot tub full of aromatherapy oils... which serves as the cue for the cat to need to crap once again.

The 'absent-minded professor' is no myth, as I've proven countless times during my life. I celebrated my first night here by setting off the smoke alarm - I'd put in toast, accidentally hit a button that cancels the toasting with my elbow, then absently just pressed the toast down again.... Later, I knocked over the cat food when I plugged the nice little canister vac I just bought into the outlet I did not realise was quite so near the canister. After a long struggle with dust pan and vac, I went to put the vac away... accidentally grasping, not the handle, but the part that releases the rubbish. So, back to the floor, which was now decorated not only with about a week's worth of cat food but all the dust and such that I'd picked up in the first place.

Lest anyone think I am unaware of the problems in this world, I not only most definitely am, but spend part of my day holding them close in prayer, whether war in the East or water devastation in the far West. I am fully aware that much of the world would be delighted to have what I do, and I am indeed very grateful. Were I doing as I was trained, and 'setting a good example,' I'd say that silly things such as those bothering me do not matter. Yet I think it is important to admit that often they do!

By their fruits you shall know them

In recent weeks, when I have read of the tumult within the Anglican Communion (much of which had to do with homosexual unions or women being ordained as bishops), there is one element which has troubled me deeply. (In some cases, and more from what I have heard from individuals, not formal statements.) I am the last one who would dissuade anyone from expressing a point of view, or indeed from avidly pursuing what they believe to be right. What worries me is that dialogue can be cut short or, more importantly, charity and justice sacrificed when one assumes one knows another's motives, and equally that they are hateful or sinful.

I speak from experience, I am sorry to say. I was a young religious (and aspiring young religious - I am on the cusp of the era when entering a convent meant having carrots dangled for years) during the 1970s. It was a time of great confusion in the religious life. There were people with whom I strongly disagreed, and whose actions I believed were harmful - and my opinions on either count have not changed. My fault - and one which sometimes led me into rage, bitterness, and injustice - was in failing to see their point of view (even while disagreeing.) I saw the religious life being destroyed, and to a large extent I believe I was correct. Yet I assumed bad motives on the part of those with whom I disagreed, and my own love for God and neighbour was seriously compromised in the process.

Obviously, there are times when someone has acted in a fashion so hateful that the underlying wickedness is clear - I have no justification for Auschwitz. When this is not the case, have we reached a point where we cannot love and respect one another? I am growing weary of hearing anyone describing another's 'subconscious motivation.' (How could we even know our own?) There can be valid reasons - of theology, ecclesiology, sociology, whatever - why someone might oppose something another believes to be critical. Dialogue and understanding are scrapped when it is assumed, for example, that anyone who sees possible danger in the institution of marriage being redefined is a closet homophobic, or that those who see reasons that women should not be in the episcopacy are 'rationalising' clear misogyny.

'Switching gears': I read an interesting post today on a theology forum. A young woman, who is a candidate for holy orders in the Anglican Church, had asked if God had always called women to be ordained, and if it was the Church that had prevented them from following the call. I have an odd concept of vocation - I believe it exists, but I can no more define the mechanism than I could explain the Trinity. Yet I could not help but bite my tongue not to comment that priesthood has always involved acceptance of one's role by the Church. I can think of a number of female saints who may have made marvellous bishops (...and of Catherine, who would have preferred to be in solitude, who managed to get the pope back from Avignon, a task that, had she been in the right time and place, I'm sure Teresa of Avila would have relished.) It was not possible for them to be ordained - yet to think they were thwarted is missing the larger call to holiness. It seems to imply they were serving God and the Church less, or that their holiness was compromised.

I have known many RC nuns who feel that they are facing discrimination or injustice because they cannot be ordained. Some of those whom I have known who were the most vocal hardly were displaying charity or justice in the process. In a few cases, I knew those who would not attend the Eucharist because only men are priests. It is fine with me for these Sisters to pursue dialogue on this topic. Yet should one miss the good one can do today by being steeped in bitterness?

I'm not about to make public confession on the Internet - but suffice it to say that I know well what it is to have great frustration in one's goals (and this stemming from a genuine religious commitment), and to have bitterness be a cancer of the soul.

My spiritual director needs to remind me, every time I see him... and one would think I might have caught on by now, considering the decades I've devoted to studying ascetic theology. It is fine to aspire to anything - but the only 'place' where we can serve God at the moment is where we are.

Margery Kempe, the mother of 14 and wife of a living husband, could not be topped, perhaps in history, for pilgrimages and devotions. Still, as the essay on my site illustrates, she had far more devotion than actual virtue. She was so preoccupied with wishing to live as, and be known as, a consecrated virgin (...retroactive, I suppose) that she drove everyone, particularly her confessors and husband, mad. (Someone who tells her confessor that, if he does not give her permission to wear the garb of the virgin, she will reveal his sins to him is somewhat lacking in understanding... it might have been helpful if the rocks in her head could have been used to plug the holes in his.) When her own husband was dying, Margery was focussed on what graces she was gaining from the sacrifice of helping him, and seems to have had no compassion for his own pain. True love could not flower - for God, spouse, or neighbour - in a climate where her desire for a consecrated virgin's life amounted to obsession, even avarice.

I myself am a militant sort - the passion within me is such that, if I feel anything at all, I feel it with fire. I've walked at right angles to the world since I could toddle, and I doubt anyone (who at least asked) would ever wonder what my opinion was about anything. Those who seem 'disobedient' or to provoke dissent may be seen, with hindsight, to have been blessed innovators, perhaps channels of the Holy Spirit. Those who seem to be bowing to a conservative line may see essential, timeless truths which might be in danger of compromise.

Yet no one knows that for certain at the time. A hundred years from now, much happening today may seem momentous, all the more will be long forgotten. By their fruits you shall know them... love and justice. Let us not forget that the crusades, the Inquisition, and deterioration in religious life or doctrinal integrity which I witnessed within my own short life span seemed to be a good idea at the time.

Quick link

Blogger is having an outage today - which begins in a few minutes, so I'm just going to post a link. Do not miss the new Affirming Laudianism site, or its companion Frankly Unfriendly Catholics.

If there is one thing of which the Church needs more, it is laughter at our own expense.

