All Hallows' Eve thoughts

The link in the title is to last year's post, Dwelling on the mysterioso, which is a bit more theological than tonight's probably shall be.

My taste in clothing is far from conservative (fifty does not mean frumpy, and my tastes are half Paris, half Woodstock.) One of my prized possessions, being a medievalist, is a purple cape, the front of which is decorated, right near the closures, with the symbols of alchemy. I well remember when a young man, seeing my cape, told me he sensed that I was "a very powerful witch." Stifling a giggle, I told him I was not a witch at all. He then asked me if I could predict the future. Smiling now, I said, "I am Christian - that's not in my line." He responded, "But that is very powerful, too! Do you do laying on of hands?"

With the combination of romantic and mystical that beats within this heart, I'm the last person who could do laying on of hands. I'd probably try to raise the dead or something. No - I'm someone who has to stay with liturgical prayer, lectio divina, and all that other boring and banal business. :)

My wicked side will share a story from my convent days. We still wore the 'old habit,' and I must say that our congregation did not have one of the more attractive models. Our dress was a near duplicate of the garb of the Friars Minor, and the veil was very unattractive - stiff headband across the forehead, a coif that came round about the ears.

My congregation was based in Italy, where I hoped to remain, but I was stationed at a mission in the States. (Serves me right for speaking English well... but at least it wasn't the leprosarium in Africa.) Halloween, at least then, was the time of avid 'trick or treating' for the younger set. Coincidentally, it was the 31st of October when I had to go grocery shopping with Sister C.. I'm not being unkind saying this, because it must be mentioned if the rest of this tale is to make sense: C., though she was probably aged all of 32, was one of the ugliest women I've ever known - the picture of the story book witch.

We were waiting on the queue for the till, and a young mother behind us was horrified when her daughter, aged 4 or so, saw C. and piped up with, "I'm going to be a witch for Halloween, too!"

November is a wonderful month liturgically - beginning with the remembrance of the communion of saints, ending with the feast of Christ the King (the latter an image I dearly love.) Advent to follow is better still. But the part of me that loves folk tales and the like does see an appeal that is not... specifically liturgical in All Hallows' Eve. I'll spare you the history of the holiday (there are sites which can show you that far better than you'd find in my impromptu writings.) I'll just make 'public confession' of what I'm doing this week. :)

I have a great fondness for the monster films (the entire Dracula, Frankenstein, Wolf Man bunch) produced by Universal studios during the 1930s-40s. I cannot abide later 'horror pictures' - they are too gory, frighten me terribly, and (using, as one example, the theme of exorcism, which I wish were as popular now as anything related to the reign of Christ) too often draw on what is just too explicitly 'real.' I'm having a little film festival now, watching those films once again.

They have great humour in them - police tend to be very colourful cockneys, which is quite interesting for Transylvania and Germany, and I suppose I'm always happy to hear someone whose accent is worse still than mine. The history behind the legends is often interesting. The films do not frighten me, because they remind me of the reality of life rather than merely evil. Many of us struggle with the problem of evil - the sense of sources beyond us that we cannot control - the uncomfortable awareness that fear (of death, of being separated from those whom we love, and so forth) can become an idol and drive one to desperation. As long as I don't dwell on genetic engineering and cloning and to what they may lead (that really frightens me, though I hope that my own life will have ended before the results are produced - I'll be gone within fifty years at most, and far less than that unless I take after my mother's family), I can weep when Frankenstein's monster cries, "Friend! Friend!" when he seeks love and inspires terror. In fact, I can almost feel sorry for Victor Frankenstein (renamed 'Henry' by Universal, for reasons I've never discovered), who is so wrapped up in the thought of a scientific breakthrough that the outcome of his experiment is far from what he'd expected.

Of course, my greatest sympathy is reserved for Laurence Talbot (the Wolf Man), and I'm glad that, in "House of Dracula," he finally is restored to health. I find the gypsy woman's wisdom, and "The way you walked was thorny, through no fault of your own," very moving.

How is "Spirituality in Universal Monster Flicks" as a topic for my next dissertation? Blessings to all. May the saints, in heaven and on earth, be bound with the love to which Christ calls us tonight... while Gloriana takes a night off with the monsters.

What is the attraction of bullies?

This is not likely to be one of my more insightful posts. I live in a basement flat, and the cat has been in one of the windows, howling in a manner which makes me think there is something to black magic at this season. It's more likely that a stray found his way to the outside, but the annoyance of the noise is worse than that of my CD-ROM drive, which also has gremlins and has been opening and closing, of its own accord, for three days.

I never was one much for varied Internet fora. In the earlier days of the Internet, I did belong to some highly interesting mailing lists, about theology, books, humour, and other areas that I love. Yet it takes very little for some pest to derail entire lists. Nonetheless, now and then I drop in to Yahoo chat groups and the like... I seldom stay long.

I have stayed long enough to see that (regardless of the list topic, since any bully can derail a thread) there are many people out there who thrive on being bullied. It seems to boil down to "this is what I am 'supposed' to be doing - I hate it - so, if someone abuses me, treats me as if I were a liar, traps me in every word I say, this will 'motivate' me to spend my time on what I hate, out of fear of the abuse. Someone who treats me like trash must really care."

Yes, that is true charity and friendship... to destroy other people's sense of self-worth, play ego games, help them to feel terrible about themselves, perhaps doubt their own integrity. It makes me shiver to see how popular this can become. It reminds me of a sad but prevalent idea that dominated my own youth. Many people in authority (not only 'high up,' but parents or teachers, for example) were interested only in conformity to rules and standards. If the person under authority did not comply, it meant that he was not afraid of the authority enough - so he had to be brutalised.

I heard a very sad story recently. A young man, in his teens, has bipolar disorder. He has been doing what the self help books would call 'acting out.' His insomnia disturbs his parents - the profanity that sometimes spews from the mouths of the mentally ill is 'disrespectful' - the anxiety is taken for an act - the depression for not realising what a wonderful home he has. He probably is crying out for help when he shouts, but it is mistaken for a desire to 'scare' his parents. They are trying to find ways to be more brutal because 'he has to learn.' (If their child had cancer or heart disease, I suppose that he could get that to disappear with sufficient punishment.)

