If you are the Son of God...

The link in the title is to a previous post of mine entitled Peasant, Nuisance, Nobody - a description which, uncharacteristically, I borrowed from John Dominic Crossan, because he did have a point. That these terms apply equally well to me as to our Saviour is purely coincidental.

I'm afraid I am rather irritable at the moment (more so than as always), because I cannot shake a flu I've been fighting for the past few weeks. It was one of those strains which brought chills, shivers, aches, and then, just as that seemed to be improving, catarrh which is making me almost (though not quite) glad that I am not singing anywhere at the moment. One of the worst parts is stumbling weak and weary - I find that, halfway through anything, my head is bobbing. Fortunately, I did get to the Ash Wednesday liturgy, which was glorious. It's almost worth being a sinner to hear that Allegri Miserere. (I did laugh when someone who came in asked an usher where one goes 'just to get ashed,' and laughed the louder later when a friend more versed in slang told me that those who 'get ashed' usually do so at a pub.) I made the most of the day, happily stumbling on some very cheap, canned escargots which were quite delightful paired with garlic butter, mushrooms, and spinach. Still, I am rather sad because, if the weather tomorrow is anything to match the weatherman's predictions, I probably will not be able to chance going out to the Eucharist - I'm not about to have a relapse of any earlier stages of this flu.

Before I begin the next section, I shall mention, for the benefit of my more sensitive readers (some of whom are fine with saying "Blessed be Jesus Christ, True God and True Man" at Benediction, but who become uneasy when Jesus is mentioned as a man... and here I mean 'as fully human,' since I'm too damned tired to argue with those who dislike 'sexist language'), that there is not the least question in my mind that Jesus is divine, Second Person of the Trinity, the Logos, the Lord of the Universe and the Redeemer of the world - and I'm not suggesting there was any time during his short earthly life that this was not true. (I also am too tired now to explain the difference between my saying 'timeless' where some of you may prefer 'everlasting' ... take your pick.) Yet I do believe that, in fully assuming humanity, Jesus accepted the same limitations as would be in your life or mine. I believe, with many orthodox scholars today, that Jesus of Nazareth indeed grew in knowledge of his own identity and his unique relationship to the Father - even if I like imagery of cherry trees bowing down at his command when he was still in the womb.

I believe that this Sunday's gospel deals with Jesus' temptations in the desert. All of us have heard that passage (and sermons on the topic) many times - and it can take a moment to step outside the bounds which familiarity can bring and see how Jesus was facing his full identity and mission at this point. As most of us constantly experience (though, sadly, we sin where He did not), he was tempted to idolatry, despair, a sense of futility, fear of his prophetic vocation, a wish for and display of power.

If I may be permitted to indulge my playful, literary side for a moment, I always do smile a bit at Jesus' having been shown the kingdoms of this world. Yes, I know my history, and am not suggesting that the Almighty accomplished this by reaching down and pushing a button (...hardly an option considering he created us with free will..), but it never ceases to amaze me that, within a very short time after the death and resurrection of this 'peasant, nuisance nobody,' vast, powerful kingdoms and empires would have an astonishing number of Christians. Greek Fathers would be applying philosophy to the great theology of Israel (which, of course, was never a major world power, let alone an empire.) Antioch, Alexandria, Ephesus, Gaul - incredible. I can very easily picture Satan taunting Jesus with, "You can't seriously expect that Egyptians will ever go for any of that business about your being equal to your Father? Who is going to ponder that Trinity business - the Greeks!? And wouldn't it be laughable to imagine that your message is ever going to have any effect in Rome?" Much as these nations would remain largely pagan for quite some time, they equally were Christian strongholds within a few centuries or less - a blink in the eye of history.

I've been blessed with a most insightful spiritual director, and am fairly confident that he would not mind my sharing a few ideas he has taught me (again, and again, and again... one of these days, I just might get it...) Jesus' own lifetime mission was to Israel, but his apostles would carry his message to those who often had worshipped the old gods. The evil one and the old gods have only the existence we create for them - they are born of the envy, frustration, fear and rage which we generate by our fascination with things others seem to have which we do not perceive ourselves as having. Idolatry is grandiose ingratitude - denial that we have enough, or that God loves us.

My director also introduced me to the brilliant works of James Alison, who reminds us that Jesus became the scapegoat to undo the power of scapegoating as the religious mechanism it was in the old religions - and to expose the power of powerlessness on the Cross.

I may get back to this once I stop needing to huddle under blankets as these shivers recur... but I'll leave you with a little thought. Jesus' temptations were to a form of idolatry. It's fortunate he left us with that sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving - because we all learn, every day, that those two elements are our only defence against creating 'old gods' of our own.

That Monkey's Paw keeps scratching me!

My readers must be forewarned that this post will be nothing approaching inspirational. I'm just laughing at myself a bit - perhaps to show solidarity with others who have similar conflicts (though they might be less prone to admit this.)

As my 'regulars' know, I have great admiration for those with trusting, childlike faith. I've often mentioned how my mother turned to the Infant of Prague (from whom she received the most amazing results), Saint Gerard (ditto), and Saint Anthony (despite that she scolded him regularly if he did not come through on time.) For Chip, the heavenly friends were a supportive extended family. Much as one would on earth, one would go to whomever was the best connected for needs in a particular area. (That the Infant of Prague was Jesus, therefore Logos, Second Person of the Trinity, and so forth wasn't always on her mind. For some reason, this aspect of Him was more accessible - perhaps because he was an adorable little child here, not a cheeky kid of twelve in the temple who let his parents worry, nor a radical preacher whose mother always had to fear his fate, nor a tortured Christus.)

I may as well admit this - intercessory prayer (or that of petition, since I'm so pedantic that I cannot refrain from noting the difference) rather frightens me. Part of it, of course, is the 'guilt trip' attitude that we leftover 1960s liberals cannot quite shake. (May I never 'shake' the ideals - but the 'here I am praying for this or that when someone is starving in Bangladesh' guilt, the more because I picture the radical Jesus smacking me, is one of which I'd gladly be rid.) The other part is that I am hopelessly superstitious, as I revealed a few years back in my post about the Evil Eye.

Considering how petitions are a constant part of the liturgy, and how many great saints devoted much time to intercessory prayer, I am at a loss to describe why asking for anything gives me the uneasy fear that I'm 'casting a spell' - and that it shall backfire. Though it has been years since I read this story, I remember enough of "The Monkey's Paw" to see that such dark thoughts as that tale expressed cloud my petitions. That story begins with a family in need asking for money - and getting it through their son's violent (accidental) death. It ends with their wishing on the magical paw that their son return to them... and his returning in quite a horrid condition, to say the least.

Some years ago, one of my cousins (whose name happens to be Theresa) sent me a novena to Saint Thérèse. It was of the 'say it for five hours on five days' variety - for those with darkness of thought such as mine (which oddly often is another side of those of us most prone to wit and laughter!), I suppose the 'five times five times five' seemed vaguely like a spell. (Why this never worried me when my mother said the novena to the Infant nine times, once each hour, remains unknown.) Well, there was a very important petition that I had at the time, and indeed I said that novena, just as it was published, and much as that goes against my usual grain. On the fifth day, I had something happen which was perhaps the most painful experience of my life up to that time. (I'm not alone - someone else I knew found that, on the fifth day, her child, for whom she had been praying, died. I don't mean the novena caused it, of course, but let's just say that I doubt either one of us would repeat the process.)

I'll admit that, just this morning, a dear friend of mine (easily the loveliest lady on earth) sent me a 'make a wish, say this prayer, then forward it to twelve others.' I'll equally admit, and this most painfully for someone who has studied so much logic, that I did so. But you can imagine my distress making that wish! Do I wish for some unexpected money, with cash so tight? (I remembered the monkey's paw and decided against that one... I have no family members left and no one's death will put money in my pocket, as in that gruesome story, but Lord only knows what horrors might arise...) I am utterly frustrated by the plateau in my weight loss, which is upsetting me to no end, but dare I wish for weight loss, when that could mean either a famine, greater poverty, or cancer? No, best not try that one. I finally wished to be free of a most distracting 'principal defect' of mine. I'm already fearful of what horrid thing might happen to make that come about... I hope I don't end up comatose or something...

I hope none of you are taking this too literally! But, for all that I remember a line from somewhere about how a Father doesn't give one a snake when one asks for a fish, how the goblins from childhood can haunt us! The email I received said to 'watch what happens on the fourth day' - oh, heavens, it is Friday... the 13th...

The oddest part is that the prayer I was sent is perfectly charming - so much so that I'll share it here.

May today bring you peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.

I'm not about to speculate about knowledge settling into my bones... the more because I'm not only superstitious but arthritic, and inclined to the poetic while thinking certain means of expression are a bit clumsy. Yet I definitely would adopt 'sing, dance, pray, and love' as a motto were I inclined to such things (and even though no one would ever care to see me dance... though they might not mind, even now, hearing me sing...)

Blast all those stories I heard in my childhood, supposed to be inspirational! Every gift one had was sacrificed - and then one thanked God, in most syrupy terms, for humility. Parents came to huge conversion, if not sanctity, when a child was murdered. "I got nothing that I asked for, yet everything I hoped for..." prayers were popular.

Where I got the bizarre idea that prayers were something like spells is beyond me! But the 'thy will be done' (much less 'not as I will' in Gethsemane - though here I'm referring to the obligatory 'but thy will be done' with which one had to end all prayers, not to the Paternoster) always had an undertone of 'don't be offended if I asked something out of accord with Your will... and, after all, when does anyone speak of God's will to mean anything good or happy?'