Francis of Assisi, when one of his friars was terribly distressed at demonic temptations, told him to just tell the devil, "Open your mouth and I'll shit in it!" Pious, English Luke Wadding, in his translation of Francis' biography, turned this into "one has only to say dung to him." What a shame.

The third heaven

I heard quite a good sermon this morning, which contained references to how many people have a sense of having had unusual, deeply spiritual experiences. The priest mentioned how Paul speaks of having been in 'the third heaven' (look out, Elizabeth... between this and Ezekiel, you may jump into Jewish mysticism before you've mastered the Christian... and recall you've studied the latter for over 30 years.) He spoke of how he has often wondered just what Paul heard - what God might tell one in such a state - what we would hope God would tell us.

Please don't read this paragraph if there is diabetes in the family, or it may throw you into insulin shock. I sadly am not totally immune to the excessively anthropomorphic. I therefore shall confess that what I should like God to say is "I love you. I love who you are - and not because it is my nature to love, or because I am Love, or because John Duns Scotus defines love as sanctifying grace, or because I love all of creation and created the damned bunch of you in the first place because the Trinity was relational..." Such are the wages of being overly intellectual. Were I someone with true simplicity - Francis of Assisi, for example, or Thérèse, even if the latter's expression tended towards the syrupy - I would say that God is 'saying' that eternally. I can be most unsatisfactory a good deal of the time.

Now, back to the third heaven or thereabouts. I have not been there - in fact, I have at no time in my life had any extraordinary experiences such as visions, locutions, and the like. (That, in my case, is a blessing. Those who did have them, such as Teresa of Avila, seemed to find them more a distraction than anything, and I would imagine one is just spent afterward. My practical side also tells me that, were I to soar to such a state - in this life - I either would not be able to return or would be upset when I did.) Paul clearly was a 'tough guy' - argumentative, always in trouble with someone or other, and so forth. I dare say that, with so hard a nut to crack, the Almighty had to knock him off horses to get his attention.

Now and then, I receive rather interesting e-mail. [By which I do not mean the fifteen messages in today's inbox informing me I was a millionaire - or those informing my cat that she is eligible for a US green card (why would one who already is a queen want that?) or that her bed and breakfast site was receiving insufficient exposure.] It is not unusual for those who read my essays about mystics to write me that they'd never thought of mysticism as being Christian. (Well, one question is answered for me... no wonder I spent some years teaching... computing.) Others seem to have an idea that the mystics - who must have been floating about the ceiling most of the time, or otherwise transported in ecstasy - had no use for Church, word, or sacrament.

Dear ones, the writings directed towards or composed by Christian mystics (especially of the era I treat) did not have to mention the importance of Church, word and sacrament. It would have been such a part of their lives that to mention the same would be like instructing someone to make sure she breathes.

But back to my inbox. Recently, I received a note from a young woman who told me that both she and a friend were mystics. (I perked up for a moment... if they really were, perhaps they could teach me a great deal... I can write and speak of mysticism, but living it is rather eluding me.) She'd asked me what to do to cultivate the mysticism. My reply was that I am purely a teacher - that is, about topics, not an Amma qualified to direct others in the spiritual life - and she would need solid direction. In the interim, I suggested that, considering liturgical prayer was the centre of life for all of my mystic friends (in heaven), they might want to accustom themselves to saying the daily Offices. I have a feeling that was not the expected response...

Of course, getting back to 'religious experiences,' I have had many times in my life when I believe divine grace was especially at work - and these times often were when I had the Good Shepherd come after me without even being aware that I was lost. There are times in my life which, with hindsight, nearly bring me to tears of gratitude with the memory. Yet all He ever 'tells' me is to repent. In fact, when I am praying in the Presence of the Sacrament, my interior eye sees the tabernacle or pyx open, and I inwardly hear the distinct words "Elizabeth, what have you done?" (He speaks to me in Italian dialect at those times, and it admittedly loses something in the translation.)

No, my life has not been that of any highwayman or otherwise picturesque sinner. :) The fact is that our spiritual lives are about 95% repentance (in the sense of constant calls to conversion), and the other 5% is (fledgling mystics may ignore this part for now) banal. It is not romantic (I blush to admit, since I wish it were) - there is no glamour - it rarely if ever is emotionally comforting (which is why I have to push myself to get out the Prayer Book, every time... I'd rather it be so.) And there always is doubt in a sense: are you really there? Did you really call me to be your own? Has anything I've done, trying to live the gospel, really been a manifestation of Love? Am I a sham? What if I'm talking to No-one?

There are many days when I am not even sure there is a God - but perfectly sure I just received His Body and Blood.

Would it be easier had I been transported to the third heaven? (It just occurred to me that another reason that would work with Paul, tough guy that he was, was that I doubt he'd have believed in a leprechaun had it perched on the end of his nose. If I had visions, I'd be behaving like a half-wit.) I doubt this. It would only give most of us doubt and confusion - or lead us to Gnosticism and self-absorption, as it did with the very Corinthians whom Paul was addressing. Paul, who'd really been there, 'returned' knowing he could boast only in weakness. For most of us, unusual experiences would give us a sense of power - and probably a desire to harness this. We'd be led more into error than faith.

The Book of Common Prayer, however 'banal,' is probably a safer alternative. :) But I do hope to meet all of you in the third heaven... after my ashes have been scattered in St James's Park, of course. Pax et Bonum, mysticlets - and much love.

Bo Peeps in the catholic and apostolic church

How well I remember an hilarious conversation I had with a dear priest friend, Fr Thomas, during the early 1990s. Tom was quite a brilliant moral theologian and dedicated friar, and I must add that he had an aversion for things English which perhaps can be polished to perfection only by one who, like himself, was native to southern Ireland. Arch-conservative in many ways, and always feeling rather afflicted by his flock as well as the Establishment, he tended to have a tendency to think of himself as Thomas Becket - indeed, more than once, when he felt he was being opposed, he'd stare out at the congregation from the pulpit and sternly say, "Will no one rid me... of this meddling priest." (He was a tiny man, barely five feet tall, and stood on a step stool in the pulpit. When he uttered that line, in a Richard Burtonesque style, one had the impression of Goliath.)

