Rather confusing, is it not?

The link in the title is to Signs on the Way, a bible study booklet from the Lambeth Conference centred on the gospel of John (my favourite.) I had the oddest thought when I was reading the reflection on the miracle at Cana. Indeed, wondering about (for example) the disciples' reaction to the miracle can make for a fine (and highly speculative...but that can be fun...) discussion. Yet I must not be in good form. My immediate thought was that those crashing the wedding party to see the Master may well have been the reason the hosts ran out of wine in the first place.

I suppose I'm a bit weary after the exams (though they were completed in May), and still have little quickness left. Yet other odd thoughts (well, odd for me) are entering my mind on matters religious.

This past week, I attended a lecture related to Thomas Aquinas and love of God and neighbour. In case this was not obvious, Thomas and I are old friends - eight years of my education were provided by Dominicans, and my post-graduate theology and philosophy meant another 8 years with Jesuits. The presentation was in a parish setting, and I dare say that many there had little previous experience with things Thomistic. I realised (as if this were news... but I'm so used to Thomas that it does not always appear vividly) how totally confusing his points must seem to those unaware of the overall thought.

One man in attendance, responding to the idea of God loves us - etc., etc. - we love through God - suddenly asked "what about excommunication?" Well, with Thomas's stress on a definition of love as willing the best for the other, it seemed to me that, since excommunication is designed to call notorious sinners to repentance (...not that it necessarily is that way in practise... I know enough history to be aware of how bishops often delighted in excommunicating one another..), it could make fine sense that excommunication fits the definition of love. In fact, it also could remind the one excommunicated that actions have consequences - and that there are deep spiritual consequences to some actions even when one has avoided extreme natural ones.

Actually, Thomas' definition of love is one which makes 'love of neighbour,' as applied to everyone, very clear. Most of us (whether we are saying t'amo or ti voglio bene - in Italian, the first relates to love with a romantic element, the latter to love - filial, for friends, etc. - without the same... notice how the literal meaning is so close to Thomas' usage) refer to people whose company we enjoy, whom we cherish, and so forth. I would not have cared to have Jack the Ripper for a pub companion, nor would I have warm fuzzy feelings towards him, but I could still 'love' him by wishing the best for him - the best being his repentance and salvation.

It then occurred to me that (other than the lecturer, who probably has the entire Summa memorised and even understands it), I probably was the only one there who would think in this fashion. And I'd be the first to admit that I don't understand a quarter of what I've read of the Summa. It's brilliant, indeed. The philosophical arguments, if one favours Aristotle, are perfect. Maybe the confusion can stem from that they are a bit too perfect. In a particular scheme, they seem to set many mysteries out neatly (and make it plain that Christianity was not philosophically beneath what the 13th century Arabs or Greeks had to chew on.)

Another part of the lecture briefly dealt with God's loving Himself in his creation. I've heard that one at length in the past, and, in context, it can glorify our deification through Christ and our share in the love of the Trinity. The problem is that, if one has no familiarity with the entire picture, God's loving himself in 'me,' and, on the slim chance that 'I' become holy, loves me all the more because I'm becoming more like him and he loves himself so much (in fact, I gather he only loves himself... which is fine because all of creation stems from him and has the stuff of holiness in it...), those who spend more time on the blasted self help aisle than in the theological library can be left with a vague image of a God who is the Supreme Narcissist.

By sheer coincidence, later on the same day I walked past an area where some Buddhists were having some sort of festival. I am not all that knowledgeable about Buddhism, though I did study some Buddhist and Hindu writings as part of my philosophical studies. I had yet another odd thought. Since scholasticism was the RC approach in the 20th century, I wonder what it was like for the missionaries in China or India - and this without considering political problems? How did one use a catechism based on scholasticism and Aristotle with those whose previous exposure would have been to varieties of Buddhist or Hindu thought, to which they bear no resemblance?

Would you believe that, at this very moment, it still is unthinkable to me that, in all likelihood, 99% of worshippers anywhere are not likely to be thinking about any of this at all? ;)

A word on design (warning: disjointed)

I've always had an interest in various forms of design. I love decorating (if I'd had the money, my home would be an eclectic blend of antiques, mediaeval and renaissance themes combined with peace signs from the 1960s - the homes I love best are those which express individuality.) I've been a calligrapher and Internet designer, the latter in the 'primeval' days of the Web, when beautiful sites were valued. My passion for all of the arts must be apparent. Yet, not only in the artistic but even the technical spheres (and also in the liturgy - you knew I'd get to that, did you not?), I often am amused at how trends, or design by those with a narrow if expert focus, can produce puzzling results.

Some years ago, I had a good friend, Richard, who was extremely gifted in anything related to home renovation. His abilities were vast - for example, I well remember when I gave him the present of a museum poster (Impressionist painting), and he not only designed a marvellous custom frame but somehow reproduced brush stroke effects, turning it into what looked like an oil painting. He personally remodelled a small, somewhat worn house from the 1850s with excellent results.

Richard's kitchen had a wonderful design. Since he installed the appliances and built the cabinets and shelving himself, it not only was attractive and made surprising use of space, but had a trait few kitchens have. Richard happened to be a very gifted cook - the sort who could enter that kitchen and emerge, in 20 minutes, with a full meal which a restaurant chef would envy. Being a rare combination of technically gifted and expert cook, the kitchen was designed to make anything one would need for various types of preparation at hand. I've seen some models for kitchens which are impressive on paper, or even which look stunning at first glance, but they seldom, if ever, are crafted for maximum ease and speed in meal preparation. Often, quite the contrary is true.

I'll give a brief space to how software programmes often can be puzzling! I was one of many who thought, logically at first glance, that changing margins in Microsoft Word would be a 'format' command - not 'print.' I worked in computing for a time, and I found that the best technicians often could not explain anything at all. Yet it would be logical, I suppose, for some who are technicians to place commands in spots which would hardly be the first to occur to people who actually use such software.

I have no background in architecture (though I think most buildings of recent construction are ghastly - no character, beauty, or charm). Still, one would think that architects, at the very least, have some experience of actually living somewhere. I could see, when space permits, having a bathroom separate from a lavatory - but, if having the tub in a separate space is a great idea, wouldn't it have struck the architect that the hand basin's being in another room would not delight those in the loo? (As an aside, I personally think the current fashion of having everything in neutral, dreary colours, and decorating that is dreary and intended to show nothing of the person, is miserable - but I know it's a hot trend.)

I remember, as a child and young adult, when many flats (and these in far from posh neighbourhoods) had very useful elements. The first example that comes to mind were the pantries often attached to good-sized kitchens. Highly useful, indeed - yet they'd probably be eliminated as 'old fashioned' were there remodelling. (This, of course, does not illustrate a purely new trend - lots of odd ideas were expressive of some status symbol or another even long before anyone alive today was born. I'll go to my death wondering how people, a century ago, painted over gorgeous woods with rich grains, just to show they were wealthy enough to afford the coloured paint which was new to the market then.)

Inevitably, considering the nature of the person, this post shall return for a moment to matters liturgical. I've had the privilege of reading modern works by great liturgical scholars. In doing so, I can see the richness of the 'sign and symbol' concepts, and equally recognise (with Bugnini's memoirs being a prime example) how very far the effects liturgical commissions envisioned are from the boring, trivial, childish, or even artificial reality in many parishes. I also can see, and this only with hindsight since, though it was 'under my nose' at the time, there were so many trends of which one heard at 'workshops' that it was easy to forget what was real, how frequently instructions which were perfectly suited (at least in theory!)to liturgical celebrations were taken out of context and stretched into norms for other areas.

Perhaps part of the problem was that, even if a parish/diocese/cathedral etc., had the good fortune to have a liturgical scholar at hand, he probably was a priest. The liturgical renewal coincided with trends towards 'the age of the laity' (not that married people ever denied their vocation or did not contribute to the church, but the clergy and religious feared both.) Embarrassment then over the 'male only' priesthood meant twists on the liturgy to bring about an effect of 'those poor women - just look at them giving communion and not being able to offer the Mass.' (I see no theological reason women cannot be ordained - nor did Paul VI - but I dislike 'stunts' of any kind.) Too often, those who were in charge of matters liturgical in parishes (and whose sole background in liturgy well might be highly slanted 'workshops, 'where those presenting were very convincing and sincere but either knew little or withheld 85% of what they did know to focus on an agenda) had been teachers of small children, and, knowingly or not, aimed everything at a child's level, hoping to bring in families.