No one in my family feared God, as far as I know. But they never mentioned anything good (health, what little we could call wealth, good looks, whatever) without making the sign against the evil eye. It wasn't that God would snatch the good away - for peasants, it certainly isn't God who causes poverty, illness, or anything else with which one must deal (even if those indirectly responsible might have had church ties... they were not unknown to own the lands tenant farmers worked.) It was the envy of others one must fear.

Perhaps this pathetic post will reassure others that those of us who have a passion for theology are no less prone to spiritual paranoia than anyone else who grew in faith but has a part of himself which never grew up. That's most of us...

On how to be a pompous windbag

Caught your attention, did I not? Sorry - if anyone really wishes to be such, I'm afraid I cannot give much instruction. But I read a delicious item today which had me laughing aloud. I had received an email about a book discussion, for which the text was Envy by Joseph Epstein. It seemed vaguely familiar, and I looked it up on Amazon. On that site, it is possible for people to construct 'Listmania' collections of books on any topic. I laughed at a Listmania list which appeared on the page, entitled "Be a pompous windbag: how to pose as an intellectual."

I indeed have a strong intellectual side (and would imagine that, if anyone visits this blog more than once, they also have the affliction), and it tends to mean that one is so analytical that one cannot see the obvious. I know I could use a good dose of Ockham's razor on many occasions, because I am so caught up in looking for profound and hidden reasons for everything that I'll not see that much in this world is all too simple. I'm in outer space without realising it in the least. As a simple example, when a friend of mine, Doris, was wearing a necklace with charms commemorating various occasions in her children's lives, when I saw one charm was a capital D, I asked "500 what? What does the D stand for?" It would not enter my mind that, rather than being a Roman numeral, it stood for "Doris."

Still, if I ever accomplished anything, it was definitely a 'tortoise and hare' situation. I'm capable of insight, but it takes me much time to absorb and express the concepts. I never was an outstanding student - the best I could hope for was 'you're well read.' (That is close cousin to being called 'attractive,' which, for anyone under forty, means 'you are certainly not pretty.')

I'm too shy to be a windbag, and I don't know that it is possible to be pompous when one comes from pure peasant stock. My mother's family, artisans (hatters and shoemakers, not painters of the Sistine chapel) with some taste for aspiring to the 'refined' (in Teora, being something akin to nobility meant owning two chickens), may have given me a small inclination towards the regal. But my dad's crowd were honest, totally pragmatic, very earthy creatures who would have seen me as purely ornamental in my interests. They were pure terra firma - and I'm sure I'll be forgiven for the worst pun of my life in adding 'the more firma the less terra.'

It's about 35 years since my university days began. Most of our professors were very intellectual but very few were pompous. I don't recall most of the students even aspiring to seem intellectual - no pomposity epidemic there. But I'm smiling remembering the few who probably see themselves, with hindsight today, as having been at least minor bags of wind.

Many people at that college were studying education - and some were embracing theories which made it seem that all teaching and 'parenting' prior to around 1973 was all wrong, and now suddenly replaced by innovative perfection. (I'm by no means suggesting that, in this or any category, this was true of most students. I'm speaking only of those who applied for the windbag award.) They definitely over-rated the huge importance they thought they would have in forming the children they taught. Windbags of the day saw revolutionary strides in such approaches as teaching children to read with a contrived phonetic alphabet, which would give them unprecedented confidence and 'self esteem.' (The result, when such methods actually were tried in schools, was that kids had to learn to read twice - first in the make believe alphabet and then in English - and that they'd never, ever learn to spell.)

The general windbags all seemed to be quoting from Siddhartha, or from the dreadful but highly 'revolutionary' Your Erroneous Zones. The theory behind the latter was that guilt and worry were 'useless emotions' of which one must be free - it struck no one at the time that those who are completely free of guilt and worry are sociopaths. There also was the bullying 'assertiveness training,' which boiled down to "I'll get what I want at any cost - I'll treat everyone in a bullying fashion - and, if I throw you off a cliff, you chose to feel broken." The peace and love generation indeed did tend to see it as huge progress to become utter bastards.

Those interested in theology all seemed to be quoting Teilhard de Chardin. (I indeed loved theology, but was too afraid of looking stupid to admit, then, that I didn't understand Teilhard in the least. I still don't.) It was an era I found exciting because of my passion for liturgy (this was a time of what I really thought would be wonderful liturgical reform... I must have been drinking perfume...) The windbags who complained most about liturgy were sad that the Church had 'sacramentalised, not evangelised.' Tortoise that I am, I was slow to fully grasp that those who see worship and sacraments as opposed to spreading the gospel are not precisely those who should be involved in liturgy...

The history windbags had read a revisionist volume and now knew that every historian for five centuries had been dead wrong. Music windbags had discovered that some obscure composer, long forgotten, had really written the works attributed to some famous one - and would miss no opportunity to work in a reference to "Smith's Moonlight Sonata."

Those who were very 'progressive' about religion wanted to get back to 'the beginnings.' Now, that is not such a bad idea in itself, but this seemed to entail not only huge (and often weird) speculation about 'the beginnings', if not downright disregard for the history, but to speak endlessly of progress while requiring that (if something happened 7 centuries ago) one ignore any developments in the particular area since.

Of course, progress was popular in other windbag varieties. I love John Henry Newman, and allow for his being as infected with 19th century optimism (which it took two wars to cure) as I am with 20th century cynicism. But I was bored to death with hearing "to become perfect is to have changed often," as if that canonised any change for the sake of change. Newman made an excellent point - but even then I was tempted to remind the others that Hitler and Stalin started out in baptismal innocence and changed often...

I must get back to the Amazon site, and see if I can thank the author of that Listmania collection for the best laugh I've had since the mercury dropped below freezing. Even with all these 1970s reminiscences, I'll refrain (now that we seem to be in some new Ice Age and salt is getting scarce...) from saying anything such as 'stay cool.'

A word on the topic of ethics

Neither ethics nor moral theology are areas which I have pursued in great depth, though there are elements which I find most interesting. Heaven knows they are incredibly difficult areas to pursue, and I do not envy moral theologians (or even confessors!) As well, and as I've mentioned in innumerable other posts about philosophical matters, there can be a huge gap between philosophical arguments and pastoral approaches.

I attended a talk yesterday, which was the beginning of a series on Christian ethics. The presenter is a Thomist - and Thomistic terminology can be highly confusing. A young man who asked a question at the end raised an interesting point - whether we have free will at all, or if all is predetermined. Where those of us grounded in Thomas Aquinas see free will as part of being created in God's image and likeness (Thomas was defending omnipotence and omniscience, and the horribly complex idea of simplicity, while seeking to emphasise that evil is not incompatible with a God who acts in creation), certain Christian thought (for example, Calvin) indeed makes it seem that all is predetermined. (I'll not even give room here to B. F. Skinner - I do not happen to be a rat in a maze.) That makes evil all the greater a problem! I'm sorry that question came right at the end - because the presenter had to answer quickly, mentioned that God makes me do what I do (I imagine in holding all things in existence) and his answer could be puzzling, because he didn't have time to mention that Thomas was trying to underline that all creation is good - Thomas sees evil as a lack of fulfilment of our potential, not as evil being created by God - and that God is responsible for creation in the sense that he holds it in being, not that he gave Eichmann a push at the concentration camps.

Coincidentally, I have been studying ethics in more depth recently. This particular set of notes comes from a book on ethics by Richard Gula, called "Reason Informed by Faith."

• God is the fullness of being. His actions are good as flowing from the divine nature, which is love.


• All other forms of goodness are derived from this - dependent on the prior goodness of God.


• Responding to God is our moral obligation, because establishing anything other than God as the centre of value is idolatrous. There is a necessity of ongoing discernment to discover ways most responsive to God.



• "Morality... means to make 'customary'... to ritualise, in the actions of our lives, the experiences we have of knowing and being loved by God. In this sense, the moral life is like worship. It is a response to an experience of God. The moral life has a different quality when an awareness of God is lost; moral actions become 'works' of moral rightness rather than grateful responses to the goodness of God; moral deliberation becomes a computer-like problem solving rather than prayerful discernment of what God enables or requires." God is Creator. We, as created in God's image, are stewards of creation. Divine beneficence calls forth our gratitude, the pivotal virtue of the moral life.

I found Gula's emphasis to be very good, because he stresses that God is love and perfectly self-giving, and that the Trinity shows that 'to be' is to be in relationship.

I think it can be very dangerous to think that God causes everything that happens, in any way. Thomas's defence, based on defending omnipotence, can be a pastoral disaster!

Of course, there are plenty of Catholics who give short shrift to Calvin, but would spend much time debating whether omniscience is incompatible with free will. I'll save that for another day - since the Franciscan William of Ockham opposes Thomas on that one, and I want to give William his due. (I can set forth both their positions. Making sense of them is another story...)

Perhaps I'm no authority on ethics, but I loved the quotation from Richard Gula - the only change I would make is eliminating 'like' and making the sentence read, "The moral life is worship."

Postscript about those whose guitars should have been sacrificed

When I write twice in a day, one can tell I'm really sick of winter.... :)

Heavens, do I have major intellectual and aesthetic pollution today... because I have a variety of utterly dreadful songs (somehow, just to give them the distinction of 'hymn' seems blasphemous) in my mind as a result of an unfortunate accident. I was at a library this week, doing some research about religious themes as depicted in contemporary literature, and one book was about how nuns have been presented (not only in literary treatment per se, but in the ridiculous pictures we used to see in magazines of the 1950s-60s, where it seemed all nuns were perpetually giggling and eating the poor man's version of Knickerbocker Glory - in the days when nuns hoped for more modern knickers and had a totally distorted version of glory.)