On the morning I well recall, Tom was in quite an uproar. Being one to begin conversations without stating the topic he assumed the hearer had seen in a crystal ball, Tom told me, "There are limits! The pope can dispense himself from anything, but this is ridiculous!" Floundering through puzzlement, I asked, "Are you referring to the Pope's meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

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

I'll spare the rest of this text for the moment, but must add that Becket continued with a comment on the then-ongoing discussions of women's ordination in the C of E. "There is but one holy, catholic, and apostolic church! And there are no Bo Peeps in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church!"

(When Tom was going through his last illness, I quietly took over most of the parish administration to ease the burden on him. I suppose that, in many ways, it was clear I already had a strong 'Bo Peep streak.' And, right now, he's undoubtedly looking down from the heavens, his rumpled wings poking out from an oversized and patched robe, calling down, "And the back of both o' me hands to ye...")

As Tom well knew, I have never seen a theological reason that women could not be priests (which is not to say that I thought individual bishops should consecrate them independently of authority of the larger Church, nor that women should miss the good they could do 'today' because they devoted all their energies to moaning over not yet having that privilege.) I loved John Paul, but his explanation that Jesus had not bestowed priesthood on his own mother (...I don't know... her already being a tabernacle would make that seem to be overkill), and that women were not present for the Last Supper (which John Paul knew full well was not an ordination ceremony per se), always seemed an evasion. The bit of a logician which resides within me made it all too clear that taking the latter example to its logical conclusion would mean that women could not attend the Eucharist (and John Paul had a hundred times the abilities in logic which I possess, and knew full well that the Last Supper was not, per se, the Eucharist either.)

Lest I shock anyone, my ideas about sacramental theology could not be more orthodox. I firmly believe both in the ministerial, ordained priesthood and in the Eucharist - but not that these were known before Jesus' resurrection and ascension, Pentecost, and a bit more of an interval to get the infant Church past the learning curve. Jesus did not leave his Church alone - it would take continuing, divine revelation, in light of the resurrection, and by the power of the Holy Spirit, for the fulness of the Eucharist and priesthood to be recognised.

The title of this post contains a link to the news about the vote for women bishops in the Church of England. I have neither the political savvy nor the realism to analyse the many implications that this action, particularly in view of the proposal for a two-tier communion, may have. Yet I am wondering if, two hundred years from now perhaps, this action (which, in my overly romantic mind, currently resounds as "it's about time, after 2,000 years") will be seen as prophetic, with the English Church being a vehicle of the Holy Spirit (and introducing an innovation which Rome later will follow), or whether ecumenism will be so badly hampered that Rome and the Orthodox will move yet further away.

I am not denying ecclesiology. I believe that Peter indeed had primacy (and this, in fact, predates his going to Rome.) Yet I see the beginnings of our Church as times of glorious diversity - Antioch, Alexandria, Rome, Jerusalem.... I'm getting a happy shiver to think of how quickly the gospel spread during a relatively short period. Conflict has always been a part of this (and I've treated this in previous posts.) Yet, for example, would Jesus have been so fully the 'light to lighten the Gentiles' (in our perception - divine power cannot be qualified) had non-Jews not had an equal status with Israel? And it took the far from diplomatic Paul to challenge the church at Jerusalem (and the very fallible Peter) for this to begin.

I have no crystal ball - my chances at being prophetic or discerning are slightly below those of my becoming a prima ballerina - and, were I to see visions or hear locutions, I would call for an ambulance. What I express here is only a hope - that the English Church is manifesting the Holy Spirit, and that this will have implications for the larger church catholic

(The side of me that is more mischievous than sublime is looking forward to the debates that shall follow... that part should be great fun.)

Jeremiah was a bullfrog

Note before I begin: Because of maintenance on Blogger.com, there may be some difficulties with reading my sidebar, and with indices to the archives. Please be patient... a quality I'm hoping I may develop some time before the Judgement Day.

As my readers know, I have no fondness for frogdom, and indeed think that John the Divine had a point when he spoke of evil spirits coming forth as same. No, that just happened to be the beginning of song "Joy to the World," which just came up on my CD player. The time has come, once again, when I must dose myself with a plentiful amount of rock music from the 1960s-70s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turn back, O man, foreswear thy foolish ways... See you later, I'm going to the front of the the-A-tre...

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

Naughty, naughty children

The oddest thoughts come to me when I am doing exegesis - this week, of Genesis 1-11. I do not read Hebrew, and am relying on some of the most detailed translations. I am seeing how Adam and Eve, after the 'fall,' did not merely come to a moral knowledge (nor to sexual knowledge in itself), but to a certain maturity, perhaps the beginning of wisdom. No wonder Irenaeus treated of the fall as immaturity - but, as we all know of Augustine, who was far more influential, he could never deal with immaturity in himself or anyone else. This applied whether he was speaking of kids throwing pears to the pigs or young philosophers who just could not possibly have wisdom until later.

As usual, the profound and silly went hand in hand in my mind. I thought of the various 'folk heroes' (in this sense, the kids who were always in trouble) during my childhood. Some of them were, and would remain, genuine problems - in fact, some met an early death which resulted from their own pursuits. But most were not anything approaching wicked - and, if they could be malicious, I doubt they realised the ugliness of this.

One trait that always surprised me in the rabble-rousers was that they often had this need to 'take their punishment,' or at least resignation to cause and effect. This is not to be confused with contrition of any sort. Let it not be thought that they had any intention of mending their ways. I suppose (not knowing, since I was a quiet child who had no interest in tumult) that they had some vague sense of guilt which needed to be punished, so they could proceed to further deviltry unhampered by sentiment.

Then and now, I thought it was unjust, but also rather stupid, that teachers tended to punish an entire class for the actions of a few. Now and then, I heard the justification for this as that 'the others will get after the ones who started the trouble.' This flies in the face of human nature. First off, those most inclined to make trouble not only would feel no guilt about how others were punished because of them, but were most definitely in the 'not to be trifled with' category. Second, if the only reason one has for behaving is the threat of punishment, is it not likely that those who did not have folk hero status, but were in the secondary unit, may have joined in the trouble because they knew they'd be punished in any case?