There certainly are churches (Westminster Cathedral being the best example of which I know) which have huge appeal and attendance, even on weekdays, and have brilliant liturgy and music. I know, of course, that most places would not have budget and staff to meet such quality - but it does seem to me that a point would be well taken in that parishes do not need to be turned into intellectual and aesthetic wastelands for people to 'relate' to the offerings. Ironically, those whom I've known who want to turn church buildings into what resembles a public waiting room (...and I don't mean anticipation of the parousia), and to lower all liturgy to the level of an infant, often are the very same who will dismiss any complaint by parishioners about the poor quality with that the parishioners haven't had a 'sufficient educative process.'

Granted - I find some newly remodelled flats, with their neutral colours and blandness, to be very dreary and not at all homelike, where those who favour such trends might think my style to be 'old fashioned.' The colours I find vibrant they might think tacky. The same is true in every sphere. But, to be permitted to complete my loose association, people (of all levels of class or education) generally are not stupid or at a loss to grasp the aesthetic and transcendent. Many churches could use a bit more reasoned design.

Sad reign of the Father of Lies

It amazes me, when I look over listings of films from recent decades, that there apparently is great fascination with the diabolical. Exorcisms, Satanic cults, and other topics along those lines seem to have 'inspired' great interest. Well, those are not areas I would ever care to pursue, and I am not about to so much as speculate about areas such as demonic possession. The evil in this world is quite puzzle enough for one day.

Yet, all too often, it strikes me that the Father of Lies is alive and well, and very much at work. I certainly believe creation is basically good, but I see two highly dangerous tendencies, to which human nature is all too prone, which can wreak destruction on either a large or small scale. The classic picture of Satan has elements which don't need diabolical influence to reign in some hearts: deceit, and a perverse desire for power.

This is a 'light' example (just as a prelude), merely to illustrate an element of many people's natures which eluded me until, believe it or not, I was middle aged. (I possess many a weakness, indeed - but deceit is not my style and never was. As is true of many honest sorts, I tend to believe others tell the truth. And one wonders why I'm cautious about the philosophical principle of credulity today...) Sad but true - people often are all too ready to believe the worst about anyone else, whatever the source of the 'dirt,' and even if there is no truth in it at all. Of course, those skilled at deceit always be sure there is just enough element of truth for the lies to be believable.

When I first began maintaining my Internet site, I had a guest book - it was common equipment for most sites at the time. I enjoyed reading comments now and then, but eliminated the guest book quickly enough because it became too much of a bother to have to monitor and edit it daily. (This was in the infancy of the Internet, when nut cases did not sit at computers all night and spin tales, message boards did not yet exist, and mailing lists were composed mostly of people interested in topics, not in 'trolls' who took pleasure in causing trouble.) There was someone who repeatedly posted in my guest book that she was my daughter, and she'd go on with details of the tragic life she'd had since I'd abandoned her as a baby. I'm not suggesting she was wicked - she well may have been crazy, and I don't doubt that mine was one of many Internet spots where she told her bizarre story.

It is a ludicrous post, of course. I've never had children at all. Yet I neither wished to appear to be a writer on religious topics who'd been cruel and irresponsible to a 'daughter' (how could a reader know I'd never had one?), nor, much worse, have people who did know me assume this was the truth.

In my more naive days, I would have thought that anyone who knew me, and read such an accusation, would know it could not possibly be true. But think about it! Lots of people love to hear the worst of others - and, once they hear an accusation (be it of crime, defects of character, supposed craziness, a bad nature, whatever), not only will assume that they now know what Suchandsuch is really like, but will 'remember' various 'proofs' to substantiate the false claim. As an aside, it still puzzles me, and probably always will, that those who love spreading vicious lies (the really expert do it in a fashion that seems caring, troubled, or sad) often are very popular.

Often, it is small scale. Family members' lies about others (or even false suppositions) will be accepted as pure truth - especially if the speaker is older, or a parent of, the one being smeared. Those who smear their closest friends will be believed because it will be assumed that they know the person of whom they speak to an extent the hearer does not. But, as I mentioned in a previous post, When Did Privacy Become a Crime?, the mere fact of reserve can be taken as an undoubted way of shielding scandal or criminal behaviour!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sad part is that humanity does not at all need any preternatural beings to propagate lies - or to justify motives to themselves. Many of us can do that very well on our own.

Fiction based on fact - and fiction based on fiction

Have you ever found that, though you have extensive knowledge of either an historical period or a great literary work, you've seen so many dramatic interpretations of both that you sometimes have to pause a moment to remember the actual event or original book or play? My love for history and literature is certainly beyond the norm, yet this has happened to me many times. :)

There are certain films that I never miss (for example, I'll scrape together pennies for weeks if there is anything new starring Judi Dench or Imelda Staunton, or if a film focusses on the mediaeval or renaissance period.) Of course, the "Judi or Imelda" films, not all of which have brilliant plots, always are worthwhile, if only because the acting is superb. The 'fiction based on fact' genre is the one that can confuse even those of us who have studied the periods for decades.

Recently, I had occasion to see both "The Other Bolelyn Girl" (in which Mary Boylen seems a candidate for canonisation; her sister a wicked nut case who probably was guilty of all the false accusations for which she was executed; and Henry VIII has black hair and eyes which make one have to remind oneself that it's Henry at all) and "Elizabeth: The Golden Age." Were I a film critic, I'd have ample reasons to pan both of them, appealing though the scenery and costumes could be. But, using the latter as an example, it took me a little while to remember what was fact and what extreme embellishment. Elizabeth, looking remarkably well for a woman well into her fifties (and in an era when that was old age), must have had a considerable lag in receiving information if she was thought to be setting her cap for Ivan the Terrible - considering for how long he'd been dead at the time. (...now there's a creative image... a marriage between Gloriana and Ivan the Terrible would have been quite an alliance indeed...)

I suppose just about everyone has seen Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments at one time or another. Setting aside that the presentation in Exodus is hardly intended as strict history in the first place, one still has to admit that the action in the scriptures moves from Moses' discovery in the rushes (pun intentional), to when Moses, clearly aware that he is Hebrew, kills the problematic Egyptian. In the film version, viewers would be left puzzled. It seems that neither Moses nor anyone else except his foster mother (who saw him as a gift of the Nile god, a premise everyone including Pharaoh apparently accepted without question) had an inkling of his Hebrew identity. Moses scored high on the scale of Pharaoh's esteem, outranking the heir, and seemed a shoo-in to become the next Pharaoh. Anyone would wonder why he decided to join the Hebrews for his share of the taskmaster's whip (etc.), when he soon would have been on the throne and been able to free the lot of them with a word.

I'm smiling - you'll remember that, recently, I posted about "I'd Do Anything." Since just about everyone has seen a version of Oliver!, and most have read Dickens' original at some time, it's interesting how very much exposure to the musical has coloured most people's image of the characters. The comments on the I'd Do Anything site make it plain that the image of Nancy as colourful, warm, motherly, and, except for her unfortunate end and reluctance to trap Oliver, one with rather a pleasant and vibrant existence ("...it's a fine life") despite her love for the villain is embedded in memory because of the musical. (This is also true of most other characters, but I'll stay with Nancy for the moment.) I had to jog my memory of Oliver Twist to fully recall that Dickens' Nancy is a very tragic figure. There is no affectionate or fun time with Fagin's boys, and little interaction with them other than "here we go a-thieving." Bill gives her constant physical abuse, and, during a period of illness and very grave poverty which is not referenced in the play, Nancy is wearing away and in terror as she nurses him. She is driven to desperation, and, in the end, seriously considers Rose Maylie's appeal to reform and disappear to some distant English point or foreign land. (As an aside, since comments on the site I mentioned often refer to Nancy as a mother figure, even in the musical Nancy tells Fagin she's been thieving for him since she was half Oliver's age "and for twelve years since" - which would make her a teenager. I suppose that the original casting of Georgia Brown in the stage version and Shani Wallis in the film influenced the idea of Nancy as being thirty or so - hardly a time of one's dotage, but one at which one could have a son the age of Oliver.) There is no hint of the delightful tavern singer whose rapport with the boys makes Fagin's den seem rather fun, and, if "I'd Do Anything" indeed can apply, it is through control by a fiend such as Fagin, not an affectionate bond.