How narrow and self centred we mortals are capable of being! We cannot see the suffering of those around us, because all we see are the effects on ourselves. Sadly, too many of us have a notion of God that is of a bully who will punish us unless we do what we hate. Perhaps that forces many of us to turn, not in love but in fear, to an image of God which makes us want (and often create) punishments for ourselves.

Though I had seen such examples, many times, in my youth, I was amazed to see that, on Internet fora with people much younger, the idea of 'temporal punishment in reparation for our sins,' asking God to increase pain for the sake of one's salvation, and so forth apparently are still in fashion. To return to the idea with which I began today, no one would want to be mistreated unless one hated what one was 'supposed' to do in the first place. What is this, in the spiritual life? The practise of virtue? Seeming deprivation? Wanting to suffer here lest we have to suffer in eternity?

I received an e-mail today with a quote from Dominican theologian Herbert McCabe. It is quite lovely, and also reminded me of a truth I'm slowly learning. Gratitude, not guilt, not fear of punishment, tends to foster love of God and neighbour, and true worship. I should like to share the quotation with you"

"To see ourselves as gift from God is just to look deeply into ourselves, to see ourselves for what we really are. You cannot love yourself, your real self (as distinct from valuing your price or what you will fetch) without being grateful to God, without thanking him, thinking him through yourself. And it is only when you do this, when you thank God for yourself, for the gift of existence, that you are released from the prison of self-seeking to value others for their own sake, which is to value them too as gifts of God. That is why Jesus tells us to love our neighbour as ourselves. He is asking us to love our neighbour in the way we love ourselves — in gratitude to God.

But there is much more to it than this. For when you do it, when you actually thank God for your being and for others (not just when you think about it but when you do it), you discover a further truth: that the thing you are most grateful for, the greatest gift of God, is the gratitude itself. The greatest gift of God to you is not just that he made you, but that you love him. The greatest gift of God to you is that you can speak with him and say ‘thank you’ to him as to a friend—that you are on intimate speaking terms with God. God has made us not just his creatures but his lovers; he has given us not just our existence, our life, but a share in his life.

Media should love this one

I shall caution my readers that, contrary to custom, I shall not be having great theological reflections today. I'm going to indulge my rather naughty side for a moment. I just read that there will be a webcast, plus satellite coverage, for the installation of ++Katharine Jefferts Schori as presiding bishop of the Episcopal Church in the United States. I know nothing of Washington DC, but recall watching the broadcast of Ronald Reagan's funeral from that cathedral - a singer who sounded as if he belonged in a tavern, jokes, an odd treatment of the 'city on a hill' gospel as if the evangelists had Reagan in mind. I am hoping this service will be dignified, glorious - everything that Cranmer plus the Oxford Movement would have intended. (I doubt it - a Washington e-correspondent led me to anticipate a far different picture.) And I do hope it is treated, liturgically, no differently than were it any other bishop. I saw too many 'relevant' liturgies turn into circuses in my day. It certainly is a monumental event, and one which should be quite interesting in the right hands of the press.

My immediate thought was the potential for boring, predictable media statements from those who believe themselves to be newsworthy. Not to mention any names, of course, but I can think of at least one US priest and Sister (prolific, if not deep), both "American Catholic" (therefore technically Roman), who would love a spotlight to go on about how Catholic women have to endure job discrimination (not being priests) because the eleventh commandment (US separation of church and state, which somehow is more sacred than anything at Sinai) prevents their suing employers and demanding equal rights. Then there are those, along the lines of Falwell (who somehow thought Osama bin Laden's action five years ago were divine punishment - God having lifted a 'veil of protection' - for the US being a place where abortion is legal and gays exist), who can see anything involving the Episcopal Church as somehow connected to abortion and gay rights, and therefore the work of Satan. (Sadly, there is another variety of Roman Catholic - as some web sites to which I'd never link would show, which would be Falwell with a rosary in hand.) And I'm sure there will be some loud-mouthed ECUSAns who will relish the thought of a split with Canterbury because it is a remnant of 'colonialism'...

...Yawn... Talk about old news... :) .... Considering that, from all my studies, I have seen that, in the first generation after Jesus's earthly life, apostles (beyond the Twelve, such as Paul) were specifically those who gave witness to the resurrection and all that this meant for the new church. The first witness to the resurrection, and the one who shared this news, was Mary Magdalene, so women as apostles seems a longstanding tradition.

Spare me "God's will"!

Note that the link in the title is to last year's post about San Gerardo Maiella, whom I am recalling on his feast today.

Gerardo had a childlike simplicity which it is difficult for me to grasp. I heard something quite interesting about him just this week. A Redemptorist Father, who wrote a biography of his Order's most famous saint (yes, perhaps more famous than Alphonsus Liguori, as far as devotion goes), stated affectionately that Gerardo was a child of God - indeed, a spoiled child. Consequently, he tended to get that for which he asked. I heard that, in praying with a dying woman, Gerardo told her basically - "let us get God to do what we want."

How refreshing! How often have all of us been exposed to the idea that there is a dismal, unknowable oppression called "God's will." One never knows what it is, until one become heartbroken, gravely ill, sees everything one cherishes taken away - whatever.

Note here that I am not speaking of God's true will - or denying that this is beyond our grasp. God truly willed creation, the Incarnation, the resurrection, our deification, his presence in Church and sacraments. We have no answer to the pain and suffering in this world, but what I resent more than an idea that everything is God's will (with Archbishop Runcie, I'm agnostic about Auschwitz) is the one about how God sends us suffering.

Gerardo was a simple man - and he was young enough to be my son when he died. Unlike most saints of the modern era (he died in 1755), he was known for many miracles during his lifetime. My family was from the neighbouring diocese, and all thought of him as a very powerful saint, to whom they turned with woes, unembellished, and their needs, unashamed.

Since whatever wit and insight I possess has been sadly lacking in my recent posts, it may be apparent that I am troubled at the moment. I mention this because, contrary to my usual theology and such logic as I possess (let alone the fear of "God's will"), I lit my candle to Saint Gerard this week, entrusting my worry to him. I wish I had my mother's faith - she'd be sure she'd get her petition answered... and would.

Sufficient to each day is the trouble thereof!