But not only teachers, parents, et al, had the attitude of 'punish to let out my anger / show I am in authority / take revenge.' I'm not going to trace the history here (because, as usual, it is a theological point distorted), but there was a very strong feeling that God was of that stripe. After all, he was so insulted by disobedience that he could not be appeased and unlock the heavenly gates until reparation was made by an equal (his own Son.) In an equally distorted notion of the imitation of Christ, I suppose, we learnt as well that being one of God's friends got one into further trouble. I've never quite known why, but it seemed that, the friendlier one became with God, the more suffering he sent.

This comes from a part of human nature I have not yet begun to grasp. (We always tend to create God in our own image, or that of authority figures. We cannot grasp his true nature - he's too simple for us.) Many people, and by no means only those who are religious, love to be punished. Nor will thousands of years of recorded history keep them from being convinced that evil, weakness, whatever, all could be wiped out were there sufficient punitive measures in place.

Skip ahead forty years from the time of the initial story ... and here I sit, having travelled a bit on the Internet once again. I'll not explain how I ended up at such sites, but I noticed the very strong trend for those in discussion groups to love the bully among them - the more insulting, the better. They seem convinced that, whatever their 'goals' are, they must fear abuse from an authority in order to meet them.

There is one site (to which I shall not link, lest anyone think I agree with the views presented - though it contains a library of texts I sometimes find helpful) which has a 'Question and Answer' section on matters of Catholic faith. (Most of the questions have to do with guilt - and that guilt is mostly about sex in marriage. No, I don't know why one would feel guilt about that, either - but I did have a sense of the folk hero here, bragging about the naughtiness and somehow wanting punishment.) One question had to do with whether a baptised infant who died would have the same place in heaven as his parents, who'd like to meet him.

My answer, of course, would have been that we have no knowledge of the true nature of the afterlife, and let's not be so literal. (And please spare me snippets from 'life after life' books, since, to my knowledge, all have been authored by people who are alive.) But this dreadful site stressed that, though no one would have pain of loss in heaven, the child could not be expected to have as high a place as his parents because they had a longer life of 'suffering and penance.' So, the idea of the God who relishes punishing still endures...

Why do we cling to this? Perhaps it is immaturity - or having learnt, early if not correctly, that punishing is a great act of love from a caring parent. There is no answer. Yet letting go of such images is the only way to mature in faith.

Then again, maybe I intellectualise too much. There may be those who fear what messes they'd be in were they to lose an image of a punishing hand keeping them from them.

Little sermonette - to remind my readers I'm still here!:)

It happens to all of us, I suppose - one waits for something interesting to write, and weeks pass. I'm aching to include some wit or insight, but none seems to be at hand. So, just in case anyone is looking for a bit of a 'sermon' to divert them, I thought I'd share a few thoughts. I had prepared this summary about some lectionary readings for an upcoming Sunday, but since the site did not need it in this form, perhaps some of you will find it useful. Fear not - this does not indicate there are sermons ahead on this blog!

9 July 2006
Ezekiel 2:1-5 – Mark 6:1-6 – II Corinthians 12:2-10

“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.”


One eternal truth which is common to our lessons today is that divine revelation is not likely to find a ready ear in the congregation – whether its messenger is a visionary prophet, an apostle witnessing to the Risen Saviour, or the Incarnate Word Himself. Often, this is not for a lack of initial enthusiasm. People clamour for the exotic quality of the ‘mystical’ or miraculous, and indeed may be self-congratulatory (only in the interests of sharing the good news, of course) for having an association with those who manifest such gifts.

Mark, not being one for angels or Magi, makes clear at the outset that Jesus’ own earthly vocation was to proclaim the kingdom by preaching repentance. (In earlier chapters, we see Jesus exercise authority over various human ills, demons, and even death – but we shall see in chapter 7 that the apostles he commissioned, despite their glorying in the delegated authority, did not grasp his message much better than the hometown boys whispering about the carpenter’s kid.) Ezekiel was God’s voice to those, caught in the power and tumult of the Babylonian empire, who had descended into pagan ways, and needed to be turned back to trust in God and to worship. Paul, whose own demonstrations of charisma were assuredly beyond the amateur class, was addressing ardent Christians who were a pastoral nightmare. The word of the prophet is always a summons to repentance – that is, to constant transformation. Indeed weakness is the strength, for it is only in being stripped of self-deception and recognising the limitations of one’s own vision that one may respond to grace.

The Corinthians provide pastors of any era with a capsule course in idolatry, gnosticism, false mysticism, iniquity, and internal discord. They were an impossible lot – and, judging from Clement of Rome’s epistle a generation later, so they would remain. In his delightfully insightful Paul: A Critical Life, Jerome Murphy-O’Connor notes that “Virtually every statement (Paul) made took root in their minds in a slightly distorted form, and from this defective seed flowered bizarre approaches to … the Christian life.”

II Corinthians is a combination of two epistles. The total number of Paul’s letters to Corinth, allowing for those to which he refers for which we do not have extant texts, was five. The bane of Paul’s existence were the ‘spirit people,’ a group whose members believed that their superior wisdom made them perfect. The preoccupation with wisdom had led them to theism, and Paul needed to remind them of the importance of Christ. Their belief in the irrelevance of the physical (hardly a viewpoint in accord with the Incarnation), led them to shrug off such small matters as incest or eating meat which was sacrificed to idols. The wealthy clique were feasting, leaving only the bread and wine for those less fortunate. It appears that they saw growth in the spiritual life as a matter of achievement and power rather than metanoia. The Corinthians had seen ample manifestations of healing, prophecy and the like in Paul’s own ministry – indeed, one has the sense in this chapter that he is being rather ironic about those who stole his thunder – yet these had become distractions for them rather than leading them to worship of the Author of the gifts.

Idols come in many forms – and one may not worship at the altar of the true God if one is offering homage to one’s false self. It is unlikely that many of us are building temples to Ba’al, but our own idols are the more dangerous, perhaps, in being less easily recognised. One affliction of the devout is that we can come to see our weaknesses or sins as virtues, our distractions as evidence of unusual commitment.