As usual, I need to insert a religious reference, just to live up to my own legend. :) Some of our current discouragement either with our own prayer lives or what we perceive as a crumbling Church has its root in our remembering things as other than what they ever were. (Though I must write about the differences between reality and fiction in films or books which feature religious characters one of these days.)

Ah, from the mouths of babes...

Those hoping for a sentimental tract on the innocence and insight of children (and who, of course, have no previous acquaintance with my blog, in which case they'd already know such hopes would be dashed) will not find it here. Augustine was quite correct that, if children do not manage the degree of sinfulness of their elders, it is more from weakness of limb than purity of heart. That, as well, does not happen to be my topic for today. I'm thinking more of how it amazes me that many adults not only glorify childhood but are disappointed to find that children do not idealise their parents (teachers and other authority figures) - do not have the main goal in life of meeting with this esteemed company's approval (beware of those who do, who are budding sycophants) - and are not falling over with gratitude each moment at how very much their parents (et al) sacrifice for them. I sometimes have the impression that (some) parents and teachers, among others who assume such esteem, besides having amnesia about their own youth (to an extent that could only be cultivated deliberately), would rather like homage which should be reserved to God Himself. (God, of course, would be completely aware that most people don't spend much time thinking of or worshipping Him, either, and that He is more likely to enter their thoughts when they are in need of something. In that, we all are children.)

When I was in school (not the endless university years... here I mean from about age 5 through 14 or so), it tended to happen, every few years, that one of the teachers would get the idea for a school newspaper. (We did have one in secondary school, for which I was an editor - I still have scars on my integrity because, since it was based on 'school spirit' rather than truth or insight, I therefore could not publish any submissions that actually were worth anything. I'm not speaking of that 'newsletter,' but of small efforts in my earlier school years.) Somehow, the idea never took off. I think that one 'newspaper' (which was really hyped, with their even being a contest to determine a name) had a grand total of one actual issue, and the one with which I was involved later, when I was perhaps 13, had loads of preparation but no actual printing.

One of my assignments for the latter was the brainchild of our principal, Sister Christopher. She wanted me to approach older pupils and teachers who'd been at the school for several years, asking what, in all their years in the school, was their happiest memory.

I had a feeling that, for any chance of publication, I'd best approach the kids who were reasonably good students, and who didn't get into major trouble. (There was those from whom I could have had really colourful and varied responses, but contributions about getting a buzz on altar wine or necking in the janitorial closet I knew instinctively would be tossed.) Five boys, all within the safe zone, gave me exactly the same answer, though I'd asked them separately. They lived in the same neighbourhood, and periodically would go out for breakfast in the very early morning, then proceed to school together. To a man, their happiest memory was of when an emergency meant a school closing. They'd left too early to have been notified, and the janitor gave them the news on arrival - that unexpected holiday, which they naturally spent together, was pure bliss.

Their response, of course, did not surprise me then or now. (Adults would love an unexpected holiday no less - but would not be that likely to admit this was the case.) In fact, every pupil I interviewed had a favourite memory which involved fun things, not studies. A few mentioned teachers, but in the "it was so funny when..." context, not "oh, she was such an inspiration!" mode. What indeed did surprise me (then and now) is that Sister Christopher, who probably had been teaching for three decades, would have anticipated glowing testimonials to being forced into hard work or something of that sort. She should have known kids' minds better than that by then.

I'm not too 'chicken' to say this

I have been known to have an above average concern for social justice - but loathe political correctness. So, I'll 'confess' a few things no one today should admit. For example, I hate water and never drink any. I watch television if there is something I really want to see, but never watch news broadcasts unless I see an online headline which tells me that some major story is worth pursuing. I love the arts, and, if I say I went to see an exhibit, play, or concert, it is not a plea of "get me away from this destructive lifestyle, and convince me to chuck the arts and go play racquetball instead!" And (drum roll, please) I care far more about myself and other people who are not 'of means' having nourishing food on our plates than about whether chickens are free range.

I suppose many of you read of this week's battle between Tesco and supporters of the feathered population. (I'll not expound much here, but there have been previous matters which gave me a less than warm opinion of Tesco's policies... because of how they treated employees, not because one could obtain chicken and eggs at a more reasonable cost than elsewhere.) I somehow remembered when my grocer father participated in a demonstration on behalf of those employed in a factory where those at the top treated the chickens better than the people. I applaud Sam's participation - but he was demonstrating on behalf of the employees, not the chickens. He knew well what it was to try to house and feed a family. My own turn of mind may be more philosophical, but I'll be concerned if any company's low prices mean their staff are treated as if they were slaves.

I have lost no sleep in my life worrying about the quality of life of chickens. I am inclined to doubt that chickens have the degree of reason, reflection, and will which would lead them to ponder their quality of life. (Actually, when it comes to the animal kingdom - and, no, I shall not amend that to say 'non human' - I think few people have a quality of life to match that of my cat - but, when my other, desperately ill cat was suffering, I sent her to the Rainbow Bridge without thinking it was a murder.)

As my readers know well, I have a passion for theology, and have studied it in great depth, especially in recent years. I have been privileged to pursue the work of many great theologians and philosophers, most of which is very enriching. Yet I am bored to tears with the inevitable references to 'the non human.' Supposedly, even the concept of the human soul is elitist, and used to condemn the non human population.

At the moment, I am rather immersed in moral theology, and much is intriguing. Yet it is very difficult to sift the best of the contemporary writings when consideration of ethics and morals has to be padded with comments to ensure that no one assumes superiority on the part of the human.

I have a serious concern for stewardship of the earth, and a Franciscan awe for all of creation. But I do not understand how any theological speculation or doctrine (dear Lord, what will this do to your Incarnation?) can make the slightest sense if it has to be twisted to ensure one does not offend dolphins.

I'm now off to prepare a spinach omelette, adding to my grace before meals the thanksgiving for those who produced and sold the provisions (as always) - and further thanking God that the fairly reasonable cost of 'barned' eggs makes it possible for those of my class to get in a bit of protein each day.

Somewhere in the neighbourhood of Dickens

My readers should be forewarned that this post will contain a host of associations so loose that they would need a wrench beyond that which Dickens sometimes gives to the heartstrings. I always enjoyed (most of) Dickens, though I'll admit that, for reasons unknown, I did not read much of his work in later years. I still want to send a complete set of Dickens' novels to those who seem to have neglected dear Charles' work while concentrating only on Trollope... (Philosophically if not in fact. Just to mention the Dickens character who is best known, I've known many a modern day Ebenezer Scrooge - too bad that the consummate laissez faire capitalist is too oft depicted as a cartoon miser. One might not meet Obadiah Slope on every corner, but the sort of dream world which Trollope satirised exists in some minds today - and it is not all that amusing when it is used to make it seem that making the poor die in the streets was quite a nice circumstance for those who could live very lavishly in the days before taxes.)

Enough of my social concerns for the day... on to looser associations. Last month, I had the pleasure of once again attending the Dickens festival in Rochester. Much of it is pure fun - the Mrs Rochester contest is hilarious, and I envy those who are so uninhibited that they can (as one candidate put it) not fear to make fools of themselves. The parade included people who either were recognisable characters from Dickens, or who just were 'types' from his period - and I was amused, much as I was with the contest, to see women, of my age or even a bit older, having great fun dressing as the idealised, "Nancy sings Oom Pah Pah" type of East End prostitute. (Of course, we all know that Jack the Ripper's victims - prematurely aged women in their forties, with no teeth and driven to desperation - were far more the norm than the crowd singing "I'd Do Anything" in Oliver! - but dramatic licence is de rigueur in some forms of entertainment, if not all.)

Bear with me, dear readers. Now that I once more have a working computer, I am trying to oil the wheels of my blogging once again, and may take a while to get up to speed.