One illustration in the book was of a record album cover, featuring Medical Mission Sisters. (I'd heard the blasted tunes many times, having had the bad fortune to have a stint teaching little children. Maybe only those in that situation had full exposure to this rot, as I sincerely hope.) I'd had no idea that the songs were produced by a religious community, but just seeing the titles brought back memories of dreadful liturgies, back when 'making the children think it was their liturgy' was all the rage.

Some of you are young, many lifelong Anglicans, so I may not receive sufficient sympathy... but what other 'ancients' here remember such gems as these? (I'd forgotten them for forty years...) Lyrics such as these, like 'free verse' popular during the era, or musical settings by Don McLean, leave one wondering if they are too deep for the average individual to comprehend, or if they mean nothing at all and are merely allowing the composer to laugh all the way to the bank.

"Spirit of God in the clear running water,
Flowing to greatness the trees on the hill.
Spirit of God in the finger of morning,
Fill the earth, bring it to birth, and blow where you will.
Blow, blow, blow till I be but breath of the Spirit blowing in me."

Or how about this one?

"It's a long road to freedom,
Winding, steep and high,
But if you walk in love with the wind on your wings,
And cover the earth with the songs you sing,
The miles fly by.

I walked one morning by the sea,
And all the waves reached out to me,
I took their tears, then let them be."

I did not understand those lyrics then, and don't now. I suppose I'm admitting to stupidity or a lack of religious sensitivity.

There also was the unforgettable "Joy is Like the Rain," not to be confused with the Gregory Norbet "masterpiece" by the same title:

"I see raindrops on my window,
Joy is like the rain..."

I couldn't figure out if the original authors of these gems were aged 5 or merely hadn't taken their bipolar medication.

Remember "Hear, O Lord"? I suppose I just am uncomfortable with misplaced modifiers, but take a good look at these lyrics: "every night, before I sleep, I pray my soul to take - or else I pray that loneliness is gone when I awake." Loneliness may be hard to take, but it does seem a strange prayer: "kill me tonight if I'll be lonely tomorrow."

I have no idea why - maybe that record album cover contained this gem, though I'm uncertain. But at least I think it has been some time since anyone was subjected to:

"I cannot come! (Aside: today kids would think it was a reference to orgasm.)
I cannot come to the banquet,
Don't bother me now,
I've married a wife,
I've bought me a cow,
And I have fields and commitments
That cost a pretty sum
Please hold me excused
I cannot come."

That's on my mind today... a pathetic situation. Oddly enough, I think I only actually heard that song performed (at a youth mass, of course) once, many years ago. Whichever music is worst tends to be that which most enduringly affects some part of one's brain in which it becomes an enduring memory.

As an aside, I shall admit that there are some musically dreadful songs for which I either have some affection or which I consented to play at liturgies now and then, because they brought back memories or were cherished by many people. A few years ago, there was an Internet poll where Roman Catholics were invited to share the 'what and why' of their very favourite hymns. I was expecting either the great or the sentimental, yet the winner was "Be Not Afraid." (For the record, this song is of far better quality than those I've referenced previously. I'm just surprised at the reasons for the vote.) The comments section showed that the reason it was first on the list was that people remembered it from "Dead Man Walking."

I love Gregory Peck and A. J. Cronin, and shall confess that, when I watched a video of "Keys of the Kingdom" (and this though the film in no way does the book justice), when the children sang "Come, Holy Ghost" because it was main character Father Chisholm's favourite hymn, I had that in my mind for days.

I'm remembering how many people (including me - I can still remember hearing "Jesus, Food of Angels," at my first communion, though I doubt I've heard it since) connect a favourite song to a memory. People who haven't been to church in 30 years, but who have fond memories of May crowning ceremonies, can be brought near tears by "Bring Flowers of the Fairest." I remember when some people at a parish where I served asked me when I would include, "Good-night, Sweet Jesus," since they fondly remembered its being used at the end of evening novenas. I refrained from saying "over my dead body" only because, were I to meet an untimely end, I feared they'd play it at my funeral.

Popular books on religious themes - a trivial post :)

Bear with me, blogger pals. :) Today is one of those days when I am close to cursing the very technology I normally find enriching. For example, need I remind any of you how tiring it can be, when one is on 'automatic payment' with a vendor, and is being hit with unprocessed payments and late fees... though clearly they had the account information the last time a payment went through, and nothing has changed? Internet forums can be highly enriching, but I often muse that the saddest part is that 'loud mouths' and others who have little to contribute but do so in a bullying fashion now have an entire world to abuse... and people must like it, because they return. Remember when there was something resembling 'customer service' out there, with people who were well trained? It would seem to me, considering all those dreadful years I spent with telecommunications, that my reporting a problem with service (complete with details and diagnostics - hardly your typical home customer), would lead to a response other than 'we can only check if you have a dial tone.' What about when one wishes to order something or remedy a problem, needs to mention a particular consideration or report a problem, and is either sent an email linking to an FAQ which has nothing whatever to do with the difficulty, or is placed 'on hold' with repeated messages in one's ear about looking at the blasted FAQ which was of no value in the first place?

Yes, it is one of my irritable days. Winter is always the worst time of year for me - I think my brain freezes, and my natural warmth doesn't keep my chilly (figurative) side from predominating. So, here I am, with little of any value to contribute, but utterly frustrated because I'm unable to focus enough to produce things which are of value for the moment.

I review books for Amazon, a number of which I receive in 'pre publication' form. A number of them (surprise!) are on religious topics - though that covers a wide scope. It appears, and I say this with dismay, that the same people who haunt the Internet forum where they can play at being mentally ill (or display that indeed they are... though the ones who are remain unaware and think themselves enlightened) must enjoy purchasing books which could be sub-titled "Chronicle of one who was and is totally crackers but can manage to blame it on a religious upbringing." (I don't know which is worse - this or "I was and am a nut case but am enlightened since I 'got religion.'")

One book which I recently reviewed was written by a comedienne (whose words admittedly are wickedly funny, though the content is largely tragic) who apparently sees having obsessive compulsive disorders (cutting her arms, counting telephone poles, needing to regularly wash the walls) as resulting from having been a Jehovah's Witness. Another, written by a former RC Sister who admits to being bipolar but loved the flattery and attention when (at least in her mind) men all were trying to chat her up, would make it appear Catholicism was to blame.

I am not suggesting that many devout Christians (or Jews, or Muslims, or Buddhists - though that last might not use the term devout), who were extraordinary or even saintly, might not have been a bit bent - neither Francis of Assisi nor Catherine of Siena, just to name the two who first come to mind, would have passed psychological tests, and I thank divine providence that there were no shrinks then to make them doubt their own integrity or think awe-inspiring love was a pathology. Nor would I question that some 'nuts get religion,' considering I heard, on two occasions in the past, of rather bizarre characters, both of whom thought they were the pope. But what is the attraction for reading of people who have illnesses that are quite tragic, as if this were the result of belief?

There have been some excellent, even brilliant, works of biography or literature on religious topics. For example, just to mention one that is fairly recent, Umberto Eco's "The Name of the Rose" was a superb mixture of humour, logic, history, and detective story. I think I would enjoy having tea with many of Trollope's characters, even if, in their time or place, were I written into a novel it would have to lean more towards Dickens. There also are outstanding films, whether adaptations of history or fictional treatments of truths, in the religious genre. Perhaps the ones I find just as trying as the 'let me out of my straitjacket and I'll tell of my religious upbringing' are those which were totally silly.

I sometimes will watch films for pure relaxation, and, of all things, I saw that "The Singing Nun" was on the television a few days ago. I remember well when the real Singing Nun was a one-hit wonder with Dominique (it is unfortunate that her life ended very tragically, with a suicide during the 1980s.) A few of her songs were quite lovely ("Beyond the Stars" would qualify) - and the words to "Dominique" are a nice prayer, though the accompaniment and arrangements are beyond basic, and she was not a gifted singer.

The film version, based on Sr Luc Gabriel's music, not her life history, was quite a sensation in its day. I suppose that, in 1966 when 'updating' was first on the agenda, a nun going about on a motor scooter, or being crushed to hear a rock version of her song as she passes a local discotheque, seemed intensely relevant. (Lots of things were relevant in those days - Planet of the Apes was huge social commentary, for example. I once commented on the "Singing Nun" film to the effect that I'd call it "Peanuts Goes to the Vatican," except that Charles Schulz's comic strip had more depth.) Seeing this film again made it seem sheer camp. Even the great Greer Garson had such horrible dialogue that she couldn't redeem it - and Ricardo Montalban, whom I think was not only very handsome but the utter soul of style, hardly rises above the cartoon character guise. I never cared for Debbie Reynolds (even if her singing was somewhat better than Sr Luc Gabriel's), but her character was so exaggerated (and over-acted) that a film which I suppose was to have shown great depth is unintentionally hilarious. About the only redeeming factor was the vague theme that one new to religious service often has great zeal and no prudence (and should be careful about waving to either giraffes or boat captains, especially when she is riding a scooter and can whack into an innocent vendor's horse, or driving a Jeep and likely to have to watch the curves on the dusty Congo roads.)

I shall add, however, that I think it best for viewers to have some, vague idea that "Dominique" was written about a saint of whom you must have heard (though the French words are rather a finer prayer than the English version in this film)... not about a poor man's gamin, aged four perhaps, who enchants Sister when he kicks her in the shin. His sister, posing nude to earn money to support Dom and his low-life father, does reach a moment of redemption when Sister Anne gives her the guitar... and turns aside from worldliness. And here I thought music was a prime way in which to make a joyful noise...