Benedict of Nursia:

“If we are eager to be raised to that heavenly height, to which we can climb only through humility during our present life, then let us make for ourselves a ladder like the one Jacob saw in his dream. On that ladder angels of God were shown to him going up and down in a constant exchange between heaven and earth. (There is) this difference for us: our proud attempts at upward climbing will really bring us down, whereas to step downwards in humility is the way to lift our spirit up towards God. Paradoxically, to climb upwards will take us down to earth, but stepping down will lift us towards heaven. The steps themselves, then, mark the decisions we are called to make in the exercise of humility and self-discipline.”


In II Corinthians 6:16, Paul had written, “Can there be a compact between the temple of God and idols? And the temple of the living God is what we are.” Grace is a share in the divine life itself. We, the Church, are the temple – before the transcendent God emphasised in Ezekiel and the Incarnate Saviour who assumed and deified our humanity. Our offering is repentance – the disposition to hearing the truth which smashes the idols we create and leads us to the loving response which is transformation. Our sacrifice is to make our lives a Eucharist – a sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.

Paul, who had been privileged with contemplation, had a glimpse of the divine, transcendent glory, to which the natural accompaniment is an awareness of the limitations of one’s vision. Always a devout Jew, a Pharisee who saw Israel (and, later, the new Israel where all nations worshipped the true God) as a priestly people, he knew as well that even what is good in itself (such as the Law, or the charismatic gifts of the spirit) could become an idol.

His ‘thorn’ well may have been knowing, as pastor, that he was powerless to stop the factions in his community – or perhaps, as one whose zeal could exceed his prudence, that he had contributed. Paul knew that mystic consolations can become a distraction – and, since perhaps no other local church had seen more manifestations of charismatic gifts, the Corinthians were proof enough that these are no guarantee of virtue. He would not found his apostolic mission on calls to ‘the third heaven,’ but only on witness to the resurrection.

The temptation shall ever endure to build ‘altars’ to our own honour and glory, in memory of God. The idol can be, as at Corinth, a sense of superiority which excludes love, an attraction for the magical rather than the ‘banal’ actions of gratitude and worship, or a false idea of the life in Christ as ‘achievement.’ It is only in repentance, thanksgiving, and praise that we can assume our vocation as a priestly people – our calling to be the Temple. Humility, that is, truth, unvarnished by the distractions of the false self, must dispose us to see our ‘weakness’ and embrace the divine life of which we are offered a share.

Karl Rahner – “Current Problems in Christology,” 1954, Theological Investigations

"Ultimately, an individual human recognition of truth only makes sense as a beginning, a promise, of the recognition of God – and this latter, whether in the beatific vision or elsewhere, can only be genuine and a source of blessing when it is recognised at the point where the act of apprehension and the act of limitation specifying the thing known surpass themselves and move into what cannot be grasped and is unlimited. All the more does any truth about the self-revealing God open us up into what cannot be beheld: it is the beginning of what is limitless. The clearest and most lucid formulation, the holiest formula, the classical concentration of the Church’s centuries of work in prayer, thought, and struggle about the mysteries of God – these draw life, then, from the fact that they are beginning and not end, means and not goal, one truth that makes freedom for the – ever greater – Truth."

Our Father, Our Mother, which art in heaven

Anyone who is turning up the heat under the oil to burn me probably will be dissatisfied with what follows. I am no more a 'gender feminist' than I ever was, and I'm one of the last people on earth who would be looking for controversy. However, when I heard from someone who was irate that the newly elected Presiding Bishop of the ECUSA had referred to Jesus our mother, I thought I'd save my readers time by providing a link to selections from Julian of Norwich's writings on that topic.

Since Julian's book was focussed on, and derived from, visions she had of Jesus in his Passion, and her words related to the Trinity express relationships of a family, there hardly could be more of a treatment of Jesus in his humanity (very common in the Middle Ages, and, I must add, to this day sometimes an excess for Franciscans, which Julian was not.) But Julian was a mystic, and those who are know well that becoming totally immersed in divine love involves being stripped of attachments. One attachment which ultimately must be sacrificed for the mystic is any pre-conceived notion of God.

I must make this clear: the images of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit which so enrich our prayer and are extensive in the liturgy are extremely important. Jesus' referring to God as Father (a topic I'll treat in more detail some time, I'm sure), and to our status as adopted children, is one I would never care to see minimised. Those who are in mystic union, nonetheless, are beyond images. They realise how limited is our vision in recognising the transcendent God. Jesus of Nazareth, of course, was a male - and Julian was not at all questioning that.

I am sorry to sound a bit silly today. Yet I did wish to take the opportunity to perhaps introduce some of you to Julian's writings on Jesus our Mother. The intimacy and unity they express are often a balm for my own weary soul.

Musical minims make me crotchety

Dreadful pun containing a misused word, I know - but this post was inevitable, so bear with me once more. I am a trained musician, skilled as an operatic singer, holding a Master's degree in musicology and Bachelor's in voice. During the 1970s, much of my concentration was on liturgical music, and my MA thesis was on that topic. With the liturgical changes in full force - and, in theory, they were very promising, even if we've all lived to see that they can be quite different in practise - it seemed an exciting time. I was involved with associations of church musicians, a budding institute of liturgical music, a hymnal commission, and other efforts, all involving highly competent musicians, which gave promise of a renaissance for Roman Catholic worship.

I still cannot say precisely what happened which brought about the later conditions, which were dismal. Yet I know very well that, when I had to leave the Religious life, the situations had changed greatly. There are exceptions (and I'll get to that in a moment), but, overall, soloists were regarded with a contempt normally reserved to those who poison popes. Choirs were relegated to being only there to 'support' congregational singing. Anyone sitting in the congregation who was any good at singing was expected to quietly croon, lest those nearby hear a decent voice and not sing. Funerals (as I first saw when attending one for a priest friend in 1986) meant song leaders and congregational singing of the worst sort.

I personally believe that Westminster Cathedral has one of the best choirs in the world, and their music programme, even at the packed daily services of Vespers and the Eucharist, is outstanding. According to the viewpoints which led to the demise of any musical vision for parishes, the cathedral does everything wrong. It should be empty! The marvellous choir performing classical pieces is 'supposed' to be a travesty. Accomplished organists who do not merely play softly in the background are 'performing' rather than supporting the worshipping community. People cannot 'relate' to wonderful music, and will run away crying if there is any piece in which they do not participate (participation being narrowly defined as 'everyone must sing everything'), since that means it is not 'their' liturgy. (Following that line of reasoning, no one should feel part of a liturgy at which s/he is not celebrant, lector, et al combined, but I don't want to go off on too many tangents today.)