Switching into yet another very loose association, I'll admit that I enjoy watching the I'd Do Anything competition (for which I provided a link in the title of this post as well as here.) It indeed nearly inspired me to write at length about method acting... but I no more have the energy for such a post today than I do for an in depth literary treatment of my old friend Dickens. Details are on the BBC site, but I'll say briefly that preparation for this competition was exceedingly demanding and thorough.

I'm sure that the 11 potential Nancys who did not win the competition, particularly those eliminated towards the end, will not be strangers to the West End for long. Even apart from their clear talent, I wonder if the most difficult acting jobs of their lives (at least to this point) was having to be eliminated, have those remaining sing "Be Back Soon," then perform "As Long as He Needs Me," signature number of the character they ached to play and would not, without flinching.

On the last night, certainly both Jodie (the winner, based on viewers' votes) and Jessie were splendid - not that this was news to those who'd seen previous 'rounds.' (I personally thought Jessie overacted a bit, and that her passion could be mistaken for anger at some points, but the comments on the I'd Do Anything site show that lots of viewers are disappointed that she was not the winner. In any event, she is a serious talent, and I doubt she won't be headlining on the West End soon.)

My own days of singing (I'm hardly an accomplished actress, but was an artist quality operatic singer in my day) were all in companies of whom no one other than the members have never heard - like most promising sopranos, I never amounted to anything in my field. I certainly have no experience to compare with any chance, let alone appearance, at the West End. Yet I did feel for Jodie, despite that she won. Of the five judges, including the director, three stated a preference for Jessie. Posts on the site, comments in the media, and so forth have called the winner, despite clear talent, a 'safe' choice - the one who'd be chosen because she was a 'traditional' Nancy - too fat (perhaps I'm blind, but I think she has a good figure) - the candidate who should not have been chosen over the 'young, pretty' Jessie. (Jodie could easily be my daughter, but I don't think that is the reason I am puzzled at to where anyone would think she was not both young and pretty...) I cannot fully envy anyone who, despite having the coveted role, has to receive such publicity - or embark on the run of the show knowing the director would have preferred someone else.

What is my point in this post? For once, I don't know that I have one. Perhaps it is just a vague idea that no one can ever please everyone - and that fame means constant criticism. Ask Dickens...

A small word on the poetic

My readers will probably be surprised at my suggestion that any entry of mine is 'small' - I suppose the difficulty for the 'anchorites' of any era is that, with so much solitude, blessed though it may be in itself, those of us who love words have little chance to share them and can tend to rather overdo that for which we seldom have the chance to indulge. Yet resuming my 'blogging' is rather like trying to ride a bicycle after years away from the practise (not that I ever did that well either.) I was seeking to have some inspiration and produce an interesting entry - and, with no such inspiration at hand, I decided just to share a few rambling thoughts.

I sat my final exams for my divinity degree in May, and, anxious though I am about my results (I shall reassure the young that this approach never varies, even when one has been a student for half a century), I am happy that I survived intact. :) In fact, I found I was rather enjoying myself during my Philosophy of Religion exam, though whether the examiners will enjoy my glibness and originality remains to be seen. (See previous blog entries to get some of the flavour...) I believe I did well enough on Old Testament, but I had a bit of a memory lapse during Old Testament Theology.

I was most fortunate that, during that same period, I had the chance to spend ample time with dear friends whom I do not often see. They are a diverse bunch, with varied interests and usually others in attendance, equally delightful, for me to meet, and it was a great pleasure. On one occasion, when I arrived slightly earlier than the other guests for a lunch party, I found myself involved in a marvellous discussion (with my two friends who were the hosts) of Cranmer, development of the Book of Common Prayer, and the brilliance of the language of Anglican liturgy. (I have heard that, here and there, there are those who have never engaged in such conversations socially - I suppose that could be true. Then again, I've also heard that there are a few people in the world who do not love Shakespeare, Chaucer, great music, or art - that's a bit too incredible for me to believe.)

I've noticed that it is not unusual for those who are devout, especially when their focus is on the liturgical, to have interests in the arts and literature. Cranmer may not have met any standard of heroic sanctity (the earliest days of the Church of England were no more dominated by those of great holiness than were their contemporaries in Rome... just what was it about the Renaissance?). Yet he was a liturgical genius, not only able to join elements of texts from ancient practise with common worship accessible to all in his time, but to demonstrate a facility with the language which was on a par with the great writers who were his near contemporaries.

I am well aware that the very recent liturgical reforms often centred on simplicity of text. (I shall refrain from commenting about avant garde versions in dialects. I suppose that everyone, who speaks any tongue, converses in dialect... but it's an insult to people's intelligence to think they wish to use the same in worship. It would be rather like being in a courtroom and having the judge call out, "Hey, listen up!") Repetition was often frowned upon, for example. Yet, as I was mentioning to my companions, it was a sad loss, in the Roman Catholic Church, when, just as one example, Ostiam Puram, Ostiam Sanctam, Ostiam Immaculatum (no comments about my Latin, please - I know it is rusty) was excised from the Eucharistic Prayer. I believe the Host should have been permitted to remain pure, holy, and immaculate - for repetition, beautiful use of language, capture the poetry which so enriches worship.

Many Christian doctrines are wonderfully captured in our prayer, even if, as I've mentioned in previous posts, we cannot explain them in 'essay form.' "Felix culpa," so magnificent in liturgy, can seem a rather bizarre concept. "Glory be to the Father, etc." makes perfect sense during the Offices, though one cannot explain the Trinity. We need to be reminded of divine transcendence, and the limitations of our own vision, even as we glorify the divine nature we have been privileged to share.

Coincidentally, this past Sunday I attended an excellent lecture about Gerard Manley Hopkins. (I must write an entry about him one day. It is unfortunate that one who had such an appreciation for beauty, and wonderful artistry with language, became so totally focussed on crucifixion, suffering, and sacrifice that his own life would be dismal - and that his desire for detachment and severance of connections with a previous way of life, good though that life had been, caused much of his early poetry to be destroyed.) The lecturer was emphasising how Hopkins' poetry leaves us with wonder, not full understanding.

The poetic expresses eternal truth - not necessarily religious, of course - yet equally reminds us of the limitations of our own vision. We tend to be both too literal today and too afraid of violating political correctness to capture the poetic. "Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid; cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify thy holy Name..." Well, liturgy can hardly get much better than that, can it not? Yet it is excised from many celebrations, or merely used as a suggested meditation before the service. I suppose the fear of alienating others makes some hesitate to suggest that God knows all... I must be slow, because I would have thought that the divine knowing all would mean being able to bestow the grace to cleanse us to perfectly love, even if we ourselves cannot see the obstacles in our path.

...Now, I shall stop being so pedantic for the moment, and consider whether my next essay for the web site should be, perhaps, on the Wife of Bath...

Nothing much

It has been so long since I posted an entry that I thought I'd let my readers know I am alive and well - and survived the exams in May. :) I've been having computer problems, but hope to remedy them soon and to get back to entries here.

Do this in memory of Me

I'll admit to being very irritable today. The computer has taken on a mind of its own (and a very, very slow one at that), and even retrieving email is a struggle. (This is especially exasperating, considering how many exam notes are stored on this hard drive.) And I'm a bit unwell so, though I did attend a marvellous Mass (14th century setting) at midday, I missed Tenebrae, which is a great favourite of mine. However, one way or another, I shall not miss tomorrow's services!

Earlier this week, I attended an evening Eucharist at a relatively small parish. I found it interesting, indeed highly encouraging, that apparently this church has used a very positive emphasis this Lent - thinking of our all being the beloved of God (as with Isaiah's text), rather than as 'fallen.' Considering that I've been pouring through Genesis, Isaiah, and all those philosophy of religion texts, including John Hick's "Irenaean theodicy," I just may have quite a detailed refection about 'the fall' very soon. For the moment, with my weary and disappointed head not quite in gear, I'll just provide an 'older' reflection for Holy Week.

Christianity is very simple. All it requires is a memory and a vision; and, if you can get them, some bread, and wine, and water. - Kenneth Leech

Simplicity is hardly my strong point - yet my honest nature prompts me to further comment that the bread, wine, water, vision, and memory are perhaps the only universal factors which have united the Christian Church since its earliest days. (Well, all right ... I can develop an idea of the Church's going back to Adam... but let us save that for another day.) Looking back to a 'golden age' is a favourite pastime of everyone in every era, yet such have never existed.