Hold it... cancel that... there's 'joyful' and there is 'noise,' and the latter sometimes masquerades for music. When I recall what sort of liturgical music was being cranked out in 1966 and beyond, perhaps we would have been better off if some people had given their guitars away to the poor and devoted more time to dodging giraffes...

Quick thoughts on the Conversion of Saint Paul

My seasoned readers are well aware that my definition of 'quick' tends to be 'I cannot write a book - or a shelf of books - on the topic, nor even a dissertation - so here are a few things which come to mind.' New readers must be cautioned that this does not mean I'm writing two sentences.

Winter is dreadful, is it not? My brain seems to be out to lunch, and I'm very tired of it's seeming as if it were night all of the time, shivering even in the heavy coat, having chapped skin, and wearing trousers so much. I haven't been quite up to writing much that is useful, but wanted to drop a line just to keep in shape. My only comfort this dreadful season is that at least we'll all have a break from anyone's preaching about global warming.

Few of us shall have such dramatic conversions as did Saul of Tarsus - but what a providential conversion this would be. Indeed, I could write half a shelf of books about Paul - and about conflicts in the early church, such as how Paul whacked Peter at the first ecumenical council. My idealistic generation, who seemed to think that singing "they'll know we are Christians by our love" would return us to a blissful tenderness of the first century should have read Paul's epistles with a little more critical sense. (Discernment was unthinkable at the time, as I recall... my time, not Paul's, though it wasn't too plentiful in his time, either.) It was no peace and love fest in the early days, either.

Paul must have been quite a difficult character, but, naturally, I especially cherish him because he was the strength of the Gentile mission. There were many debates in the early Church - indeed, Christ's gospel should extend to all of the earth, but is the Gentile mission on a level with that of the Church in Jerusalem? In Ephesus, it is possible that (reading the letters of John), many of the conflicts about love and hating one's brother are not abstract speculations, but have to do with conflicts between Johannine and Pauline Christians. (Yes, it's true I love reading John more than Paul... but I'd praise Paul's pastoral work on any occasion. I'd also caution 21st century readers to recall that nearly all of Paul's writings were addressing specific pastoral difficulties.)

Lord, I'm getting nowhere today! :) Well, until my brain thaws, probably around Holy Week, I need to lean on a few great scholars. I was consulting some notes I had, from Jerome Murphy-O'Connor's "Paul: A Critical Life," since he is one of my favourite scripture scholars. Perhaps one section, which has to do with not only the old chestnut of Paul and the Law (...no sarcasm there... none of us found that essay easy to write, and we all felt stupid because every divinity student in history had to write it...), but with very apt points we can remember in any era. He treats in particular of the letter to the Romans (without dwelling on what immediately struck me... does any sermon in history not have some reference to collections?)

Anyway, here is Jerome (in summary)He argues cleverly, regarding Jewish attitudes towards the Law, that ‘the human mind instinctively simplifies.’

• Lip service was paid to the fundamental concept of gratuitous grace in election, but, in practise, attention was concentrated on observance of the commandments. (I see this as the clearest explanation yet! Rather than other views I have seen, one in which the law is a distraction because, in practise, it denies the free gift of divine grace makes great sense.)



• One false, inherited value: attitude towards the Law which distorted its true purpose. Fundamental in Jewish thought is a belief in their election by a divine, gratuitous act.


• Membership in the covenant was necessary to salvation. God’s giving of the law established the covenant. Tricky point for Jewish theologians: precise relationship of divine initiative and human response.


• If disobedience meant damnation, it seems logical (given the tendency to simplify!) that obedience wins salvation.


• A religion of grace expressed in covenant form (in the popular imagination, if not in theological dissertations) becomes one of meritorious achievement.


• Paul’s concerns: less the idea that there could be an approach to the law of effectively ‘buying salvation’ than the inversion of values consequent on the importance attached to obedience and law.


• Murphy-O'Connor illustrates, from rabbinical stories, how God 'failed to realise that, once He’d given the Law, it was out of his hands. Only the voice of rabbis counted.'“Jewish theological thought debated points of law, not mysteries of grace.”


• Murphy-O'Connor comments that the Law,“Left no real space for God, grace, or faith – only for obedience.”

‘In order to ensure that the gracious gift of God, in Jesus Christ, would retain its primacy in practise, Paul had to insist it was irrelevant for all believers.” Fundamental objection: Law, once admitted, inevitably created an attitude which monopolised the religious perspective.Authentic response to God’s grace is in the self-sacrifice of Jesus Christ –in no way anticipated by the Law.Once the goal of the Law was achieved in Jesus Christ, the means thereto (the Law) had no raison d’être.

Close the quotes... and, if this wise gentleman is in the neighbourhood, or I happen to be in Jerusalem, I must meet him for a pint. I have a feeling we'd agree on many points... and, if I don't have his knowledge, indeed I do have the same type of humour. I leave these wonderful quotes to ponder. (And, if you wish to have a better laugh still, with more insights, obtain a copy of the same book and see what he has to say about Corinth.)

A little word about indulgences

No - here I'm not doing public penance for having had a slice of cake on my birthday. :) As it happened, last Sunday I heard an Anglican acquaintance refer to how "Roman Catholics can still buy Masses to get people out of purgatory." I'm not faulting her - I fear that there indeed are RCs who think that is precisely the case, rather than seeing, for example, how the Eucharist makes present Jesus' Incarnation to the benefit of the Church (in this life or the next) and so forth. Yet no one who has delved into matters medieval to the extent tow which I have can ignore the distortion of the concept of indulgences which led to various blessings and shortcomings in the Middle Ages. (Indeed, the abuses of the ideas of indulgences which Martin Luther rightly criticised were not remedied until the reforms of the Council of Trent - though, throughout the Middle Ages and probably till this day in some circles, valid pious practises too often were and are used as if they were magic.

I just may get around to writing an essay for the site on the history of concepts of purgatory during the Middle Ages. Though the doctrine itself merely admits to possible purification after we die (and implicitly allows for that we await the general resurrection / parousia - our death alone is not fulfilment), by the medieval period there were massive controversies about Church authority and its extent. This speculation included whether the Church Militant (on earth) had authority over the Church Suffering (those in purgatory) - I daresay some of the medieval and renaissance popes would have enjoyed authority over the Church Triumphant (in heaven), but there was no profit to be made from seeking that. Consequently, over the centuries a very elaborate judicial system, involving pardons, remittance of punishment and the like arose - unique in that it was exercised in a jurisdiction which, theologically, is not a 'place' at all, and involved authority over those already dead.

Initially (in the early centuries of the church), indulgences were allowances for lesser penances for those (very much alive) who had been guilty of grave public sins. Sacramental confession as we know it today, or as it would have been known by the 13th century (when it was obligatory for all by decree of the Lateran Council in 1215), did not exist in this form in the earliest centuries. (There also were huge debates over whether those before the ecclesiastical courts could be considered members of a holy Church - not being holy. That's another topic for another day, though it's fun to think of such a standard being applied to the early modern papacy...) Those serving public penance were guilty of crimes such as apostasy - bishops who sacrificed to pagan gods, for example. The early penances were very severe, and could span years or the remainder of one's life. (Human nature has not changed. This was lessened later, because, rather than leading to a crop of holy saints, it led to people not returning to the Church at all, or putting off repentance to their death beds.)

It was only centuries later that the Franciscan Pope Sixtus extended indulgences to the dead. However, the general thinking (in an era when, regrettably, discussions of grace made it seem rather like a substance, and the truth of how the entire Church benefits or grieves for its members good and evil was often ignored for a concept of merit that made it seem like a giant cash machine) was the the dead who were in purgatory could no longer earn merit on their own behalf, for all that their salvation was assured. They needed to rely on the prayers (alms, good works, and so forth) of the living. I do not at all think that love ceases with death, or that those who went before us do not pray on our behalf, but I shudder to think of how those who may have been the only members of a large family to survive the Plague dealt with believing they had to atone for relatives' sins to alleviate the latter's suffering in purgatory.

Liturgical scholars undoubtedly would view the common worship of the Middle Ages as something of a nightmare. (It is no accident that sacramental theology, preaching, the training of the clergy, and ritual also had to be major concerns at Trent.) Private Masses for the intentions of those in purgatory became a norm, and the Eucharist was viewed as performed by the clergy on behalf of others, rather than as a truly common ritual. (Most people adored the Blessed Sacrament - but were fortunate to receive it once a year.) Some monasteries grew fat on trading on people's fear of purgatory, and monks who had no theological training were ordained purely to offer the many private Masses requested. At the time, relics could still be sold, donations be solicited not for the support of the church in itself but to 'buy' ways out of future suffering, and more.

I know my regulars must be weary of my speaking of how the main flaw in the western Church is an emphasis on atonement, but it does apply here. Prayer, alms, fasting and the like are very valuable spiritual practises - but ascetic practises intended to remove distractions and thereby foster intimacy with God can deteriorate when it seems we are appeasing an angry god. Charity for those living and dead certainly fits into theology and ecclesiology, but the image of a god who inflicts torments until those still on earth can manage atonement is tragic. The incredible, indeed unfathomable, richness of the Eucharist can be forgotten when the anamnesis is set aside to focus entirely on sin, crucifixion, forgiveness and reparation.

Even in my own younger days, there was excessive emphasis on purgatory and indulgences. As a simple example, and one which naturally first occurs to a Franciscan, the Stations of the Cross can be a wonderful meditation - yet this aspect could be lost if one focussed on that it had attached indulgences. Superstition - the 'chain prayer' approach - can slip in when the focus is on multiplying indulgences rather than praise and thanksgiving. When I was young, people still spoke of doing things to 'save souls' - in my feisty moments, I'd comment "give me seven days, and I'll create the cosmos, then." I'm not ready to define redemption, because all of our definitions are inadequate - but redemption is already accomplished in Christ, and we can and should offer thanksgiving for this.