Why, then, is every service so well attended? Pews are filled with people of all ages and backgrounds. Many join in chants, most in hymns - and there are no song leaders (though, at Vespers, there is the rare presence of a genuine Cantor.)

I realise, of course, that most parishes would not have the resources to present music as splendid as that at the cathedral. My point is far simpler. Church music, which had such promise thirty years ago, was killed not by serious musicians but by those who actually had an animosity towards music. Oh, indeed those influential in parishes often wanted hymns and more hymns, none of which could be more than 5 years old, all of which had to be within the range of those tone deaf. In an unwitting insult to the intelligence of the congregation, it was assumed that no one could 'relate' to anything above the dismal.

This would not lead to empty pews, of course. Roman Catholics, I would say more than those of any other sister church, are quite likely to attend weekly Mass because it is an 'obligation.' An obedient lot by comparison with others, they also will not disobey the regulation about attending Mass in one's 'own' parish (defined by post code.) Nor would people be likely to complain - those who did would be treated in a condescending fashion, as if they had not sufficiently participated in the 'educative process for the people,' or could not accept what was outside their 'comfort zone.'

Recently, I attended an Anglican Eucharist where two young men were seated very near me. I was singing full voice, knowing that, on this territory, that did not place me in danger of excommunication - and the fellows, who obviously were trained musicians as well, joined in the rather intricate tenor and bass parts. I found it very uplifting - I really felt wrapped in prayer and praise. Had it been a Catholic service, at best we'd have been censured for destroying 'community.'

Thomas Day's "Why Catholics Can't Sing" is a worthwhile book, but it needs a companion volume. Day deals only with congregational singing, not with the valuable role which can be played by accomplished musicians. Of course, RC parishes often can learn much about music from the C of E, but might be misled by seeing that the latter's attendance is lower.

The Roman Catholic Church has as rich a heritage of the aesthetic as any other institution. Perhaps one day this will be reclaimed... but I have no hopes that this will be in my lifetime. Too many of those who became very influential in parishes had no background in music, theology, or liturgy, but in the religious education of children. They were locked in a mindset where everyone was just beginning to read and had trouble singing "London Bridge is Falling Down" without falling into three keys in the process. (In class, that is. Kids can sing anything on the playground.)

For once, I shall quote a lyric from a musical composition which is not outstanding by any standard - Don McLean's "American Pie." "I knew that I was out of luck the day the music died."

Let us not search for the Golden Age

I've mentioned in the past how it is often incredibly tempting to picture the early Church as a time of unparalleled peace, love, and harmony. As those who read my blog well know, I have spent much of the past two years studying worship, ministry, and sacraments in the very early Church - a bit of a disappiontment (syllabus was revised) for one who had been hoping to get all the more deeply into the patristic era, when the three concepts were far more developed. With exams past, as usual, the areas which I studied are becoming more vivid for me. The discipline of the course and the papers to write is superb, and I would not care to miss this - the more because, were it not mandatory, I would not have read the excellent works of those with whom I disagree. :) Yet with the stress of accountability removed for the moment, my recognition is heightened.

I was privileged to read the works of many great scholars, and, though even a cursory reading of Paul of Tarsus would make even a romantic like myself wary of the lovey-dovey image of the early Church, I began to see just how much the early days of the Church were on shaky ground. It is amazing how much things have changed even during my lifetime. The 20th century was a time of great discovery, and of huge strides in scripture scholarship. (The Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered only a short time before I was born, and scripture scholarship was widely seen as a threat until well into the second part of the century.)

In my childhood (and by no means only for the young!), it was easy to have an image of Jesus' having appeared in the upper room and saying, "Happy Easter. I'm the second Person of the Blessed Trinity. Now, for the next 50 days, the lot of you are going to have a capsule course in theology and rubrics." We had the impression that the gospel of Luke had all the details of Jesus' infancy because he'd been a friend of Mary's. I cannot recall in which film this appeared, but there was one 'scriptural epic' in which the apostle Matthew was shown already making notes for his gospel... dramatic licence, to be sure, but it did not enter any of our minds that Matthew not only would not have had post-resurrection understanding but would hardly have been writing the gospel for a church which did not exist. It was popularly believed that, on the night of the Last Supper, the apostles arose from the table knowing they'd been ordained priests for a new Church.

By the time I was a young adult (all of us well primed with the Holy Spirit, who had been so powerful during the Vatican Council that plenty of individual inspiration was leftover to be distributed to all of us humble creatures), the adulation for the early Church was at an all time high. Anyone who thinks there was no penance in the 1960s and 70s never sat through interminable choruses of "They'll Know We Are Christians By Our Love." (I comforted myself with the thought that things could be worse - on any night when it was not "Kumbaya.") Though I myself never participated, I knew some young Christians who had glowing ideas about living in Christian communes - and some indeed did so. There was an underlying idea that, if we could strip away everything that happened since and get back to that pure Christianity, we'd all live up to our calling to be the love generation.

(Don't shake your head at my bit of sarcasm! One can criticise groups broadly provided one was a member of same. There was a period during the late 1970s when I nearly thought I could raise the dead, and everyone else in my prayer group thought they could cure the blind at the least.)

Admittedly, I do wonder how the Christian movement became so popular. (I'm giving the Holy Spirit his due, but could ponder what drew the many Jews, Gentile God-fearers, and eventually pagans.)It certainly was not peace and harmony. James, Peter, and Paul had conflicts about the Gentile mission to work out at Antioch. The Corinthians were making all sorts of messes with their newfound Christianity, and the Letter of Clement of Rome shows that, a generation later, they were no better behaved than in Paul's time.

The Church was in its infancy, and indeed it was a time when revelation and response was at a peak which only divine inspiration can explain. But, apart from Christology, there was ecclesiology with which to contend. James questioned if the Gentile mission should have equal footing with the Jerusalem Church, or if the Gentile Christians would have a different status, as did the uncircumcised who worshipped at the temple. (Of course, we all know what soon happened to the temple.) Paul and the others worshipped in the synagogues, but Paul himself must have been totally maddening to get into all the scrapes he reports.