I am not likely to call the Last Supper an actual celebration of the Eucharist - there can be no anamnesis of what has not yet happened. :) Yet Maundy Thursday is one of those days when something approaching Ignatian meditation is exceedingly tempting. In fact, I'm even going to toss aside my better scriptural commentaries and not question whether it actually was Passover, etc., etc..

One wonders what the apostles were like. (I am also a peasant, yet the intellectual snob in me turns up her nose at the thought of their not being able to grasp the simplest parables and that most of them smelled of fish...) When I was reading Luke yesterday, and this soon before I became immersed in the haunting magic of Tenebrae, I had to smile, seeing how, right to the end, the apostles were tossing about the idea of who would have the highest place in the kingdom. Ah, yes, arguments about authority...

It is all too easy, particularly if one not only watches the scriptural epics and reads the 'Lives of Christ' of another time, and has been exposed to the 'see how these Christians love one another' myth, to picture twelve intense young men, in great awe at having been first to see the ritual which would sustain the Church until the parousia. Actually, what was present at the Last Supper was a prototype of another sort. :) I am sure that at least one traditionalist was frowning that Jesus had changed the form for the Pesach meal with all this "cup of my blood" business. Those who were either simple or highly observant would question why the Passover was anticipated a day early. (Well, at least, in that day, they were spared the irate vegetarian's protests about the lamb, and no one offered the cup would have irately commented, "But wine is a drug!") Judas was on verge of betraying the Master. I would imagine that Matthew was still sensitive about why Judas held the purse, considering all of his own experience as a tax collector. The disciples were conflicted about who would be the kingpins (I suppose when the Messiah toppled Roman rule.) "The Rock," who had learnt insufficient humility from that sad incident of attempting to walk on water, was making bold promises he'd soon find were beyond him. The lot of them would scatter in fear before the night was out.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Church.

Still, whenever I heard the words of consecration at the Eucharist, it moves me to think that the perpetual memorial has endured for two millenia. For all the conflict, persecution, quarrels, heresy, whatever, which the early Church faced, that bread, wine, and water was the catholic element - and these rituals of common worship kept the Church from crumbling when many a reform movement of the time would die out quickly enough. Jerusalem would fall - the Word would spread to Alexandria, Antioch, Rome, Gaul, etc., with Christians being the odd ones who conformed neither to Jewish nor pagan society.

All that was common, then or now, was worship - praise and thanksgiving - water, bread, and wine - the memory and vision, and the scriptures. We shall never accept that, of course. :) Till the end, I'm sure that those of us who are avid believers will think that some ideal of unity and love will prevail. Yes, at the name of Jesus every knee shall bow... but not everyone will be happy and grateful at that gesture. :)

Lord, you are holy indeed, and all creation rightly gives you praise. All life, all holiness, comes from you, through your Son, Jesus Christ Our Lord, by the working of the Holy Spirit. From age to age, you gather a people to yourself, so that from East to West a perfect offering may be made to the glory of your name...

Requiescat in pace, Little Becket

About the only good thing I can say about March at the moment is that at least it brings us a bit closer to spring. I'm sorry to say that various unhappy memories of my past (among them that both my parents died in March) come to mind this time of year. I'm writing this on the second, the fifteenth anniversary of the death of a priest who was a dear friend of mine. How well I remember the last night of his life, when I was thankful to be at his side, hoping that, despite his being comatose, he could hear the Latin psalms I recited, and my saying (this in English - I knew he feared the last moments of life, as he'd previously told me that all temptations can snatch one away at the end) "It's Compline. It's only compline."

But this blog (and most of my memories in any case!) are not likely to be spots for the morose. (Also, despite Julian of Norwich's vivid description of the dark sights when she herself thought she was at death's door, I never was inclined to think that, after a life of service to God, the devil is too likely to snatch one's soul at the last minute.) Father Thomas, a Franciscan friar, was a brilliant moral theologian and superb preacher, but also quite a character! A tiny man (the size of a jockey), he stood on a little stool in the pulpit (probably lest he hit his chin on it!), and, whenever he thought parishioners might be opposing him (even mentally - and admittedly he seldom thought otherwise), he would look sternly out at the congregation and, in tones reminiscent of Richard Burton, say, "Will.... no one... rid me... of this meddling... priest."

To this day, I have visions of Tom's perched on a cloud, his wings poking out from a well worn and not too clean angelic robe (and halo certainly awry), looking down at many a poor mortal and saying, "And the back of both o' me hands to you..."

Tom was a choleric man, dramatic in speech and gesture, and (as was probably obvious) inclined to think of himself as Thomas Becket. Brilliant though he was, Tom could have a thought which made little sense except in his own mind, and suddenly address this as if the hearer knew exactly what he meant. He was avidly Roman Catholic (in the militant version developed to perfection in southern Ireland, from which he hailed), and not terribly tolerant of my Anglican intellectual leanings. Tom would use various and vivid metaphors, derived from everything from scripture to history to US baseball.

It was a morning in the early 1990s, and Tom, with a wrath of all the gods, suddenly, without preamble, burst out with, "There are limits! I cannot believe what he has done!" I expressed a bit of puzzlement. Tom continued, "I know a pope can dispense himself from anything he likes, but there are limits!"

Searching my mind for whatever John Paul could have dispensed himself from which would be particularly abhorrent to a Kerryman, I asked, "Are you referring to the pope's meeting with the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

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

Becket suddenly was replaced by Pius V, and, in what I assume was a reference to Canterbury and the ordination of women (a very controversial topic at the time), Tom ominously declared: "There is but one holy, catholic, and apostolic church! And there are no Bo Peeps in the one, holy, catholic and apostolic church!"

Pius then was superseded by, of all people, I assume Babe Ruth, as Tom began swinging a huge bat (fortunately imaginary). "In our Holy Mother Church, it's ONE strike, you're out! And it does not matter that you are a much better Christian, than I am! One strike, you're out! And you may not, under pain of mortal sin, answer me with saying you have never denied anything! " (I may be no authority on baseball, but know enough to be glad that I refrained from commenting that I intend to "walk," which shouldn't be difficult, considering I have more balls than many a bishop I could mention.)

I, of course, needed to summon every speck of my previous theatrical experience not to laugh aloud at this commentary, the more since it was delivered with such righteous thunder. However, I made a 'fatal error.' Tom, waiting for some humble response (though he should have known me better than to expect just that), finally said outright, "Well! Is it not true that there is ONE holy, catholic, and apostolic church?"

I answered, "Have I ever denied that?"

May Tom rest in peace and rise in glory... even if heaven is quite crowded with all of those Anglican saints. :)

Magical, mystical miracles... dum-dee dum

I'm happy to see February nearly at an end - and hoping that warmer weather is ahead very soon. My brain will need at least a month to thaw... in fact, I cannot even remember which popular (and rather silly, IIRC) song contained the line I used as header for this post.

I had previously written of my struggling with the philosophy of religion, enriching and necessary though I find this study. Heaven knows, I have written far more often of how I loathe pop psychology. Today, my circuits having been rather overloaded by reviewing philosophy notes (these related to prayers and miracles), my random thoughts will contain a few reflections on memories which came to me - far from philosophical, I might add.

It is interesting how, as one grows older, one remembers much from the past - but can forget details, and factors which made a past idea, decision, whatever, very reasonable in the context of the 'moment,' even if it's hard to remember those elements clearly now. When I was reviewing the 'miracles' section, it suddenly struck me that, deeply religious though I always was, generally the attitude toward the miraculous was that physical healing (or rising someone from the dead a la Lazarus) was more or less reserved to the New Testament and causes for beatification. (I'll save my experiences from my charismatic days, when there were testimonies to physical healings - none of which would meet Rome's or Hume's definition - at weekly prayer meetings, and when I once saw a perfectly sane and sincere priest try to raise his nephew from the dead... a task all the more difficult to contemplate since his nephew was embalmed.) Anyone of my age or older will remember stories of miracles - but probably only those very devout will have taken them to heart from the beginning. The miracles (in a manner similar to those in anecdotes of the Servant of God Fulton J. Sheen, whom I mentioned in an earlier post) generally were about conversion, not anything defying the laws of nature.