There is much I can say about distortions of Thomas and Bonaventure's ideas later (though most friars were so caught up with caring for the Plague victims that there were few chances for successors to those great ones... and, on a less positive note, where Thomas stressed discernment more than heresy, the Inquisition was keeping friars a bit occupied as well.) I can even trace the confusing influences of William of Ockham - but I've gone on quite enough for today. I just want to say a tiny bit about the private Masses.

I'm well aware that many ordained in the Middle Ages could barely say Mass. (I'm saving another essay for the best part of medieval liturgy - it was a time when music flourished.) There were indeed monasteries and individuals who used the fear of purgatory to grow fat with wealth - and I often wonder if this played a part in Francis of Assisi's stress on poverty. But let us not ignore positive elements - and these came to my mind (I'll admit them even though, as a post-Dom Gregory Dix Christian, I blush to do so. Whether it's the 13th century or the time of Abraham I'm considering, I find it helpful to try to step out of my 21st century mould and try to view things from the perspective of those alive then. Those of us who lived long before or long afterwards could miss this easily.)

There may have been great charity and true service of the Church in the actions of many of those involved. Monks, whose primary vocation was prayer, had, in the private Masses, a form of devotion with boundless benefits for the entire Church (including the poorest - those in purgatory, totally helpless and dependent.) It is logical that, in using his time to offer Masses, thereby applying the benefits of Christ's sacrifice in persona Christi, generosity of spirit and awareness of an obligation, in charity, to pray for others is implicit. What action could have been more perfect, or of greater benefit, than the Eucharist?

Today, most would be inclined to see acts of reparation on behalf of others as faulty theology - contrast this with the notion of presenting petitions on behalf of others which was integral in a feudal society. Devotion to the Passion, which flowered in the Middle Ages, a period when devotion to Christ in his humanity was at a peak, would have stressed Jesus' aloneness at the time of his crucifixion - a rather solitary act, because he was betrayed, virtually abandoned, and, even to those present, the true meaning was certainly hidden. With the Mass seen mainly as a representation of Calvary (then and long afterwards), a private Mass would hardly seem incompatible with devotion. As an ascetic practise, offering Mass for one's own salvation, as was possible, shows some grasp of repentance, humility, amendment, and dependence on the merits of Christ. I can even see where the multitude of Masses could lead to an awareness of Christ's Incarnation and sacrifice as omnipresent.

It is unfortunate that much which could have had great richness too often could descend into fear, based on placating a god who demanded this (I didn't use the capital letter because I do not see that the true God ever had such intentions), or into magical, repetitive practises with no grasp of the underlying beauty.

No offence intended...

One would think, in this wonderful Christmas season with Epiphany beckoning, that I would not be so crotchety today. I'll admit I do not know what set me off. Perhaps it is that an old acquaintance was asking me if I'd written any new essays for my Internet site recently. I should indeed like to do so soon, but I suppose I wonder if they do anyone any good in the first place. Considering some of the email I receive, I wonder if those who ask me about mediaeval instruments of torture, Wiccan spells, etc., have taken even the most cursory glance at the essays. (Some Freudian oddity wanted to know how I could deal with Julian of Norwich's treatment of Christ's blood, and hadn't I found it disgusting. My response was that I hope not - having just drank some. I'm sure my faithful readers catch my reference to the Eucharist, but it just occurred to me that I might be thought either a deviant or a vampire by those with no sense of doctrine or irony.)

You all know of my love for the theatre - and, since the musical "1776" was hardly a noble effort (though it featured some fine actors), don't ask me why this one line remained in my memory. During disputes about the composition of the declaration of independence, John Adams scoffs, "It's a revolution, damn it! We're going to have to offend somebody!"

Well, revolutions (and treason... anarchist though I am at heart) are hardly my style. In fact, I'm one who dislikes confrontation. But I am so very tired of how easily people become offended today - and it's especially popular in religious circles. Perhaps I haven't written any essays recently because a situation exists now which is very new in the world of scholarship/theology. Apparently one must know every last detail of every past or present theologian's writings and biographies (probably down to what jokes he made when having a pint with friends in the days when York's oldest pub was new - or what dinner guests he had in 331 AD), and not quote anyone who ever said or did anything that could offend anyone today.

It's difficult - not being able to quote the patristic theologians because they were judged misogynist or class conscious - or medievalists who were elitist about the souls of human animals (as if Christ's assuming humanity meant that humans were dignified over giraffes... better start boiling the pot of oil for my execution, because I'd definitely say the human is unique...). I cannot mention the greatest living theologians - there's going to be someone, somewhere, who is offended by what they support or do not support. Lord have mercy, I recall one writer's going on about the 'racism' of Julian's referring to dark skinned demonic figures, I'm sure similar to those in medieval art (which certainly resemble no African I've ever seen - or one Julian would have seen had she ever seen an African in the first place.) I suppose there are those wild enough to think I'm anti-Semitic because I love the gospel of John (despite his being a Jewish evangelist writing of quite a distinguished Jewish carpenter... oh, heavens, I'm sure I've just offended someone by implying John had to be a male.)

Writing this reminds me of a few incidents from 20 years ago or so. I remember a discussion of the outstanding achievements of those who were disabled, and I spoke of a high regard for Helen Keller - this was dismissed with "she believed in abortion." (I've no idea if that is so, nor do I ever recall anything I read of hers which even referenced that topic, but let's just say the discussion was over.) I've been guilty of worse, of course, referencing Annibale Bugnini's work on the liturgy... supposedly he was a Freemason infiltrating the Curia, perhaps as an agent of the anti-Christ. (I haven't any notion of whether Bugnini was a Freemason, though, if so, that would hardly give him unique status in Rome.)

It is very frustrating - not being able to quote some of the most notable theology of the past 2,000 years (and earlier), because the writer might not support (or did, or does, support) some unrelated matter which would cause offence to the easily offended. Since when does mentioning excellent points mean that one must agree with every statement of another's life?

Doubt (the film)

Happy New Year, my friends - and may it be a blessed one. Oddly enough, though I have visions of Incarnation, deification, and cosmic redemption dancing through my head (having already found that sugarplums are to my disadvantage...), today I've had the new film "Doubt" much on my mind. I had the good fortune to find a cinema which offered bargain rates for pre-midday showings, and seeing this excellent film was my birthday present to myself.

Be forewarned that I have no credentials as a film critic, but anyone interested will find a wealth of words on the Internet from those who do, and I'm not alone in thinking it superb. The four principal characters gave stunning performances, and (though some critics would disagree) I found the camera treatments to be highly effective. Though Meryl Streep, as the formidable Sister Aloysius, dominates the action to some extent (as well she should, given the situations portrayed), I found it to be a decent example of ensemble acting, which is very much my film preference. (I loathe Hollywood clichés of 'scene stealing' and such rot.)

I don't want to include spoilers, because I'd highly encourage others to see this film and don't want to ruin the unfolding of the plot. Yet there is enough in the reviews I mentioned for me to disclose nothing in saying that the ambiguity of the dialogue and situations are most thought provoking. I suppose the nature of the person would influence the perception to a great extent, and I am not loath to share my own impressions (with which others may strongly disagree - and those of us who enjoy films where questions remain unresolved will not be disappointed, for every element of the action contains 'doubt.')

Though there are reasons of discretion which make me not be specific here or elsewhere on the Internet, I worked for the Roman Catholic church for 29 years, and in a managerial position where I had occasion to see the full scope of ... what I'll term the human condition. Most of the clergy and religious with whom I dealt were very decent people, some extraordinary, yet when I did encounter situations which were less than edifying, or occasionally potentially scandalous, they seldom had to do with anything remotely connected to sex, let alone sex crimes (of which Sr Aloysius assumes Father Flynn is guilty, with no proof whatever.) Of the seven capital sins, the one most likely to infect professional churchmen is some form of avarice - often more for power than for material wealth. Sister Aloysius may be assumed a heroine by some viewing the film, because the media focus on paedophilia is often exaggerated or distorted to a point where one might assume (and totally without substance, in my experience) that most clergy either are guilty of such crimes or sheltered those who did so. I am in no way minimising the heinous situations in which this was the case! I am merely reminding my readers that not only were the number of clergy so involved a small minority, but that, in the course of my lengthy career but also in my life experience overall, I have seen far more people become spiritual quadriplegics through rash judgement, detraction, and calumny (which can masquerade as virtues for those, such as Sr Aloysius, who insist on their own 'certainty' despite a lack of any evidence) than from criminal offences. Sadly, I have seen many people's reputations destroyed, unjustly, because of such judgement and talk - normally not because of criminal allegations, but from detraction or calumny in other forms.

Many thoughts struck me as I viewed the film (and not only because I well remember a nun here and there rather like Aloysius, or that it constantly occurred to me that the dreadful school choirs depicted in the film were sadly like the reality I recall from my own school days... back in the far off time of idealism when I genuinely believed there was hope for the RC music and liturgy.) I noticed, for example, how Aloysius was ready to assume Fr Flynn had a personal indiscretion to hide when he spoke of doubt in a sermon (which was of better quality than one might hear from a genuine pulpit.) She suggests to her fellow Sisters that this meant they must be wary of what is happening in the school - and, when she bit off the head of an elderly Sister who was puzzled and asked if Aloysius meant academic standards, let us say that there was shades of a few equally charming (ahem!) Sisters who came to mind. Of course, I know my own spirituality (part patristic, part medieval English mystic, part walking at right angles to the world... not to mention a weird stew of Franciscan, Dominican, and Benedictine, with a touch of the Jesuit graduate education flavouring the gravy) is not exactly typical of everyone in the pew, nor of Sisters of Charity whose focus is more on nursing and education than on contemplation. Still, whether the likes of Father Flynn would have their minds on exactly what I did or not, it immediately occurred to me that doubt is a staple of spirituality - in fact, it can be a sign of the mystic vocation in some cases (there is no certainty in faith - and true faith always begins with a recognition of mystery and eventual, growing awareness that our grasp of the divine is but a glimpse of what is far beyond us.)