I have to admit that, whenever I read the scripture passages about 'consider the lilies of the field,' I wish with all my heart that I could believe God provides for our temporal needs. (For the benefit of someone just dropping in to this blog, I am not speaking of lavish spending, but of basic needs.) Unfortunately, I worked with the homeless for seven years - saw the homeless huddling together trying to not die of cold near the office where I worked - and knew, all too well, that this was in the 'prosperous west.' I am too aware of poverty (disease, war, etc.), not to mention the horrors humans can inflict on one another, to have that sort of trust.

Yet Jesus (who 'had no place to rest his head,' and was undoubtedly dependent on others for his subsistence when he was an itinerant preacher... I wonder how much his family complained about his abandoning carpentry) certainly was spot on with his question of to what it avails us to be anxious. I'm a case study in anxiety, so I am hardly suggesting that I have an answer for this one. Still, it amazes me (since I deal with fear every day of my life) that I often encounter people who, rather than wishing diversion from anxiety (as I do), seem to relish discussing not only how bad things are but how much worse they could be.

In recent weeks, I have been at what one would think were celebrations of happy occasions - a christening party, a feast at a church with many Italian immigrants. They were the sort of settings where I can picture the wise Jesus of Nazareth changing water into wine. My spiritual director keeps trying to get through my thick skull that much of what is most valuable in our relationship with God is trust and gratitude - and the occasions I mentioned were just the sorts where one would think gratitude and joy would be prevalent.

Instead, the conversations (which were among people at celebrations, not military leaders...) tended towards the dangers of germ and chemical warfare; it is a matter of 'when, not if' Iraq, Osama or whomever wipes out the west; that social services are going bankrupt.... and so forth, and so on. Some days, there is not enough gin in the entire world...

Why can we not enjoy the joy that might be on hand today?

Admittedly, I might be too earnest and scholarly (as my father used to say, 'book learning, but not the ways of the world') to see that some of this talk is... well, just talk. It is possible, I suppose, that people bring up such topics because it makes them look well informed. (I noticed that my nephew - the one very learned in current affairs, whom I mentioned in a previous post - had the good sense not to participate in this conversation.) Perhaps not everyone who is talking about such things as germ warfare is thinking about it later in the day.

Years ago, when I first studied the Holocaust, which took place in the decade preceding that in which I was born, I was stricken with such horror that it took me years not to awaken in fear of ending up in a concentration camp. My horror is no less today, but I think it best not to contemplate the transportation when it is highly unlikely to ever happen. Still, I remember a wise comment from the Diary of Anne Frank. She was hardly more than a child, and Lord knows, with Bergen Belsen ahead, this poor girl soon would know hell on earth. She mentioned, in one part of her diary, 'how does it make anything better today to think about how much worse it could be?!' Her family already was in constant danger. The outcome would be a horror. Yet making the best of the time in their 'secret annexe,' and hoping for safety in the future, was far wiser than adding the terror of the future.

I wish I myself could attain this degree of separation from anxiety, so please do not think my comments to be smug. I've dealt with a great deal, throughout my life but particularly in recent years, and I sometimes awaken with nightmares of some of what happened, terrified of being in the situation again. I saw the horrid suffering of my mother's final illness, and shiver at facing the same myself. (I probably don't think much of having the atomic bomb dropped on me, only because, to my way of thinking, it would be nothing to fear since I would be dead. I sometimes forget that, for many people, the worst thing that could happen would be death. Not me - I think the worst hells are right on this earth.) I'll not mention any more of my personal experience here, but I dealt with fears for good reasons. Nonetheless, there were worse things that indeed could have happened that did not.

Deep down, I wonder, do people feel so guilty that others have it worse than they do that they cannot give thanks for today?

A word about 'the present moment'

Just recently, I was reading a treatment of the approach of Pierre De Caussade, in a book which was summarising various approaches to spirituality. In a nutshell, the brief treatment of DeCaussade spoke of how he focussed on worshipping God in the 'present moment' - which, of course, is the only place we can find God at the time. A dear priest friend of mine is very much one to refer to this spirituality - where thoughts of past and future can blind us, whether through desire, discontent, fear, anxiety and the like. (This, of course, is far from an exhaustive treatment of DeCaussade - I never favoured him much, because he seemed chilly to me, and I saw dangers of quietism... but neither is that what came to my mind today.)

The dangers for a Romantic such as myself is that, much as we pine for heaven, we always tend to feel, deep down, that we can find a better 'place' than where we are at the moment. This can inspire a great deal of creativity but, in the spiritual life, it tends to cause pain, jealousy, and, at the top of my own list, dreadful fear. I think one of the hardest things in this life is its total uncertainty. None of us know if we'll be here tomorrow - yet it is not death that I fear. (If my religious beliefs are true, I'd be closer to God - if I've been totally wrong, at least it would mean no more suffering since one would have no existence.... that is, oh please God no, unless those who believe in reincarnation are correct...) My fear is suffering, here - of wishing one could die just for the pain to cease.

It occurs to me, thinking of some wonderful, highly artistic people, some spiritual into the bargain, who are Romantics like myself - and the 19th century had a great many. The sort of knots of fear into which we can tie ourselves make me think that, for all that I despise Freud, a Romantic era may have been one that led him to assume everyone was neurotic.

Yet what I wish to share for a moment was a thought I had about DeCaussade's own time - post revolutionary France. It must have been frightening, with the (real) monarchy and Church having tumbled, and a few weak imitations of both coming forth. But a very sad part, focussed on 'merit' and 'reparation,' was clear in some of the works I studied about the 19th century. The Counter-Revolutionaries sought to replicate the suffering of Jesus Christ, and thereby save the nation which participated in the revolution’s crimes, and particularly murder of the monarchs. (Ideas of this type still emerge, albeit in an altered form. Just study any site today where people see the sole mission of Catholics, Baptists, whomever as to be to make reparation for abortions - which they did not have, but which seem to be on their conscience if they live in nations where it is legal, as where is it not? And I say that as one who does not believe in abortion.)

Perhaps DeCaussade's stress on the 'present moment' has larger dimensions, if we consider that he lived in a time and place where people were looking for 'vicarious suffering' left and right. It must have been difficult to remind people of the present moment - where they could meet God, but also where they could confront the distractions, weakness, and sinfulness which hampers such intimacy - in a time when one could be a noble victim in one's own mind by making supposed atonement for 'national sins' which dated to long before one was born.