During the 1980s, a small monastery with which I had some connection had Vespers each Sunday, followed by a film presentation of some sort (not Hollywood variety - more filmstrips and little religious subjects, such as one might have seen in the classroom during my youth.) Odd that this should have sparked a memory, but I recall one regarding the green scapular. In this filmstrip, a child whose father was somehow troubled (one is not told how - but he wasn't a churchgoer) confided her worries to a religious Sister, the latter of whom provided her with a green scapular which she placed under her dad's mattress. His conversion was fairly rapid afterward.

I'm not one to oppose devotions by any means! I know there are many people who have great devotion, and express this, in part, by using sacramentals such as scapulars. But, today, I see a very "magical" element to such a story as was in that film. Still, it reminds me of a powerful idea to which the very devout were often exposed, whether in sermons, lectures, articles, books, and the like. The power of Christ can lead to great transformation in a life. (And I believe that wholeheartedly!) The other element was that He often can use individuals as instruments (which I'm not about to question, essentially, either - there certainly have been influential people in my own life.) These ideas, fine in themselves, could lead to difficulties if one would, for example, meet the con man, the psychopath, the hardened criminal, the habitual liar...

I read this so many years ago that I cannot even recall the book's title, but it was one of a genre very popular in recent decades: the "I was rescued from Christianity" sort (and these had the greater bestseller potential if the author had been a priest or Religious.) The author, whom I believe was called Carol, had belonged to a religious community which had visiting people in their homes as their apostolate. From her writing of the days she spent with them, I gathered that the principal intention of their visits was to reach out to those who were not practising Catholics. Though the Sisters made reports of where they visited, and I believe might refer unusual cases to other sources, most of their contact consisted of informing those who were not churchgoers of Mass schedules (I'm sure neither the Sisters nor those whom they met thought a lack of same was the reason anyone did not attend church, but it had its welcoming side), or enquiring about whether children had been baptised, made first communion, and so forth.

Carol expressed certain frustration - which I can well understand. (Though, as I'll get to in a moment, I equally understand her congregation's care about not getting too involved with those whom they visited, and having prohibitions on the circumstances in which a Sister could meet others.) I would imagine that, during her visits, she met people who were very troubled, perhaps longing for spiritual guidance which Carol could not provide - nor did she have anyone to whom to refer them. It must have been difficult, hearing people raise legitimate questions, but knowing one could only repeat the teachings (at most.) I can see where, if someone seemed to be a huge mess but leaning towards conversion, one might shake one's head to think that all with one could provide him was a schedule of services.

In the course of her ministry, a young man named Manuel, a clearly rough sort (to put it mildly - he once tried to attack Carol in a hallway), asked Carol for a personal meeting. He seemed interested in Christ and the Church, and I would bet my last penny, if I had one, that Carol hoped she had been an instrument of Christ's boundless power, and that Manuel was on verge of conversion. Though meeting in this fashion was against the rules of her institute, she agreed, and was to see him the following Wednesday.

Apparently, in Carol's community, which did not staff institutions, transfers at any time were common enough. On Friday, she received word that she was being sent to another house the following day. Carol was troubled that her meeting with Manuel would not happen, the more because she could not contact him, nor have anyone else inform him that she would not be there (given that it was against the rules for her to attempt this meeting at all.)

Far be it from me to ever think the voice of a superior is a voice of God (well, at least not any more than any of us ever are) - but this is one situation where I think the Holy Spirit may have given Carol's superior a nudge. Several months later, when Carol was on a visit, she saw a newspaper - and Manuel was in the headlines. He was a gang leader, arraigned on multiple murder charges.

God only knows what pop psychology (or even psychiatrists - see my previous post about Karen Armstrong's work) would make of this, but one who has always been devout, always anxious to be an instrument, might understand Carol's initial reaction to that headline. No - it was not "thank heavens I never met with Manuel privately - he may have cut my throat, since he was quite good at doing that elsewhere." She was pained, thinking that Manuel had been on the verge of conversion, and that, had she had a chance to meet with him, perhaps these crimes would never have happened.

Of course, there are many factors here. Carol had no experience dealing with criminals, and I would imagine that, though her community had rules restricting meetings, she may well have never been given an explanation of the important reasoning behind such rules beyond "that is what we do." In my own experience, though I fortunately have not dealt with too many sociopaths and criminals (...and have great scars from the few I did meet), some of the most dangerous people on earth are capable of enormous charm, warmth, and seeming sincerity. Indeed, there are many people (perhaps a majority of the devout) who do desire solid spiritual guidance - and many who have had experiences of conversion which they will always cherish. It is a shame that those who have been burnt by the sociopaths too often retreat to a cave (speakign figuratively) and tell others needing help to join groups or go to therapy...

Certainly, part of spiritual maturity is realising our own limitations. God indeed can use us as instruments (though I doubt we know it at the time), but zeal and charity require a balance of prudence and discernment. Yet I am mentioning this incident because the devotees of the pop psychology could assume that those like Carol had no good in their actions (and the psychiatrists can convince them later that they were totally selfish, deluded, thinking themselves saviours, and so forth. To believe in God, or even to be a churchgoer, is acceptable because it fits in with convention. Anything beyond that is an 'obsession' or symptom.)

Carol's degree of naivete is hardly universal amongst the devout, but neither is it unusual. I have known people, in many different situations (by no means only nuns!), who have been used, swindled, lied to, and so forth, when they were seeking to practise virtue. Yet they should not be assumed to be crazy, or to be thinking of themselves as powerful. It was Christ's power they saw as infinite - and, with all the tales of miraculous conversions of which we heard (not just those of, let us say, Francis, Augustine, or oneself - but of the uninterested who had the good luck to have daughters who placed scapulars under their mattresses), we saw such miracles as not only possible but likely, and hoped our desire to be there for others would lead them to the Christ for whose sake we were doing this.

And now, good readers, you probably have a vague idea of why I've been an utter fool many times in my life... and why I don't have a penny (the reason not solely being that what one gives in tithes is not returned a hundredfold...) ... and why I keep my reflections to blogs and now restrict my ministry, such as it is, to liturgical prayer and occasional essays. :) I've met a few Manuels in my day (though even I, admittedly, never met with anyone who'd tried to physically attack me). I care about them, but I'm not the one to serve them - I'm far too innocent, and have no gift for discernment in the least.

Yet I have never been the sort who could just keep to placing green scapulars under mattresses... ;)

The hazards of the confidences

Now and then, two thoughts may coincide which lead to my sharing some of my 'wisdom.' (Not that I'll ever have wisdom - my judgement is dreadful, and I'm the type who'd have Jack the Ripper in for tea if he gave me the impression he was on verge of conversion...) I heard from a young woman this week who, understandably, was upset because someone who'd seemed to be a close friend, and whose troubles she'd heard (without ever betraying the confidences, mocking, using them against the other, or other dreadful tactics that some who invite confidences employ) endlessly, was now avoiding her. I'm equally good-hearted - and just as naive, my only advantage being that I've lived longer. (I'm a cynic of sorts - but, as I once heard somewhere, cynics are not realists but burnt idealists, so I fit the bill.) I'll get back to this in a moment.

I had an odd memory this week as well, possibly because I was thinking of my mother (Chip - a bastardisation of Cipi, which is a generic Italian nickname), since this would have been the day of her 89th birthday. Chip must have insulated herself extremely well, because she was so innocent that she'd have made me look worldly, and a part of her was like a child till the day she died. She often told her daughters a story that had an incredible impact on her, which I'll relate here.

When Chip was still in school (aged 12 or so), the girl pupils once heard an address from a lady who had been a headmistress somewhere, and Chip would never forget said headmistress's tale of caution that no one should ever confide in anyone else. It seems that Margaret, whose mother had a drinking problem, confided this in her closest friend, Anne. Anne told Margaret's boyfriend, Danny, about this (she probably had her eye on him for some time...), and Danny abandoned Margaret as a result and became Anne's new boyfriend. Bear in mind that Chip would repeat this (I heard it easily a hundred times) in ominous tones, as if she were relating someone's visit to, at the very least, the Castle Dracula.