Sister James, the young nun who is teaching children of 13 or so, struck a chord with me as well. (She is sweet, innocent, and a great lover of children... not traits of which I'd ever be accused. Yet she wants to show warmth, openness and love to those whom she serves, and wishes to assist her pupils in enjoying history, the subject she teaches. As I've seen many times 'in real life,' this wonderful teacher becomes a minor tyrant when Aloysius believes that James is not 'controlling the class.' (As one who had the experience of teaching adolescents, I thought her class was about as good as that for which a teacher could hope!) I could identify, as well, with how James has empathy for Fr Flynn - and the viewer is left to guess whether his warmth, affection, friendliness and so forth are the pretences of a paedophile or the outgrowth of a genuinely loving heart (my impression being the latter.)

It saddened me to remember that the very positive role which priests (and religious, and teachers, and others in service to the young and not so young) is greatly curtailed today. Whatever is implied (and my own impression was more that Sr Aloysius had a prurient side to her thinking than that she was the only one clever enough to read signals), there is absolutely nothing shown (or known) to indicate sexual activity between Fr Flynn and the boy whom Sr Aloysius believes he is molesting. Like Fr Flynn, I have held and comforted those who are distressed (in my case, even when the homeless gave me such souvenirs as ringworm). Fr Flynn's keeping quiet that an altar boy sampled some of the wine (...I'd like to know which has not, though the drunkenness to which most pretend is pretence, since the wine isn't very potent and there isn't much to go around..) - his defending the first black child in the school from bullying (though bullying is a teenage art form, and one cannot assume sheer racism) - his powerful (and very true!) sermon about the dangers of gossip - all were perfectly understandable and could meet a simple explanation.

When Sister Aloysius (in what she later admits to Sr James was an outright lie) mentions that she told Fr Flynn that a nun at his previous parish had revealed details about him, she is smug in assuming that he would not have been troubled at this had he had nothing to hide. Yet there is no reason to assume that gossip (or what some people who eat the candles off the altar consider to be scandalous) means a history of criminal behaviour. When Fr Flynn, in one of the most powerful moments in the action, asks Aloysius if she has ever been guilty of grave sin, it was not a confession of any criminal action on his part. We all have been guilty of sin - and, if Fr Flynn indeed is innocent, the sin of destroying another's reputation certainly meets all the criteria for being extremely grave.

The film leaves no answers - which makes the impact the greater. I am inclined to think that it will strike many people on many levels - and that is what makes for good theatre or literature... as much as for any humility in approaching the topic of spirituality.

The Great-a God! He became-a so small!

No question - Advent is a marvellous season, of anticipation of the parousia and memories of divine promises fulfilled in Christ. Yet I need to be a bit silly today (and, with how cold it is, my brain hasn't thawed out), so I'm sure I'll be forgiven if I 'rerun' a story I mentioned a few years ago. As with all my anecdotes, this one is perfectly true.

Winter blues and loneliness (all the worse knowing that winter has not even started as yet, and the cold is already getting to me) have put a damper on my quickness. I am not ready, at the moment, to write of Israel's expectation, the Incarnation, or the church waiting in joyful hope... though I'll get to it eventually. For the moment, I shall share a memory of my days with the friars.

Father Michael was unusually short and slight, but highly expansive, and his gestures tended to be fit for a man the size of Goliath of Gath. Michael was Italian, and had learnt his English from a woman who had a very high, light voice, whom he imitated a bit too well. Consequently, he spoke English (though not his native tongue) in an extremely squeaky voice. The combination of massive gestures and chirping tones gave a general effect of a jumping-jack in an uncharacteristic brown costume.

Michael's warmth and sincerity were enormous as he reminded his congregation, during an Advent sermon, that this was a time when "we have to thank God for the c-u-u-u-te little-a beby Jesus!" (No, for once that is not a typographical error - I'm trying to truly catch the flavour.) Raising his arms over his head like the risen Messiah, Michael expounded, "The great God!!!" (Hands now at breast height, illustrating the size of an ample newborn.) "He became-a so small!" Michael's sermon continued for a time, with repeated references to the 'great God who became-a so small,' and, though I was biting my lip not to laugh aloud, many of the congregation were moved nearly to tears. (Franciscan theology can be odd at times - but their sermons do stimulate a sense of the vivid.)

I was congratulating myself for not having lapsed into a laughing fit - which would have been most uncomfortable for a highly visible director of music. And all went well until Michael's little voice piped, "Behold-a the lamb of (pronounced 'lay-ma') God!"

I may have retained what little was left of my composure had the friar next to me not whispered, "He became-a so small!"

For my precious Mirielle

This will be a brief entry - but pet lovers will understand. My precious cat, Mirielle, died yesterday. I may write more of her on another occasion - she was a delightful kitty - but my grief is too intense right now. I've been sobbing for two days.

I am including this entry because those who have lost pets may be interested in this little Candle Ceremony, whether participating on-line or performing it alone. It's a charming meditation.

Yes - I know the super-orthodox amongst you may be astonished both that I love imagery of the Rainbow Bridge (from Norse mythology originally... believe me, I have no desire to pal with the old Norse gods...), and that I'm implying that cats live on in an after-life. No, my friends, I am not denying the unique human dignity we have, or our faculties, etc. per omnia saecula saeculorum. Certainly, we are in God's image in a unique fashion - and Christ took on humanity, not mere animality. Yet all of creation glories in its Creator - and, as Francis of Assisi expressed in his Canticle of the Creatures, a cat glorifies his Creator merely by being a cat! Only we humans fall short of our potential. :)

The images from Asgard have a beauty that sustains me - my beloved cats happy and still loving. (Today would be my parents' wedding anniversary, and it is my deceased friend Tom's birthday - I like to think of Leonora and Mirielle prancing with them.) As well, memories and love endure always.

Pet lovers, do pray for me. It is hard to explain how, even when one has lived alone for years (other than with a cat), it can be frightening to be all alone. Both my cats were darlings who had lengthy last illnesses with rather revolting symptoms, and, with the vet bills I accumulated, I think it is best I not get another cat. But I'll still be looking for Mirielle for months... cats all know how to make themselves invisible, and it will be some time before I fully remember and accept that she isn't going to reappear.

Oh, heavens... not Neanderthal man!

I hope I don't sound too irreverent here - when I laugh at others, I'm not mocking, because I laugh longest and hardest at myself. I have a special passion for reflecting on eschatology. The trouble is that it makes perfect sense to me when I'm at prayer or meditation (and, somehow, I can write essays on the topic), but I don't understand a word. You can imagine the identity crisis - me with my combination of clouds of unknowing and burning a candle before the Infant of Prague (well, it worked for my mother.) I don't have the slightest idea what the Incarnation, resurrection, parousia, creation, or any of it means - though I believe every word of it and have no problem at all with any of those concepts when I'm at prayer.

Recently, I attended a lecture series related to Tom Wright's Surprised by Hope, of which the main topic was eschatology. One woman who attends the presentations, to whom I'll assign the fictional name of Phoebe, seems very full of herself - and I can see that without knowing her personally. I went to the coffee hour last week, for example, and Phoebe was telling a few others about a portrait she'd painted for some organisation. It wasn't on the order of "...and I'm very glad they were pleased - and that I had some inquiries for further work as a result." Oh, no. She must be the hottest artist on the market, because she went on about how everyone just raved, and they were astonished, and that once someone sees her work they all want portraits... I think you already get the picture. I noticed that, at the presentations, Phoebe has a habit, which I think extremely rude, of sort of lowering her head, placing a cupped hand to the forehead, and either shaking her head or silently laughing, as if whatever was read (even if it is Thomas Aquinas, Augustine, Richard Hooker, and such other mental midgets) is too stupid to be believed. (I shall never forget her look of scorn when one of Hooker's works mentioned the perpetual virginity of Mary.) When she does respond, she has to refer to having been a journalist.

Well, in the discussion about afterlife and images of same (Tom Wright treats of how Jesus was not speaking of a kingdom 'out there,' or heaven 'up there'), Phoebe of course had to contribute. She first informed all and sundry that she is "very 'into' spatial relationships." (What the connection is there is beyond me. Perhaps because journalists always write of things which happen within time and space? I was puzzled for a moment, because the last time I heard that specific term was when I was involved with construction of a new building, and the building services' guys used it to mean how to fit furnishings into rooms. I'd forgotten how yuppies worry about their "space.") With a certain look of disgust, she was saying she cannot fathom the resurrection - hundreds of millions of people, all different levels, how would we get along, what if she had to (I swear this is a quote) be in the company of cave men?"

Quietly, with an air as if I were just having a random thought, I muttered (audibly) "perhaps we'll learn we are not quite as smart as we believed."

I haven't the slightest grasp of science - about my only understanding of the atom is that I wish it had never been split. Recently, when I sat my final exams, one of my papers for philosophy of religion was about eternal life, so I was steeped in Swinburne (...maybe Phoebe can sit near him), and all sorts of other writers who raised lots of questions that had never entered my mind. I never really thought about maintaining personal identity, reconstituting bodies, objective or subjective existence, and all of those other concepts. I just don't consider that degree of detail. (Belief in the communion of saints leads me to believe that our personal identity will never be obliterated - but I think the restrictions of our "time and space" perception keep God in a box.) Yet I have yet to know of anyone's speculating on whether she'd be disgusted at having to share eternity with the cave man.