Francis, poor and humble, enters heaven a rich man

Well, I just carted out the rubbish (yes, for all) once again... and, as if on cue, found that the cat had taken an untimely crap, which necessitated my cleaning her box again and making another trip to the bin. I then found that, possibly because there are gremlins on the property, my casement windows were stuck open, and managing to close them meant cranking as if I were pulling up the anchor on the Titanic. I then prepared a cup of hot tea, only to find that the milk had curdled when I dropped it in. Small things, I know - but such is the world of Franciscan poverty on the practical level. (If you are looking for words on Francesco which are slightly more edifying, and certainly more warm, click the link in the title to this post to be transported to the essay on my site.)

I love Francis with all my heart, though he and I are hardly alike. Yet two things about him, currently popular (and one long popular) seem quite distorted to me. First, why do statues, pictures and the like of Francis make him seem (not only tall and handsome, when he was short and ugly) like a slightly 'spacey' dreamer whose main companions in life were birds? (Actually, a few of his companions were vultures, but I'll leave that for another day.) Even the rare picture of him with the stigmata would make one think (apologies to Padre Pio) that they were for decoration.

But the second is from the "Oh, I love what that mediaeval saint wrote... but s/he didn't mean that, now?!" It is popular now to say that Francis believed in only spiritual, not material, poverty. I doubt that any reading of Francis' works, or of anything written of him by his contemporaries, would make that interpretation possible. I would be the first to say that the degree of poverty which Francis observed would be unwise for most - but he was totally serious (even if impractical on some levels) about "Lady Poverty" whom he revered.

I have not the slightest desire to sleep in the street or have lice crawling over me - Francis would not wince at either. Yet he was essentially right, for all (Franciscans or not, called to high poverty or otherwise) about how possessions can possess us. I am not referring only to extravagance. I am of a working class background, have no notion of what a lavish life is like, and one does not miss what one never had. Still, I ache for a lost 'possession' - the respect and esteem which I had when I was a promising young musician, writer, and scholar / lecturer.

Francis was no stranger to material wealth - indeed, he would cost his father a fortune, and not only when he took it upon himself to distribute priceless silks from the Orient to beggars (who undoubtedly had a good laugh within the next ten minutes.) He knew full well that having property meant taking care of it... having arms for its defence.

I am very happy to have decent food, running water, enough heat so that I only have to climb under a duvet during the day time in winter. I have no desire to live the extreme poverty which was suited to Francis. Still, I have enough of the Franciscan spirit in me to know that vowed poverty can be liberating, if sometimes difficult. (I know what it is to lose everything, to have anxiety tearing one's body over poverty, so I hope this does not sound glib.)

The value of poverty is that it smashes idols and teaches us gratitude. One can enjoy whatever is at hand - there is no indication in Francis' life that he did not believe in companionship, or that he imposed excessive austerity on his friars (even if he did on himself.) As for humility - it is a difficult virtue to practise (aren't they all?), but is truth, not the humiliation, derogatory nonsense passing as 'correction,' or instruction in self hatred which I learnt in my convent days.

How I long to be witty and insightful today, as I reflect on my dear Francesco! But it is one of my off days for this, so I'll just close with a funny story from the days in which I served in a Franciscan parish.

The cook, Mary, was a talkative, no nonsense sort - possessed of a certain folk wisdom. The chief sorrow of her life was the corns on her feet, a woe which she shared, upon meeting, with all and sundry.

Well, someone had told me a stupid joke which I shared with a few parishioners. It was about a man who always made the wrong decisions. Once, when he had to take a flight, he was relieved that only one aircraft went to his destination - without a choice, he felt safe. Sadly, he ended up having the little aircraft falter and toss him out the window. As he fell, he called out "Saint Francis, help me!" A big hand came from the sky, grasped him, and asked, "Did you mean Francis Xavier or Francis of Assisi?"

One hearer said to me, "It must have been Francis of Assisi!" The next said, "Oh, whichever Francis it was, do you think he would have dropped him?" (You now know a bit more of what Franciscan poverty can entail... Lord, can I be a little snob...)

But Mary, in no nonsense tones, had the most interesting response to the joke. "It's no use talking to Saint Francis! Do you know how many times I have told him about the corns on my feet?!"

Pax et Bonum. And pray for this lady who once said that she "a poor sinner, begs for a life of penance." Little did I know just how true that is... :)

Ah, how rubbish can be troubling!

For once, this is not a wry statement or pun. It is genuine rubbish which is troubling me, as I shall related following the customary spiritual reflection.

Thérèse of Lisieux was often remarkably candid - if, in the process, sometimes revealing she'd been a bit spoiled - in her autobiography. I well remember her writing of a particularly disagreeable nun, who found fault with everything and everyone. On one occasion, Thérèse was placing an artificial rose at a shrine. She saw the other nun approaching and, knowing her to be one to complain a good deal about allergies, was momentarily relishing having the whinge bag complain, then informing her the rose was fake. Being one who has lived in a convent, and who can be emotionally edgy, I can fully appreciate just how saintly it was when Thérèse approached the other Sister before she had a chance to speak and, showing her the rose, commented that it was remarkable how art could imitate nature these days.

How is this for a marvellous quotation for Thérèse's feast? "I sense in myself the vocation of Warrior, Priest, Apostle, Doctor, and Martyr. In the heart of the Church,
my Mother, I will be love."

What a woman! Yet she'd admit that something as silly as the rose incident so troubled her - and even speak of her 'conversion,' in quite dramatic terms, as a time when, as a teenager currently storming heaven to enter a highly austere Order, she managed to keep calm when her indulgent Papa commented that she was getting a bit old for Pere Noel.

This might seem a trivial matter, but I'm going to ask Thérèse to intercede for me. I may not be saintly, and hope no martyrdom is on the menu, but at least I am a Doctor - I've had to be a warrior (how else could I have persisted in the Church ministries all of those years?) - I've had my share of being apostolic - and would that I had the health to be a priest (though I've been a useful servant to a few.) But I want to 'be love' - and how hard it is!

My current peeve in the 'gets my back up' category has to do with rubbish. Not just the figurative rubbish which irks me day by day. No, this is genuine garbage.

My flat is in the basement of a Victorian home which was converted into six small apartments, and the building's total occupancy is nine. So far, I'm contented that no one seems to bother anyone else. Yet it so irks me (my grumbling to myself at this point usually includes "are people so stupid...?") that, though each flat has its trash can, and there are bins for the recycling right there, most of the others let their bins grow to a height of ten feet before they drag them to the kerb!