What was the definition of 'apostle,' prevalent in Paul, absent in John? How did God speak through his Church? I had a strong sense, reading the Johannine epistles, Paul's letters, and the writings of Ignatius of Antioch, that it was very possible that the 'false teachers' who were leading everyone astray may well have been, for example, the Johannine Christians who were side by side with the Pauline mission in Ephesus. And, though Paul never mentions the elders, Acts does give the impression that he spent a good deal of time instructing them.

The conflicts varied, sometimes because of human weakness (as in Corinth), but often because of legitimate theological matters, or sociological factors which were quite crucial. Indeed, God is Truth, and inspires His Church (I'm not about to define how, because one needs a few centuries of hindsight, at least, to see when that happens.) However much we may be dedicated to prayer, to knowledge, to worship, we shall always have to deal with the limitations of our own vision.

We cannot recapture a golden age - it never existed. Remembering that conflict is as old as the Church at least reminds us that we need the humility to admit that we never know how the Spirit is working.

Time travel

I shall caution my readers that this is likely to be a post filled with loose associations. I have fallen behind in my writing, and decided that, were I to wait until I had something interesting to say, it may well be the judgement day. I keep intending to write about the wonderful feasts (can one top Corpus Christi?), but I cannot help feeling sad. When I was a young woman, I was a gifted lecturer - I still am, but with no place to take it. Preparing such comments makes me sad, now and then, for knowing that I myself have had enough of soup kitchens, yet churches which would welcome talks from one with theological knowledge would have no interest in a 'nobody.'

I have always had a weakness for literature in the 'time travel' genre. It ranges from the profound to the silly (actually, the only one who did it reasonably was Dickens - and notice that Ebenezer was able to change the outcome), but the common threads always are there. One cannot change what has happened, or how what happened in the past affects conditions today or in the interim.

I have never desired to, for example, live in the Middle Ages, to be sure - yet I sometimes wish, when I think of incidents in history, of how I'd love to have a monitor to peek at how it really was. Documents are wonderful, but tell us so little compared to the totality. Here is a simple, perhaps trivial, matter of which I was telling someone this week. She had asked me about certain circumstances in the religious life a quarter century ago. I was saying how I know many things from the hundreds of Sisters and varied communities with which I had contact, as well as from my own experience. Yet things, however pertinent, are long forgotten or cannot be mentioned. One needs to use references in writing, and past conversations, 'workshops,' articles in obscure publications, or letters do not have that 'validity.' (Unless, of course, one was important enough to have influenced the outcome and have such things documented.)

The 'time travel' theme often includes having the visitor from the later period wish to warn those in the past of a negative outcome. It cannot happen, of course - one cannot change the past. Yet I can only imagine being transported in a time machine! "You'll all be slaughtered in that battle... This will split the Church in pieces... You'll be poisoned if you go there... The effects of the radiation and the blast will be utterly devastating... You are going to hit an iceberg!... Throw the money changers out of the temple and that will be a last straw - you'll be crucified."

I find studying various periods totally fascinating. As I have grown older, I have found, for example, that the patristic period in theology beckons even more to me than it did in the past. It is more difficult for me than the mediaeval and renaissance periods, not only because I know those so well but because many of the matters of conflict which existed in 1500 still are alive today. I need to focus very strongly to go back to the early centuries of the Church - Rome and France pagan, North Africa strongly Christian - empire booming theb crumbling, etc..

I have yet another challenge now, which makes the early Church nearly contemporary in my mind by comparison. I have just begun a thorough study of the Hebrew Scriptures. One of the hardest parts for me, as it indeed was for the Fathers, is not to 'read in' the Christian element. I must not read the first chapter of Genesis and immediately 'hear' the first of the Gospel of John. :)

Last week, when I went to the library to begin some of my reading, the Jewish division was closed. Naturally, 90% of my reading will be in that library, but, not to lose a day, off I went to Humanities. I read some very inventive words about Genesis, to say the least. They were not even Christian, but were 'literary criticism rather than history or theology,' aimed at making Eve a feminist hero. In one book (probably someone's dissertation - all dissertations, including mine, are farfetched and boring by definition), God seems far more helpless and confused than the might Eve.

Well, I'll get to the Jewish scholars this week and begin to find out what Genesis really means. But the treatment of Eve, so slanted by having to show that misogyny was based on her being misunderstood (a nice change, I suppose, since most of the time it is the big, bad males' interpretation of either Mary or Mary Magdalene which is responsible for all evils afflicting womankind), was rather too imaginative...

Lord have mercy, if I only could quote all of what I heard in my Religious days! One cannot climb into the time machine and, by changing, let us say, perceptions of Eve, Mary, or Mary Magdalene, make centuries of misogyny disappear. But neither can one 'make up for' the past. We only can work with what we have now. Attempts to make up for past injustice are doomed to fail, because there is unintentional but inherent dishonesty.

Many nuns suffered at the hands of superiors or other Sisters - in the 1970s, that had to be shelved, because all had to be blamed on the men. A false image, as if 'you' could know exactly how 'I' feel merely because we are of the same sex, meant a boycott of the men from whom we could have learnt a great deal, and women being automatically qualified for anything by virtue of their sex. (I must make this plain! Many women were highly competent, and I'll include myself in that number! I am referring to cases where, for example, suddenly just being female made one qualified as a spiritual director.)

The lie is that, whenever one tries to make up for the past, whomever was the 'loser' in the past becomes a victim. History can become distorted, as if the 'victims' were blameless or perfect. Whomever oppressed them becomes the enemy - and, if those oppressors are long dead, the guilt has to carry to the innocent of much later generations.

I'd best not go on about this, because I just don't have the wits about me at the moment to express myself clearly enough. I'll just ask my readers to say a prayer for me. I cannot go into even a small scale time machine and recapture the talent and zeal I had in youth. :) The intervening years cannot be cancelled. Pray for me, not only that I develop enough gratitude that the past (and my present pain) not distract me, but that I somehow find ways to use these gifts today rather than feeling my past failures make that impossible.