The Cappadocians got me hooked on the idea of ever-growing, always more intense, white hot love enduring for eternity. That God cannot be fully grasped is an exciting image for me - we'll somehow ever grow in knowledge of and intimacy with Him, without ever finding that quest ends. Cool! I never stopped to think of the resurrection as the ultimate in over crowding, or of eternity as emptiness, or darkness, or obliteration, or any of the other things which my studies showed enter others' minds.

One priest whom I know is brilliant and has a stunning education, but he never did quite get past his evangelical roots. (I'm not being nasty - neither did Newman - but Father X was sectarian Protestant, which is somewhat more damaging.) He also attended a series on Pope Benedict's "Eschatology" - a superb work which I enjoyed immensely, and just might re-read for Advent. Most of those present just 'didn't get it' - they were asking questions such as 'how do we recognise Anti Christ?' or "when do we know the end times are here?," which of course had nothing whatever to do with Benedict's work. Father X ( whose face sometimes is filled with warmth, but at other times clouds... though, unlike C. S. Lewis, he is very handsome, like 'Jack' he shares the trait of being capable of envisioning Narnia or hell-fire alternately) suddenly, solemnly intoned (somehow, intoned is the only word): "The best part of death is that we won't be able to sin any longer."

Even Augustine, who seems to have been so harried by the unexpected call to episcopacy that he envisioned heaven as where he could rest, wasn't so dour as that. I hope, nonetheless, that the Cappadocians meet me at the pearly gates (yes, I know the Thomists don't envision, per se, a heavenly society - but I do, and I want to speak with Basil and Gregory just as soon as I find out how my parents have been doing...)

Brief thoughts about Elizabeth of Hungary

The link which I provided in the title is to Answers.com - one of many sites with references to Elizabeth which one would find in a Google search. It is not the most detailed, or the most pious, but it contains facts which hagiography would exclude. As Dermot Quinn once aptly noted, "Histories of revelation are seldom very revealing, and histories of holiness are full of holes." I believe that many sincere attempts to honour the saints by sterilising their biographies reduce them to plaster statues. Reading this honest account can inspire another, I believe, because we need reminders that the saints were distinguished by their response, in love - not by having storybook (or horror story!) lives.

Elizabeth of Hungary is my patron - calendars vary on whether her feast day is the 17th or 19th of November, so I wanted to give her a bit of space today. I always loved her for her single minded dedication and her love for the poor - even if (...like myself... though she never lived to be even half my age...) her zeal exceeded her prudence. Wryness tag on: Were my mother alive to read of Elizabeth, her first question would be 'what happened to her children?!' As for me... well, I think it's lucky for Elizabeth that she died at age 24, because I can picture a widowed queen, totally broke, despised and rejected by family... all alone in later years, realising that, for everyone she helped with the riches she dispensed, there were five who'd swindled her....

I remember, as a child, when I first was deeply impressed by one of the most popular stories about Elizabeth. (Incidentally, Elizabeth is my legal name - the name I chose in religion and at Confirmation - but it is my own choice, not my birth name, which you'll never learn here. Elizabeth is a special patron for me - though, in part, because the name means "consecrated to God.") Apparently Elizabeth was a bit secretive about some of her acts of charity, since her husband was loving but inclined to think her excessive (as indeed he might.) In this legend, Elizabeth placed a beggar (in some versions, also a leper) into the royal couple's bed. (As a child, I doubt I fully realised the reasons that the prince would have found that less than appealing. I loved and cared for the homeless for years, and still do, and have done their laundry, and suffice it to say that even I would not care to have one of them have a nap in my bed.) When Ludwig returned, and saw the beggar, in some versions he saw a crucifix, in others the image of Christ Himself between the sheets.

I think God indeed may have been more of a showman during the Middle Ages, when people were more open to the miraculous. Yet I must leave my readers with a pious thought. Perhaps Ludwig did see a crucifix or vision - but there is a more important matter here. If Ludwig indeed saw the beggar himself, but saw that this man, like himself and all of us, was created in God's image, or if he saw Christ in this man's poverty and suffering, that is the greater miracle.

Wanting to invite Father Christmas in for mulled wine

Yes - it is nearly sacrilegious - here is someone totally steeped in liturgical studies (and who sadly will talk on the subject endlessly, especially when I've had a toddy or mulled wine), who is already indulging her Christmas obsession when it is not yet even Advent. Shocking, indeed. But I loathe winter (yes, I know winter is more than a month off as well... but that's one dreadful season that always seems nine months long), and, once the days grow short and I need to sponge and press the heavy coat, I immediately need to dose myself with Christmas cheer of some kind.

This, I am sad to relate, is a difficult task for my generation, who went from being quite 'cool' (...you know I don't mean chilly) in young adulthood, to being the worst crop of frumps since the Puritans. Oh, it isn't that they, like the Puritans, consider Christmas to be wicked - they only think it's 'just for children,' as if the little brats would have the slightest concept of the Incarnation. Still, considering that I emerged from excessive Franciscan austerity c. 1993 (I had so feared compromising poverty that I steered into deprivation for two decades), reclaiming my laughing Mediterranean heritage to the full, I had never expected that, just around that date, those in my age group would emerge as prudish sorts who think that everything that makes one smile is somehow a danger to the children - or that it now would be (at least unofficially) illegal to eat (ah, cholesterol!), drink (anything but water), smoke (yes... the secret is out... I did, and I do, and I am not looking for your 'help' in giving it up), or otherwise indulge in any form of recreation except going to a gym. (Games that once might have taken place in gyms, which then were recreation centres, even cease to be fun when one is wearing a monitor and has to have this on the daily calendar as a 'fitness programme.') Just when I was ready to have fun, everyone I knew settled in for a gloomy stress on "health" (translation: obsession with illness and death, and deadly fear of doing the wrong thing and ending up dead some day... which I'd heard was inevitable in any case...)

Well, back to my Christmas fixation. :) Today, eager for diversion, I re-read a superb book entitled "Dickens' Christmas," by Simon Callow. Though it contains much background about Dickens, it also has a fascinating section which traces Christmas customs right back to the beginning, even to the pagan origins. I'll take a healthy helping of it all: Saturn, Pan, the Sol Invictus (remember him? Constantine had a most fortunate connection there...), boy bishops of the Middle Ages, wassail bowls, pageants with Father Christmas (who was not so sanitised before Christmas became 'only for children'), carols reverent and sly - the lot. Here is a quotation which Roderick Marshall reconstructed from the old Mummers' plays.

Welcome or welcome not
I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.
Christmas comes but once a year
And when it comes, it brings good cheer.
Roast beef, plum pudding, strong ale, and mince pie.
Who likes that better than I?
I am here to laugh and cheer
And all I ask is a pocketful of money
And a cellar full of beer.
Now I have brought some gallant men with me
That will show you great activity.
Activity of youth, activity of age,
Was never such acting
Shown upon Christian stage...

Yes, puritanical streak crowd, move over. My own focus, of course, is strongly religious - Advent and eschatology, the Incarnation and so forth. (With the current economic Depression, I know that no one has a pocketful of money - but the sort of roast beef I can afford isn't all that bad when it's marinated and served rare.) I don't think we should be sent on 'guilt trips' over enjoying ourselves! I shall admit that I'm not all that partial to beer, but, when I do make my annual purchase of cheap wine to mix with cinnamon and such, I absolutely refuse to beat my breast because I didn't give the money to the poor children.

I love it all - presents, food and drink, decorations, the little tree with its collection of ornaments (which I acquired over 35 years) that is my pride and joy, my Christmas CDs which are everything from medieval to Victorian to rot such as "The Little Drummer Boy" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" which somehow become irresistible in the shadow of Christmas lights.

My collection of Christmas books is wide, and I have one long out-of-print book (Lord knows how I came by this in the first place) entitled "Merry Christmas, Mr Baxter." George Baxter is a man of substantial means, and 'his' story has value for me only in that it helps me understand others of his ilk whom I meet here and there. His view of Christmas is dismal: not a single religious element, grown children who won't even set a place for their own parents at table because it's too much work now that they grew modern and stopped having servants, no more provision (from his very ample income) for the unfortunate than Scrooge would have made before his ghostly visitors arrived. Yet I could vaguely grasp, without understanding per se, an attitude which somehow explains the "Christmas is for children" crowd a bit.

I could understand George's pining for childhood Christmases if the reason were that his well off children are selfish shits - no hint of that in his thought. No - he has everything he needs and more, and can afford everything he wants, and he sees presents (which I would think of as ways to show love and caring for those whom we love) as a burden. Oh, he has things of which he still dreams: a Jaguar, private plain, country home - but those won't be in his stocking and, though he can afford them, deep down he knows they'd be more a burden than pleasure. But he is nostalgic for the Christmas of childhood because it's the only time in his memory when one could hope for, and receive, a present for which one pines (pun intended, however dreadful.)

I, of course, always was one of the 95% of the population who did not have everything we wanted, nor everything we needed. Mr Baxter appeared in 1954 - today, his counterpart would be a miserable 'old' man (he's in his 50s - but my generation are 'older' than people of 90 used to be), who shrugged off presents with "they should have given the money to charity where at least it did good." (The ones who say this, by the way, are the same ones who resent that poor mothers get free inoculations for their children.) He'd probably be dragging his grandchildren to a homeless shelter on Christmas Day (and I say this though I cooked in them for at least 7 Christmases) - not to make them love the poor, but to make them feel guilty about what they have and fall down in adulation, not of the Saviour, but of their wonderful parents who provide everything.