I wish to live in a clean house - think the heaped rubbish makes the building look like a slum (it is not) - and have no desire for the company of uninvited visitors with more than two legs. Fool that I am, I thought that, if I dragged out all of the garbage for a week or two, people would catch on... be grateful all was cleaned up... and be more inclined to just place the bins out for pickup. How wrong I was! (Here you'll see my naive nature.) The result, of course, was that, at this point, if I don't take the bins out they don't get out at all. And I find recyclable materials piled on top of my bin, though the bins for recycling are an arm's length away.

I know this will not change my practise. Some of the others in my building are young, and their bins will contain packaging from such items as 'take away' pizza. You know as well as I what cheese can attract... and what, of a similar species but larger variety, remnants of meat can attract...

Thirty years ago, I thought I was prepared to do anything short of martyrdom for the sake of charity and the kingdom. (Bear with Thérèse. You'll recall she never was much more than thirty years younger than I am am now, so her youthful fervour would endure. It was the much older Teresa who reminded God that, with how he treats his friends, it is no wonder he has so few.) Today, though I'm still a kind sort, I think I'll be canonised if I can hold back the anger that I feel, twice each week, when I see those overflowing bins... or the recycling piled on top... or the wrong type of recycling in a bin...

It can lead to the trashiest thoughts and language...

Hail! Hail! Hail! Saint Michael!

The words which head this post admittedly are far more effective in Italian, preferably with the accents of a rough, peasant dialect. (Before it seems that I am being disparaging, please note that I speak Italian with a peasant accent, and, despite my many years of schooling, and that my English is perfect except when I flaw it deliberately, my accent in speaking English is worse still. Jesus of Nazareth was a Meditteranean peasant, whose accent held the slur of Galilee, so the first sentence of this paragraph is written with warmth.) I believe that, especially as we grow older, we can see just how many facets there are to our selves. I always was very intellectual, somewhat drawn to contemplation - and one for very formal, magnificent liturgy. But, more each year, I see value in folk religion and practise.

I always wished I had my mother's simple, trusting faith, and her ability to turn to our heavenly friends (sometimes quite brusquely - and you should have heard her shout at God at my dad's funeral) as a large, sympathetic, extended family. Of course, Italian peasants love being 'well connected.' They generally favour petitions to those from the same town as themselves. But Saint Michael, dweller in only heavenly courts (and quite a one for winning battles...), was a general favourite.

When my parents were young, their parish church (and many others) had quite a bit of feasting in honour of Michael. One highlight was that a large rope was erected, in the manner of a clothesline, between two of the buildings. One of the boys from the parish would be dressed in full angelic regalia - white robes, wings, and a long wig in that blonde shade which southern Italians so cherish for its rarity. He would be sent 'flying' across this clothesline-cum-path for angelic messenger, as the crowds below shouted, "Hail! Hail! Hail, Saint Michael!"

Memories of this, predictably for two who were so emotionally different and complemented each other so well, were quite different for (my parents) Chip and Sam. Chip, whose devotional ways lent towards the Infant of Prague, Saint Anthony's oil, and water from the sea on the feast of the Assumption (I've never discovered why pouring it over one's feet was good luck), used to get misty eyed, speaking of how beautiful the Saint Michael celebration was. Sam, pragmatic to the core (superb in his vocation, but one who undoubtedly held rosaries in his hand only when the undertaker placed them there), used to scoff. In his version, which I somehow am more inclined to believe, it looked rather stupid, and, most of the time, the 'angel' got stuck in mid air en route.

It is only in recent years that I can see how very healthy it is for me to reclaim my Mediterranean, peasant side to a greater extent. I have been privileged to study the works of many great theologians - people of whom my parents had never heard, and who would of been of little interest if they had. (Anthony who came to Chip's aid would not have been recognised as one of the greatest theologians of the Franciscan Order, though she would have loved the tale of his preaching to the fish.) Many of the theologians I love best are patristic or (surprise!) mediaeval, though I devour the later works as well. Yet, somewhere in history, things did get twisted. There was too much emphasis on 'the fall,' the crucifixion as focus, our weakness, dangers of falling into hell or, at the very least, having to take temporal punishments.

My family, and their friends, would have thought of none of those things. They had a strong moral code, indeed (even if it differed in some respects from that of nations farther north), and a very strong sense of responsibility. Yet I never once recall any of them seeing God as anything other than Father. Yes, one's dad may be disappointed in one, or be irritated or angry, or even give one a smack here and there - but it is unthinkable he would send his child to hell. Nor would he require his firstborn to be sacrificed in 'atonement.'

There was no guilt (even if a bit of it might have been appropriate for some of the crowd), no fear of God in any way, no fear, as well, of the powers of darkness. In fact, I doubt that anyone watching the angel fly above ever thought of 'be our protection against the malice and snares of the devil.' (Come to think of it, in Italian folk tales, when the devil appears he is either an outsmarted, comic figure, or someone useful when God needs to punish - well, educate - someone such as the girl who opened her door and made a lovely dinner for the handsome young man when she'd turned away the old man in need. They respectively, of course, were the devil and God in disguise.)

Were I 'in character,' I suppose that, tonight, I could have written of theophany, or of revelation, or of how the powers of good shall triumph, or even of divine glory. Yet I think I'll go to sleep with a smile now, picturing a blonde awkwardly flying across a clothesline as the crowd (who, in many cases, will not actually be in the church, save to light candles, until six men carry them out) shouts the praises of holy Michael.

I'll close with a prayer Saint Francis loved - and which I think I'll say a bit more often: "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" When the peasant, renaissance lady, and scholar in me all are very close friends, I think it will be a very happy outcome.

Of ecclesiastical polity and such

My nephew, Christopher, who is in the course of law studies, has an astonishing interest in and gift for things political. His knowledge of 'current events' is so vast that I daresay one could ask him about anything happening from Brussels to Hong Kong to some obscure city in the midwestern US and he would know every detail. In my own case, though I cannot be faulted in historical knowledge (provided, of course, the events took place at least a century ago, preferably five or more), my natural inclinations are related to culture. I also can be handicapped by that liturgy, ascetic theology, and what I'll term a patristic emphasis tend to colour everything with an attitude of 'let us see just how writers were encouraging the practise of contemplation and virtue.'