Put that in 'frid'

I am totally hopeless recently, and ignoring that this undoubtedly means that my prayer life is out of joint. Wonderful feasts have dotted the calendar these past few weeks - the Easter season, Ascension, Pentecost, and now Trinity Sunday. It does not get better than that, I'm sure. Yet I have not written a blog entry on a one of them... so off to a bit of trivia, just not to get completely stale.

If you are with me this far, by now you are wondering who or what is 'frid.' My dad, a grocer descended from a long line of farmers, had a love for fruits and vegetables which bordered on (or perhaps was) reverence. He would not just eat an apple, for example. First, he would hold it up to be admired, turning it so its beauty and symmetry might be appreciated (not that Sam had any taste for the aesthetic, as his musician daughter here knew well). Second, he would be sure to let anyone present know not only of its quality but, depending on whether the item was bought or home grown, either what a wonderful price he paid or how much benefit there was from whatever new compost he was compiling. Lest my readers picture vast acreage, I shall note that Sam's garden was about the size of a small sitting room, but that, had all the earth he owned fit into a teacup, he'd have planted a tomato there. Unlike me, a dreadful gardener but one who loves wild-looking, multi-coloured flower beds, Sam would have considered it a total waste to plant anything one could not eat.

Sam's English was not the best, and his word for a refrigerator was 'frid.' With his respect for food being what it was, he constantly reminded us to 'put that in frid.'

My mother (Chip) was basically a terrible cook. (For some reason, the only thing she could make well were manicotti shells, which tended to come out thin as crepes.) I think the problem was a total lack of confidence - she would be puzzled that I was an innovative cook, or that I could make a dress in a different colour from that of the pattern illustration. As well, her fate was sealed when someone gave her a dreadful cookbook (of the 'gift for a bride who cannot boil an egg' category) as a wedding present. Chip never seasoned anything - she cooked pasta (which was her favourite food) till it was of the consistency of a damp rag. (When I fixed it for her, she'd wrinkle her nose and say, 'it's... good... al dente,' as if that were the worst of insults.) Her idea of a meat dish (which is not to say that meat dishes were ever her idea) was 'drop it in the pan and just let it cook.' Herbs, gravies, spices - were not in her vocabulary.

Whether the two are connected I would not say, but in a bizarre fashion Sam was a good match for Chip's cooking. His inherent frugality made him praise cooking which did not 'waste' (that is, add anything that was not absolutely necessary.) He'd become annoyed if I cooked, complaining that, if I added anything, I was 'wasting.' I was puzzled, considering it is not as if I fixed an item then poured it down the drain... it took me years to realise his definition of 'waste.' (Odd definitions, I suppose, are to be expected of someone who puts everything 'in frid.')

Years ago, when I saw the play The Fantasticks, I suddenly had an insight. The fathers in that play sing about 'plant a radish, get a radish, never any doubt. That's why I love vegetables, you know what you're about.' At least Sam's vegetables were predictable. A firstborn who was passionate about the aesthetic, had jars of spices in every spare inch of the cabinets and a few on the stove next to the collection of Twining's special edition teas, was mad about the English language, and had a weakness for recipes where one drops in a bit of Grand Marnier and serves the product next to truffles... well, was not in the 'plant a radish, get a radish' category.

I love to cook. (I have a sister who also loves to bake, a talent which she has in good measure and I lack. For all my enjoyment of meat pies, I always end up making stews because I cannot bother with a crust.) Trouble is, many dishes just do not work when one lives alone.

This past week, one of my recurring odd actions was inevitable. When it has been raining, chilly, or both for any period, I have to get out my crockpot and whip up one of my 'pies sans crust.' This often tends to be oxtail stew. My crustless pies are (if I must say so) actually delicious, but unusual for some reason (maybe it's obvious.) I think that, when it is well made, English food is perfectly delicious. (I'll save comments about when it is not well made for another thread.) But I always have to add an Italian fillip. My steak and Guinness version contains both garlic and basil.

Well, this week the oxtail stew simmered all day, filling the kitchen with a lovely scent. I do not like potatoes much, and prefer zucchini, eggplant, and other Italian staples to what others put in stews, so I included turnips, zucchini, carrots and more, and wonderfully succulent portabello mushrooms... port in the gravy, yum! It is only after these pots stop simmering that it strikes me (one would think I'd have caught on by now) that, unless I have four good-sized men drop over for dinner unexpectedly, I shall be eating oxtail stew with no crust for the next week. (Leeks, which I adore, were on sale this week, as were 'baby' portabello mushrooms. I'm trying to ignore it, but know with a horrible certainty that, by week's end, I may be confronted with a massive pot of chicken, leek, and mushroom... stew.)

Though pasta, salads, and other Italian staples are popular today, most people I knew when I was young (who were not of Italian background) rarely ate them. I love Italian food, if one is speaking of veal, salads and such, but loathe pasta. (The only thing funnier than pasta's being a current 'gourmet' treat, which we ate four times a week because it was so cheap, is that polenta is carried in posh restaurants. Polenta was even lower on the social scale.) I'm afraid I'm going to have to clue everyone in on a fact of life which I knew at age 2 but is ignored today, when everyone is 'eating healthy' and, I hear, gaining so much weight. The much lauded "Mediterranean diet" is terrible! It means being ravenous for at least 21 out of 23 hours... because eating starch when one is hungry is comparable to drinking salt water to ease thirst. (Ask your waiter friend why restaurants place bread on the table before meals are served. Yes, to stimulate appetite.)

The kids I knew who ate meat three times a day (and perhaps even junk food, though fast food did not yet exist in my childhood) did not have weight problems. Our 'healthy', constant hunger diet led many of us to have weight trouble, though we seldom had sweets and a can of tuna was Friday dinner for four.

Lord have mercy, I have gone on many a tangent today! Yet there is one secret to attractive meals which Chip, with her fear of seasoning, and Sam, who thought everything was a waste, would never have known. A combination of flavours can make even a poor table seem rich. Mixing in an olive here and there, a bit of goat cheese, mustards, whatever - having a little pickle on the cheddar, and odd greens on the side - can make one feel like a gourmet... even on a budget akin to, or less than, Sam's.

Without variety, everything can seem barren and boring. Which finally leads me to the point I've been trying to ignore... I need to get back to the richness of my prayer life...:)