I wish I could have a Christmas party... but my flat is not 'smoke free,' my food, however modest, not vegetarian - and I can't think of anyone I know who would ride out to zone 4... Not to mention that the Christmas cards, which I send as both a blessing and sharing of joy or gratitude, will be greeted with either 'but we're stopping...' or 'you shouldn't have spent the postage...'

If my readers are surprised by my cynicism (forgetting that is the natural outcome of being a burnt idealist and romantic), be assured that it was reinforced when I did a Google search for Christmas goodies. Among the 'heartening' images with which I was presented were (1) those of Santa Claus urging low fat diets (apparently he is no longer able to be of ample girth, what with the dangers of the obesity epidemic), (2) a children's site, with an FAQ about Santa Claus, responding to the little ones' questions about such matters as whether he was lactose intolerant, (3) a message board, on which disheartened young people (who seemed to think it might be fun to play at being mentally ill... maybe they'll play at having cancer or kidney disease next week) wrote of losing faith in their parents and/or Christianity by learning that the legends about Santa Claus are not literally true (adjective mine - I believe in Santa Claus all the more because certain traits are more valuable when figurative, but then my definition of 'myth' differs from that in the vernacular), (4) television blurbs which show that those with the digital boxes can have such 'great Christmas treats' as new films about dysfunctional families of Santa Claus and about who went into a coma on Christmas Eve.

...I don't think mulled wine is going to be strong enough to get me through this... or even a gin toddy...

Surveys, statistics, stereotypes and such

Earlier this week, I (uncharacteristically) participated in a telephone survey. It was totally electronic, of the "press one for more, two for less, three for about the same" variety, with no room for comments. A number of the questions had to do with economic situations - so, for example, I was asked if my housing expenses were higher than a year ago, and if I was concerned about my financial situation (I'd like to know who is not), and whether, in the coming month, I expected my outlay for recreation (such as films, theatre, dining out, or gym memberships) to increase, decrease, or remain the same.

Considering that most people I know, at the moment, are finding that the price of necessities such as groceries have doubled or tripled, I'm sure I'm not alone in that it is a rare month that I spend a single penny on what was classed as recreation. I must be a bit too logical, because my answer to the question about that area was "the same.' I cannot, after all, spend less than nothing! Yet it occurred to me later that anyone surveying results could determine that someone whose money situation is worse than a year ago (just like the rest of the world) is not decreasing spending on entertainment.

I'm very cautious about surveys, for various reasons. First off, even when one does have the chance to comment (which one seldom does - I've seen surveys which present the conclusions the compiler wishes regardless of how one answers), lots of people give the "correct" answer rather than the truth. (Witness that sales figures for tabloids are far higher than those for distinguished periodicals, yet few people would admit to reading tabloids.) Second, I've seen surveys for which results totally puzzled me, and which had to be slanted. Third, I'll just give an example of confusion in that, until very recently, figures for 'life expectancy' did not mean that everyone who lived to adulthood died at 34 - the very low figure was based on that infant mortality was high.

Stereotypes worry me the more - because those who believe them will assume what often is far from true. I well remember, in my young adult years, when many of my acquaintances were pursuing jobs in the education of children. I grew up in an era when large families were relatively common, and I doubt that any mother of 8 would have illusions that all children are the same (indeed, she'd know everyone is different from day one), or that everyone acts the same way at 3, 4, or 8. That did not keep those who were disciples of a 'child development' credo from assuming these very general ideas, which often were based on 'averages,' applied universally (or that any child who deviated from the average was somehow damaged.)

I have no flair for mathematics, but have some vestige of common sense. Even assuming that this-or-that was absolutely true for 75% of those surveyed, or aged 8, or of those in a particular classification (and I strongly doubt this is ever true), it would seem wise to recall that the individual 'subject' may be one of that other 25%!

My own concern, of course, is largely pastoral - but it applies to all human relationships. Once one assumes that this-or-that just has to be true of anyone, or of any member of a 'classification' (be it based on income, class, education, citizenship, or who scratches his nose with the left forefinger), one will not see the truth. In fact, if the other explains that the stereotype does not apply, he may well be assumed to be lying, deluded, or bent. Haven't we all known people who finish others' sentences? (They cannot, of course, hear the actual response.) Or who have a textbook model (literally or figuratively) of how someone is supposed to think or feel (even if said other is a member of a very large set, such as 'male' or 'female'), and are convinced that anyone who does not conform to the stereotype is lying, crackers, unenlightened, or insufficiently educated? Or who are so utterly convinced that their doctor, prayer group, reading group, nutritionist, guru, or acupuncturist has the answer to all the problems of the world that they are responding with a recommendation for physical exams when the other speaker mentioned a house fire or job loss?

This hardly applies only to pastoral situations (in fact, it is frequently a trait of those in any way involved in the medical profession, I'm sure with equally hopeless results), but I'd add this word of caution specifically in that realm. I would say, after a lengthy career in church work, that most people I have met genuinely wish to help others. (The trouble is assuming both that the other needs help, what it is with which he needs help, and that he wants it from you.) Assumptions ruin any possibility of communication far more than fostering same.

I'm the least observant of people. It is perfectly possible for me to not notice that someone I've known for twenty years is standing next to me when I'm waiting for the bus. I do have a strong intuitive sense, but it seldom gets out of hand because I both think the eleventh commandment is 'thou shalt mind thine own business,' and am highly unlikely to notice what anyone else does in any case.

My first rule for intuition (beyond not assuming it is a direct communication from the Holy Spirit) is to realise that, even if one does 'pick up on' that another is happy, troubled, or whatever, this in no way means one knows details, or should assume what the others reason for happiness or sadness is. Those more observant than myself, but equally intuitive, need to be all the more careful. They are more likely to shoot five darts, have one hit the target or somewhere in the area, and manage to think they know someone else's entire story and are qualified to advise them - when they may have no notion of what the circumstances are in another's life.

I have no objection to charismatic prayer if one finds that helpful, but, as I've discussed elsewhere, it was not a healthy approach in my own case (though I certainly thought it was at the time... I all but thought I could raise the dead.) I recall its going from very popular to just about dead within a few years. I cannot say why, and am sure there were many reasons. Yet I think, at least in some part and for some participants, disillusionment played a role. Many people I knew in the groups were very excited - seeing the Holy Spirit as inspiring them, bringing others into their lives, giving them insight into others' situations, even thinking they'd witnessed miracles.

Yes - I believe strongly in divine providence, and think that, all the more with hindsight, we can see places in our own lives where it well may have been at work. I think there indeed are times when an insight can be the gift of the Holy Spirit - though usually such are a call to repentance (not necessarily from wickedness, but in a sense of removing bars to divine intimacy) and directed at one's self! I've known many good, devout people with many gifts, but discernment is the rarest gift of all - and those who do possess this gift would be the last to base it on whimsy or stereotypes.

My Hallowe'en prank

From The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, page 107:
The Merlin followed Igraine with his eyes as she came back to him. She looked into his face and said, "Here and now, my father, from this moment, be witness that I have done forever with sorcery. What God wills be done."

The Merlin looked tenderly into her ravaged face. His voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. "Do you think that all our sorcery could bring about anything other than God's will, my child?"

Now, indeed, the Mists of Avalon is a fascinating novel, with a very original 'take on' the Arthurian legends, and a perfect read for Hallow e'en night. It gives a highly negative image of Christians, but remains enthralling. Still, were one to speak not of creative literary efforts but of the 'real world,' one goal of the Druids could never be accomplished. The book has a scenario where Druid and Christian would worship at the same altar, combining their rites.

Certainly, Christianity, from its first Gentile mission, had to adapt for those formerly pagan to have some understanding of its philosophy and often incorporated pagan holidays into the calendar with a new flavour. Yet it is totally wrong for Christians (some small number, based on what I've seen on the Internet) to believe they can remain true to this faith and practise witchcraft.

Yes, I love Halloween - and not only as All Hallows Eve. Costumes, literary or dramatic uses of mythology and folklore, and so forth are fine with me. Yet most of such folklore has to do with powers of darkness. What is the appeal of the old gods? They clearly never heard of "in all things harm ye none."

I believe there is much truth in the old myths, and that some are literary masterpieces. Still, the old gods are far from romantic (even if an image of Apollo on a chariot is rather appealing.) They are super-powerful versions of humanity at its worst - violent, jealous, vengeful.

I would imagine that the appeal of the images of the cauldron has at least some basis in that it is frustrating to see how very powerless we are over much of our lives. Spells can give one an impression of having some sort of control... but the fact is that we do not.

I'm all for folk religion, and know that some devotions can seem magical to those unfamiliar with the deeper meaning. But there is a huge difference between prayer and spells. Intercessory prayer calls on the mercy or power of God while admitting that He is not under the obligation to perform miracles. It has the element of "if you will not grant what I ask, then change me - let me not falter in loving you and my neighbours whatever the outcome." I think the temptation to dabble in the occult comes from a desire for power, and it is dangerous because it can give us the impression we have powers that are beyond us.

May I add that I am doing my best to enjoy Halloween, and looking forward to All Saints Day. :) I'm sorry I was unable to find anyone broadcasting the Universal monster flicks from the 1930s-40s (I can't watch recent horror films, because they really terrify me and are very violent. But the 'old flicks' I do enjoy, the more with the camp and humorous elements of, for example, cockney cops in Transylvania.) But I did find reruns of some old and dreadful Bela Lugosi films, and am using that as a consolation prize. The cat is curled on my lap, the incense burning - my one regret being that, when Mirielle was a kitten, she broke the ceramic jack o'lantern my mother made...