This naturally means that I can know minute details of certain historical periods, but unintentionally become so selective (I do not understand politics, war, conquering lands or seeking gold) that one might think I observed earthly history from a position on a distant planet. (Probably Saturn. Not only because it is the ruler of Capricorn, but because I always was so taken by those glorious rings. Ah, the heavens declare the glory of God... now, see what I mean? My readers will also begin to grasp that science eludes me as well. I can nearly levitate if I view a model of the DNA molecule...)

In recent weeks, I have been attending a lecture and discussion series about Richard Hooker. I find it extremely valuable that those conducting the programme include a theologian and a professor of law. I am hardly unfamiliar with the Elizabethan area - I am not Gloriana for nothing. During the past few years, it happened that, as part of my studies, I presented papers on the Elizabethan Settlement, the Book of Common Prayer, and the fate of the 1549 Prayer Book. But I suppose that one with a certain awe at the development of the Church of England (which was an historical accident, after all, if a most providential one) is hampered (even while understanding the importance of the unity of the state church) when she not only stumbles in the dark at things legal but had so much Roman Catholic experience (I do not mean in relation to marvellous works of theology which I've devoured - this is parish and diocesan nitty gritty) that she inwardly, if without realising this at the moment, winces at the words 'obedience' and 'authority.'

I have great respect for Richard Hooker, even if his writings sometimes give me the impression of a man who was overly fond of the sound of his own voice. It is no secret (to anyone who has read either this blog or any paper I wrote about the Reformation) that I loathe Calvinism - I'm still completely puzzled at a post I saw on a forum, from a devout Catholic in the northern United States, who seems to have adulation for the very Puritans who would have despised huge components of his faith. I have no philosophical objections to theocracy, but am not inspired by Geneva. Yet I do have an underlying sense of how carefully Hooker had to tread.

Whatever long lasting, beneficial effects the English Reformation would have (for example, I think the Prayer Book is a liturgical masterpiece, even if I do not see Cranmer as having possessed heroic sanctiry - and I even can be carried off by what a superb version of reformed Catholicism Mary and Cardinal Pole could have seen had Mary ever really listened to what anyone else had to say), it was a wicked time. (Find me any era which was not.) I have no illusions, either, about the holiness of Spain or the approaches of Pius V. I know the situation around the Elizabethan Settlement very well, and would hardly have wished to have been in the position of the original Gloriana - needing to unite the nation against enemies, and having the reigning pope give her Roman Catholic subjects the mission of overthrowing their heretic queen and uniting with nations of the true faith (...Spain, perhaps?). Theologically, and as far as long term conformity was concerned, I see the brilliance of the Settlement being in its underlying pragmatism. The Prayer Book services, in total, are sufficient for one following, perhaps, a vocation as a Benedictine monk - it is a Rule. (That this was on Elizabeth's mind was unlikely... bear with me, since I'm slipping into my usual mode again.) But the brilliance was in accepting that, even if there were many subjects whose theology would lean more to Geneva or Rome (and undoubtedly many, many subjects who weren't thinking of theology at all), a unity in worship was possible - and still is - despite controversies over doctrine and the like.

In last night's class, I, who can see many elements to just about everything but seldom see the obvious, found an explanation valuable. Where I see the Prayer Book as a means to orthopraxy (after all, how much can we really know of God - yet practise, recitation of the Offices, attendance at the Eucharist, means acting with worship - and, in the course of this, developing true worship), the Puritans saw a lack of sincerity. I am sure I'll be forgiven for wondering how a viewpoint that so stressed the gap between the status of the elect (whoever they were) and the depravity of human nature (deification would never have the popularity of 'the fall') could incorporate, at least implicity, a sense that one must have the virtue in the first place in order for worship to be sincere.

I also valued a previous class explanation related to how the positive anthropology Hooker expresses has an affinity with that of Thomas Aquinas. (I've never been one for depravity.) And this in an era where heads might decorate London Bridge, the Elizabethan reign (later to be seen as rather glorious) was shaky, uncertain, and threatened, and dreadful sinners (such as Roman Catholics) were in strong enough supply.

There is a paradox, common today but universal to all periods. The idea that one's current time is far superior to that past, yet that things are so much worse than they were forty years ago, ever shall endure. In Hooker's day, it must have been horribly confusing for the truly devout! I wonder if they had to check the calendar to see if they were Catholic or Protestant today, or it this was the season for erecting or smashing the rood screen.

Whether this was explicitly in Hooker's mind or not, I did have a thought which may be worth sharing. He treats of how, though all essential to salvation is in the scriptures, there are Christian beliefs not explicit in the gospels and epistles. Liturgical fan (...or wind machine) that I am, I naturally was thinking of how frequently Christ's Church grasped truths of revelation in the liturgy before they were 'codified.' Certainly Paul's epistles give a hint, and early liturgical manuscripts a strong one, that recognition of the Trinity, high Christology and the like were expressed in worship before ecumenical councils and creeds made them explicit. The Book of Common Prayer includes much scripture - but not without elements from the liturgy through the ages. A totally 'sola scriptura' approach, with liturgy downplayed or disdained, can keep one both from cherishing elements of such revelation, and from the very orthopraxy (however some might mistake it for a lack of sincerity) which draws one to God, however unaware.

Perils of 'class participation'

When I was a young woman, I was privileged to attend one of the (rare enough) Dominican 'liberal arts colleges.' Classes were relatively small, so one could never fade into the background - a good thing, because it demanded proper preparation. The programme was very full. Each of us, for example, had to take four courses in philosophy, theology, English literature, history, etc., regardless of what subject was our concentration.

Much of our grade was based on participation in discussions - I recall one professor of philosophy who gave each pupil a daily mark for this. I would never be shy about participating, and have no doubt there were times when I had valuable insight to contribute. Yet, for all that I value this training, it left me with an affliction that it took years to overcome. :) (Don't let me even get started about what it is like to be a young PhD, where one feels one has to show a vast scope of knowledge about very narrow topics.) Taught to always find a reason to make a comment or ask questions, and indeed knowing that I had to do so to show I had read and analysed the material, even being naturally rather reserved did not prevent my feeling I always had to say something.