Towards the end of my mother's long life, she recounted this tale to me once again. I could no longer resist expressing that I was very surprised that someone who, at this point, had walked this earth for more than 8 decades did not see that the headmistress's story made three things very plain to me. First, Margaret was most fortunate that she never married Danny - if he'd toss her aside as he did, I can only imagine the grief she would have had with him for a husband. Second, between them Danny and Anne were not worth a brass farthing; they deserved each other; and good riddance to them both! Third, Margaret's only fault here was poor judgement in her choice of friends/beaux. (As a postscript, I have a strong sense that the headmistress well may have been speaking of herself. Too bad that she ended up the stereotypical 'old maid schoolmarm,' seeing herself as unfit for the marriage market because some other little bitch might tell another potential spouse that Margaret's mother drank.)

I myself am a private person, and prefer to confide only in close friends. I think the current trend - where people not only tell every last detail of their lives to all and sundry, but indeed might post intimate secrets on the Internet - is far from wise. Yet I believe that being able to share concerns with others is a great blessing.

It is sad but probably universally true that all of us have experienced a 'down side' to confiding in others (or even having others know details about our lives). We all have had the experience, at one time or another, of someone's using information about us to degrade us (usually because they see some advantage in it for themselves, even if it is only to feel self-important as the one who is 'in the know.') Most of us have known the pain of a confidence being betrayed (with malice at times, at others merely because someone who hopes to help us assumes actions on the part of the hearer that are different from the result.) Considering that the Headmistress was addressing girls just entering their teens, her rather excessive stress on 'tell no one anything' might have temporarily been good advice. To love to reveal whatever one knows about another, especially if it will shame them or cause them embarrassment, can win points with other 'friends' during the teenage years. (Sadly, some people never grow out of this.)

I feel genuine sympathy for my young friend (of the first paragraph), and have to admit that, as one who heard many confidences (the more because I was in religious work, and because I was definitely the sort who did not betray what others told me), I myself still am saddened by the 'negative side' of hearing what others have to relate. It is not unusual, for example, for someone who has poured out a woe to later be embarrassed at what happened at the time, and to avoid the other (even if she never refers to the situation) just knowing she knows. A friend who hears many sad tales can also find she is thought of more as 'counsellor' - there for support, but not one to be included in social events.

There also is much in this world that is illogical! (Think about it - someone could know another for twenty years, know nothing ill of him, yet will be ready to believe the first 'dirt' she hears, even if it is untrue or grossly exaggerated.) I'm sure that all of us have friends whom we love dearly, but who dislike one another - and normally we'd no sooner bring them together, if we sense the tension, than we'd place a lion and lamb in proximity anywhere except in scripture study. Yet, by the time we should be mature, we also know that, for example, differences of opinion (and those of us who love the academic spend half our time listening to or reading of just that, while respecting both sides) do not have to mean dislike of another.

If "I" am friendly with both Jane and John, I may get wind of that they have points of disagreement, but I probably will not be aware if they hate each other. (If Jane knows John is my friend, she will save her tales of hating him for other ears!) Yet Jane may well assume, however incorrectly, that I must be 'two faced' (and gossiping about her) if I am friendly with someone she dislikes.

Now, I'm sure you knew I would move into the religious realm, so I shall not disappoint you. There indeed are many times when those who are troubled in spirit, conscience and the like absolutely ache for someone knowledgeable and compassionate in whom they can confide. Turning to the clergy, sadly, can sometimes lead to such reactions as treating one as immature, or recommending joining groups, or "offer it up" (well, that one is rather out of style, but I remember when it was rampant), or "go to therapy." But here I am speaking of an important element which those who may genuinely be compassionate need to remember.

Even if someone does ache to confide in another, that 'other' should not be assumed to be oneself. (I remember a ghastly woman I knew years ago, who would pester people about their situations, and could not accept "I don't care to discuss that" with "but it's reality!" Yes, I dare say they knew it was reality, since they were the ones living with the problem. They were not denying reality - they were saying "I don't care to discuss this with you.") Second, never push for details. On the one hand, it sometimes can mean a personal wish to feel important or superior - but, even when there is truly good intent, it can be mistaken for meddling. Third, one must quickly become resigned to that, in most cases, there is nothing one can do. Listening in itself can be a great gift - but wanting to be Mrs Fixit will not only cut off all genuine listening (which will masquerade as such, but actually only be listening for key words in order to share one's own ideas - which may have nothing to do with what the other said..) but can lend to smugness.

So much for my sermon for today. But it indeed is difficult, for those very devout, to realise that actions which are charitable, caring, and truly kind can be resented later. I have no answer to that one - except to say it must be faced.

I'll give you an example...

I shall caution my more intense readers that today is one of my sillier times. The heading, "I'll give you an example," was a favourite expression of my dad's. He was highly talkative, and ready with daily stories of co-workers, those who shopped in the store where he worked, etc.. He tended to go from stories to varied "sub-stories," and would often lead from one to the other with "I'll give you an example." He then might proceed (just as one example) :) to recall when he was six years old and a cheeky kid he knew took his kite.

Levity is more my style, and it may seem odd that I am indulging this at the beginning of Lent - but I think we need to laugh at ourselves, and I always did that well. I attended a wonderful choral Eucharist today (packed with not only regular worshippers but those who never see the inside of a church but wish to get smudged annually... never realising, I'm sure, how very appropriate the mark of the penitent is), and nearly had a fit of giggling. The reason was that, a few weeks back, a priest whom I know was telling some of us that, when the parade of those "coming for ashes" goes on, some respond to "remember, man, that dust thou art..." with "Thank you!" When he aptly added, "I've just reminded them they are going to die, and they say thanks," that sneaked into my subconscious or something, and I naturally nearly laughed aloud when the ashes were placed on my forehead today. (Vain little thing that I am, not to mention that I hardly want to advertise being a penitent in the public streets, let alone the Jewish Division of the library I was visiting after Mass, I carefully washed off the ashes before I left. I did, however, later read a typical theology forum debate, where the "ashes vs. no ashes" crowds debated whether wearing ashes all day was an example of Christian commitment or one of forgetting Jesus' injunction against the hypocritical Pharisees.)

Musing a bit, it occurs to me that, in one form or another (and they vary drastically), most devout Christians have some desire to evangelise in the "they'll know we are Christians by our love" mode. Some forms can be quite drastic - an example being radical evangelicals, who fear that those who don't make a decision for Christ are hellbound, who preach the need to be saved on any provocation or no provocation. (I walked past one today - he was standing on a street, reminding passers by that they were doomed. I have no idea how he could tell that none of us were "saved" - maybe our haloes weren't shining. This much I do know - he probably knew those who "misbelieve rather than disbelieve" if he saw ashes on their heads.) But most of us are not that extreme. To give you an example - Catholics of all varieties (and in this I include C of E, Lutherans and the like) normally do not feel any calling to try to convert unbelievers or non-Christians. Ever since the Counter-Reformation, and particularly since the French Revolution era, if anything Roman Catholics would be more inclined to seek to urge other (non-practising) Catholics to attend church and receive the sacraments than to seek to convert a Methodist or Jewish neighbour.

Overall, probably the most common idea of how to evangelise (and the one encouraged most) was "example." Yet that approach can lead to several fallacies. First, one must be careful not to over-estimate one's own importance (as very avid Christians sometimes forget.) It's highly unlikely that another is looking to you for example. I must add that great saints, whom the hagiography (ignoring that Jesus of Nazareth not only was not universally popular and respected but met his end as a condemned criminal... the Son of God charged with blasphemy... Prince of Peace with sedition) would make one think held everyone in awe at their holiness, are honoured by many who'd utterly flip if their children acted in the same fashion, or who would hold a low opinion of someone they actually knew who lived as many great saints did.

It's best, not only for one's overall mental health but for any area of commitment, ro remind oneself that there is no such thing as "how others see you." (Incidentally, any "helpful" sort who wants you to "see yourself as others see you" is only warming up for an ego game. She's only telling you how she sees you - and it always will be negative!) Moving from the sublime to the silly, probably the woman dressed in what I consider dreary, dowdy clothing thinks she looks professional - and finds my batik to be tacky or too youthful. Those who spout details of self-improvement kicks, who believe they may inspire others, can come across as self absorbed, superior / childish bores. The adult "class clown" may be seen as insufferable by some, as an utter riot by others.