In an otherwise not notable book (high on style, low on content), "The Tulip and the Pope," author Deborah Larsen writes of her convent days. She does not identify the Order, as I recall, but they clearly were possessed of both intelligence and style. One wise teaching was 'do not think you always have to say something brilliant or witty.' How true! Feeling one must can make one seem domineering or tiresome, but it also is quite a strain. As in class, one can always be looking for the opening to make a comment. At worst, an innocent reference from another can make one begin to show one did extensive reading, indeed exceeded the requirements...

I must write an entry about how always having to be witty can make one a tiresome comedian in social settings, but I'll save that for another day.

Blessings to all.

Admitting a weakness for Maeve Binchy novels

Well, why not? I've already admitted my affection for A. J. Cronin.

Maeve's books would win no literary awards. Plots, such as they are, are very realistic for perhaps half of a book, but Maeve then does not seem to know how to resolve the action, and the endings are boring or melodramatic. Themes are undetectable. Maeve's strength (and, at her best, one most notable) is for depicting relationships of all kinds (especially between friends), folk wisdom, and circumstances which, in one form or another, have been a part of every life.

Maeve often captures how misunderstanding and assumptions cut off communications. Sister Madeleine, the village's confidante at large in The Glass Lake, cuts people off before they can say what is troubling them - but, since her reputation is for being 'a living saint,' they accept this. Leonora in The Copper Beech is aware of a murder - when she attempts to speak of this to a priest in confession, her tentative 'testing the waters' leads to his assuming that what is troubling an adolescent must be uneasiness about sex. Madeleine, another character in The Copper Beech, is trying to be supportive and close with a school friend who enters a convent - and is cut off for being 'too intense.'

This week, I was using Maeve's "Light a Penny Candle" for my 'wind down late at night' reading. Maeve captured perfectly how tortuous it can be to have a problem one fears sharing - and how the hearer can both 'cut one off' and make things worse. Aisling has married a handsome, prosperous man who is quite charming, and she is the envy of the village. She is confused and deeply pained because her husband, Tony, is an alcoholic, and the marriage has not been consummated after 17 months. Finally, Aisling tries to confide in her mother, Eileen.

Eileen indeed cares about her daughter - but, as is even more common in families than at large, she falls into assumptions. Aisling's tentative mention of a personal problem leads Eileen to think that her daughter, whom she knows to be an innocent sort, is worried about details of sex in marriage (and takes Aisling's mention of there being no sex at all in her marriage to be a subtle way of speaking merely of a lack of pleasure.) Eileen cuts off the opportunity for a confidence by saying that telling people things can make us hate them for knowing them, and by adding that, when she had doubts about sex in the early months of her own marriage, she is glad she did not 'betray' her husband by consulting anyone else. Worst of all, she sees evidence of Aisling's pain and depression and calls her a 'lazy slut,' leaving her only with the (old, tired, but still common) reprimand not to 'feel sorry for herself.'

In the end, Aisling takes off, cutting herself off from the entire village including her family, because she knows she cannot be heard, let alone understood.

Such things happen in every life, of course. Families, in particular, often form a sterotypical image of a family member which no evidence to the contrary can shake. All of us have had times when we ached to share pain, or thought that an explanation could restore understanding with those whom we love - but, once people think they know the answer (or think that anyone who, for example, has the material security and handsome husband an Aisling has, should be glowing with contentment), there is no shaking this.

I believe the rarest of human gifts is that of truly being open in listening to others.

Why is every problem taken to have a physical cause?

I read many a link, and I am totally puzzled as to why I often see assumptions that every problem (many assumed to be imaginary, like Scrooge's undigested bit of beef) has a physical root, and can be cured by doctors, nutritionists, exercise, vitamins. Emotional problems are not assumed to have any connection with circumstances, save that one who is kicked down the stairs and feels hurt should recognise this as an imagined slight and get rid of it with Prozac. One who has marital problems just needs some endorphins, which pumping a bit of iron shall supply.

For the record, I believe it is important for those physically or mentally ill to obtain the proper medical treatment. I am in no way denying that illness of the body can affect the mind as well. My complaint is that thinking tofu, aerobics, or doctors are the cure for all ills.

Perhaps it gives people a sense of control. Many problems have no solution available - others are too painful for us to face. Or trusting all to some latter day magician, who takes one under total control whilst convincing one that all the problems lie in these herbs or in not eating meat, gives a sense of security. All I have seen it lead to is self absorption, misunderstanding of true illness, and a sad tendency to ignore what might be essential spiritual problems or difficulties in relationships.

What if, for example, deep down we know we are wronging others? Isn't facing this much healthier than reading self help books which will convince us they 'chose' to be harmed, or thinking we can eliminate the problem with a run?

Much truth can be captured in fiction

It often has amazed me how much the great writers of literature, poetry, and theatre can capture truths about life - or even the metaphysical. Yet even those who are not a Shakespeare or Chaucer, and of any period, sometimes are able to capture elements of a period or situation which those like myself, who have no gift for fiction in the least, would not be able to express.

I'm not suggesting this is the only area, but, as one example, I have seen religious fiction - some not great literary work - which expresses much of what religious Orders or the "church at large" has faced in our own day. I can see the truth in this - but it occurs to me that much of what I know came from extensive contact with communities, personal conversations, presentations, 'workshops,' attendance at charismatic prayer meetings, what-not. Were I to try to write a book on some of these matters today, it would be unlikely that I could do so. Much which I witnessed would not be enshrined in documents, available in published collections, referenced in interviews. The 'anecdotal,' even if one could fill 1,000 pages, cannot be used.

I am far from being any fan of Andrew Greeley's - in fact, the sort of Catholics he depicts (self-centred, greedy, often devious sorts, whose main occupations in life seem to be playing the stock market and having sex, mostly with women who are magnificent Celtic goddesses...Lord, bless the girl who never married him) would exasperate me. His plots tend to get out of hand about halfway through a work. However, some of his earlier novels did strike a chord with me! As a simple example, the melodramatic "Virgin and Martyr" had a section presented in the form of a young woman, in noviciate, corresponding with others. One could see how some of the convent practises, intended to instil obedience and humility, could be vehicles for teaching one to hate oneself.

As another example, the Australian mini-series "Brides of Christ," much as it left me wondering just where the spirituality was, was in many ways an excellent depiction of what communities faced. Yet Sisters who were in the same situations would be unlikely to volunteer the information (unless they were the bitter, 'no longer believing' types who love to write and smear the church.) Nuns tend to be fiercely loyal to their communities, and, even if they believe developments were negative, will resent anyone's saying so.

If I had a gift for fiction, there are many characters I could present in religious writing. Not a word of it would not be based on what I myself saw or experienced. But I do know I'm not going to find certain comments in official documents, much less in interviews.

I just may develop this topic along the way.

Mal occhio!

One thing for which Franciscan poverty equips one splendidly is enjoying days out (which I sometimes call 'playing tourist'), though one can spend perhaps enough for a coffee. I spent a peaceful few hours reading on Sunday, looking out at the river (which I always enjoy doing), and naturally pretending to be a shopper in nearby stores (which probably fooled no one.) I saw a vendor with goods of which I'd never before heard - all sorts of "Angel Eye" products (jewellery, largely, but clearly also something on the lower spectrum of 'home decor'), which were presented as having a special function of protecting against the evil eye - those dangerous, envious looks!

I should not have been surprised, I suppose. My grandmother had a horn in her home, and I knew people who wore miniatures of same around their necks (often next to the cross), for such protection. If a headache persisted, or constipation, one knew who still knew how to 'pass' the mal occhio and enlisted such services. I blush to admit that, if I feel the hostility which obvious envy (of any kind) brings in others' attitudes, or if I say anything favourable about myself (therefore fearing it will be taken away - one can inadvertantly envy oneself), everyone who knows me is aware that I make the sign of the horns with my outer fingers and immediately, in Italian dialect, say the words to 'burst' the evil eye.

By now, I'm sure, unless you do the same, you are shaking your head at the superstition. Yet I do not know that this, as with other superstitions, is not founded on a truth. Envy towards oneself is hostile - and that which one directs towards others can be a form of idolatry. A dear priest friend of mine, who I hope will not mind my quoting a brief and important fact of which he reminded me, put it well in saying that idolatry (envy, frustration, fear, and rage that we generate by our fascination with the things others seem to have that we do not perceive ourselves as having)is a grandiose form of ingratitude, true denial that we are or have enough, or that God loves us.

I wonder if my fear of the mal occhio is founded in that I have had to fight envy (with anger, my 'principle defect') all of my life. It can be especially subtle amongst those who are a bit bohemian, the more if they have strong religious commitments, and particularly if they are Franciscans (where there is such stress on poverty.) I am by no means one who cares to live in the street, yet my envy is not always easy to detect, because it is not about wanting material riches (well, all right, I envy the old rich, but not those who have houses full of great stuff but no time to enjoy it) , or about covetting my neighbour's spouse (whom I probably find to be a bore), or about wanting fame (Lord have mercy, if I had to worry about being in tabloid headlines, I'd have a bed in Bedlam.)

It is never this blatant, of course (if so, I might recognise it), but it takes different forms. I'm irritated with God at times, because I thought I was giving up so much to serve him... and, had I known the situation I'd be in when I was dismissed from the convent (and that it would be as bad as my dad's, when he had hardly any education and had slaved that I might have my own), I'd have driven off a cliff. I envy the 'old rich' not because I want mansions, servants (...though a charlady would be nice every week), posh gatherings and the like, but because I see them as having had choices, and not being forced into dreadful jobs they hated out of the sort of desperation one has who sold all she had, gave it to the poor, and then found herself chucked out by her community.

I had many gifts as a young woman - for music, the other arts and humanities, writing, lecturing. I'd won awards for some of these things, and had a splendid academic record. My intention was to be a university professor. I'm in the odd situation, at the half century mark when every dream is crushed, that I'm envious of my young self! Lord have mercy, the time I spend tossing about 'if only I'd done this or that differently.' (Yes, typical of the half century mark. Had I ever been married, I would probably be envying my kids.)

I offer prayers of gratitude daily - carefully coached, thanking God for creation, the Incarnation, the resurrection, our deification, the sacraments... because I fear thanking him for my own good fortune. He might smack me for thinking I'm better than someone in Biafra for having more. Mal occhio!

Still, I know, deep down, and will some day come to show in my own practise, with God's help (...he is patient even with those who keep making the sign against the evil eye), that the only place we can meet and serve God is where we are. Once we start looking for a different time and place, we cannot find him if he is staring us in the .... (oh, Lord!) eye. And the remedy for envy is gratitude.

"Bonds" in gossip

It is amazing what one can find oneself reading when a bus or train is delayed. I found myself looking at a woman's magazine (which I shall not distinguish with a link, because its huge popularity must be among people of low intelligence) which had a brief article about how sharing conversations which consist in criticisms of others lends to 'bonding,' because the two 'friends' are sharing a sense of being superior to the others.

If it were not that I have become aware that the term now has a widely accepted meaning quite other than what I intend, I would have called shared superiority of this type, with its blinding effect on any sort of decency, justice, or charity, bondage rather than bonding. Lord knows I have had enough times when other women, I suppose trying to make some initial gesture of 'friendship,' have taken every opportunity to criticise other women (usually about their appearance) to me. Even apart from any consideration of the virtues, I have no desire to be friendly with people who do not have better things on their minds to discuss.

Still, there is one trait, in the same vein, which I find even more irritating. Its identifying trait usually is a tendency to say "but I'm trying to help you!" - and invariably in situations where the other party has done nothing which could be taken as requesting help. The unsolicited "help" is always a criticism, and always has the element of "I know better than you do what you should be doing."

I suppose the other side of this nonsense is a desire to be special. I'm thinking of some particularly annoying women I knew through the years (and fortunately with whom I have no contact now.) One, who had a peculiar and inexplicable obsession with doctors (every other word out of her mouth was about either doctors she knew or health items of which she'd read), never listened to anyone - she was only warming up to urge them to have physical exams. Another, who for reasons I could not fathom always made herself up to look like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra, thought she was the ultimate glamour girl. She'd approach every woman at a gathering with, "I've been looking at you, and I've decided...", then tell the other what she should do with her hair, makeup, or whatever. The list could be much longer... I remember one who used to weep and, as it turns out, the reason for her upset was that no one noticed her 'new look'... and, when the weeping subsided, she'd urge the other women present to adapt whatever her own new look was that week.

Well, now I know the reason that mutual nonsense of this type is so popular - it's such fun to feel superior as a group. And here, considering some of my background, I thought the competition was about who could be perceived as the holiest, greatest in self denial... and God keep us from those who wanted the prize for humility.

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.