If someone achieves legendary status, in any field, probably those who knew him years back, and perhaps in no way found him extraordinary, will recall how the marks of greatness always existed. I'm making this up - but let's say that someone who is now a famous artist was always working on drawing and painting, even in his earliest years. (In fact, most of us in the arts, acclaimed or not, had a passion for the art from childhood, even if we did not have early training or come from artistic families.) In a biography of the now acclaimed master, old friends or family members who are interviewed will speak of this passion with great esteem. Yet, when he was eight years old and forever pining for his easel, probably his mother was nagging him to go out and play - his siblings mocked him - his father wanted him to toss aside the oil paints and pursue a field with a future - young friends who were more interested in tossing a ball thought him weird. (If, instead of being a famous artist, he was later of the "starving artist" set - which happens often, even with those whose talent is great, and even in the rare cases where those in the pauper's grave are later legends in another era - the negative attitude will persist - and be mentioned even at his funeral!)

When John Paul II occupied Peter's throne, he canonised and beatified a massive number of people - in some cases, those who had not died that many years earlier. I occasionally read testimonies from those who had known them. I do not doubt the truth of the testimonies for a moment, yet I sometimes wondered if a trait which the old acquaintance now remembers as a wonderful example might not have been exasperating at the time. To give you an example... though the name of the Servant of God escapes me at the moment, I recall reading of a member of a religious Order (perhaps even a founder) whose contemporary spoke of how, whenever there were social settings, the Servant of God had managed to turn the conversation back to Christ. Edifying in memory, I'm sure - yet even I, who have been known to have some very interesting theological discussions in my day, and who even think it must have been fascinating to live in the times when debates over the Trinity, rather than football, made pub life spicey, doubt I would not groan if a bit of fun and relaxation were interrupted by someone who always turned social conversation back to Christ. (Lord have mercy, even Jesus Himself hardly avoided the social, and I'm not referring only to his turning water into wine, which makes him a man after my own heart. He must have been quite involved in social occasions, considering how many Pharisees complained about the company he kept.)

I don't recall the source or the priest's name at the moment, but, a few years ago, I remember reading an interview with a priest-friend of the Servant of God Fulton J. Sheen. The interview was with someone who not only thought very highly of Fulton, but indeed was giving testimony for his beatification. I was not surprised when, with no lack of love or respect, he mentioned two difficulties Fulton had with dealing with other priests socially. First, Fulton had certain causes which he considered very critical - and, if others did not share his commitment, he tended to go on about the matters, as if to convince them that they should see them as primary concerns. Second, Fulton, for all his academic brilliance, had a very simple, even childlike faith, and, as the priest mentioned, genuinely believed that there had been many miracles in his life. Fulton would speak of these not only from the pulpit or podium, but socially. His intention, as those very close to him knew, was to inspire people to faith and to trust in prayer. Still, to those unaware of this (and especially in view of the vanity to which he himself freely admitted), it came across as "look how special I am."

I'm not even going to get into such beloved heavenly friends of mine as Francesco and Caterina - who today would be assuredly "diagnosed" unfavourably by the growing crowd of pop psychology devotees. My point is that even the most devout and virtuous of people hardly are shining examples to all and sundry. My old friend Julian of Norwich is rather in vogue today - though for reasons that often have little relation to her true message. Yet I can only imagine the reaction of anyone were s/he to actually meet a solitary...

I'm not deriding the value of example, though I dare say that those who give the best of this are not seeking to do so. But the Church has endured purely because of divine grace - anyone with the slightest vision (inward or outward!) or acquaintance with church history is all too aware that it was not our shining virtues, at any time, which led anyone to God. The saddest part, of course, is that, though major shites may well have managed to pack pews or fill collection plates, the truly great saints, to whom there may be great devotion (from afar!) today were unlikely to have been valued when they were alive.

(Not that they would have had the slightest worries about 'how others saw them.')

Blessed Lent, all.

Spent the day with Elijah, Hume, and Hildegard

Now that I think of it, the three would indeed make for interesting dinner companions. (And I can use a few... I almost wrote this blog entry on how very much I miss the 'pre-health kick' days when I could have unwound tonight with any one of a hundred others who still smoked, drank, ate, laughed... but I decided that pining for paradise wasn't on the menu at the moment, at least not in that incarnation.) Naturally, what I am writing of is reviewing my notes for theological studies in varied areas. Bear with me, dear readers, for winter is a time when my brain goes into hibernation. I hate the cold, the dark, the claustrophobia in the winter coat, not being able to have packed lunch in a park or feel warm breezes, and being spared the comfort of windows wide and a well aired flat. Those of you who are ones for intercessory prayer will kindly remember me - that my brain thaws before I sit exams in May.

There comes a point in study, I have found, when one has read so many authors on the same topics that separating 'who said what,' while trying to form one's own arguments and perhaps manage a little originality along the way, that one must step back from further research for a time and review what one already has. (That my attempts in that area today made me all the more convinced that I'm approaching brain death is another topic for another entry.) I started out, this morning, with reviewing the Deuteronomistic History, specifically with reference to the Books of Kings. Now, even one like myself, who is a member of the Monarchist League and who entertains idealistic images of a very Catholic theocracy, can be inclined to find Kings to be (dare I admit this?) not only rather bloodthirsty but discouraging, and occasionally very boring. But I did have an odd thought about Elijah (which I'm writing here lest some insanity lead me to record it on exams, which would never do.)

Zealots such as Elijah, and those in any era who receive divine revelations personally and the like, are unlikely to have on their minds what your garden variety theist is thinking of at the moment. (Bear with me once again... I reviewed Amos yesterday, comforted by the thought that I well might not be the most pessimistic creature in history, and was diverted by the idea that not all of his hearers, the king in particular, might have been enchanted by his fixation on social justice. I'm no capitalist, as my readers know, but I do have this sense that there were those who would have found much to praise in Jeroboam's kingdom.) I'll not even dwell on that slaughtering 450 priests of Ba'al was rather excessive in its own right. No, I'm thinking on a very basic level. It was a time of drought - and Yahweh's seeming opponent, Ba'al, was widely thought, in the influential Canaanite circles, to control life (not only human, but of nature), naturally including the rains. I doubt Elijah, who would not have been the most refined of dinner companions on the best of days, was exactly endearing to people who would have hesitated to risk raising the ire of Ba'al, just in case the rains really did depend on him!

Yet the Elijah incidents reminded me of an element, related to worship even in times when monotheism was not yet firmly established, of which I'd never before thought in relation to the era of Kings, or perhaps of the entire Old Testament period. I had always thought of the image of God in the monotheistic faiths as one of revelation, of course. Still, I had never seen the marked contrast with idols such as Ba'al in that Ba'al (et al) did not communicate, and was not active, loving, etc., in the lives of the people. The pagan gods were seen as in control of forces (and demanding placating often enough), but were remote, where Yahweh, however transcendent, had a unique immanence.

Skipping ahead to this afternoon (pondering the revisions of the Deuteronomistic Historians and other redactors had me exhausted around the time Elijah boarded the chariot, so I needed to move to another topic for a while), it was back to philosophy of religion, and a review of notes about the design argument. (Having recently reviewed Hildegard of Bingen's notes about the humours of the unicorn and gryphon, I couldn't quite deal with the cosmological argument, because I have a strong sense that what we can imagine does not necessarily exist at all. This not to be hard on Hildegard, since hers was a time when zoology was studied in libraries...) I've written previously of my struggles with this topic, so I'll just share a thought which came to me today - and which reminded me of an eternal struggle that makes the one between Yahweh and Ba'al seem rather trivial by comparison.

Paley's time, and Hume's, was a heyday of deism among professed Christians. (I'm not suggesting that either of those writers was promoting deism, but, since the design argument does not attempt to present attributes of the Deity, such as omnipotence, love, omniscience and so forth, I would imagine a deist would find much of it appealing.) In case anyone has not noticed, I happen to be a theist - but I'll concede that deism must be very restful at times. A god who merely set creation in motion, then left us more or less on our own, eliminates the 'problem of evil,' the pain of unanswered, fervent prayer; the recognition that God is Almighty yet seems to have no interest in relieving suffering (...anyone who writes me about God's sending suffering to us as a necessary element in developing holiness will receive forty years in Purgatory - and don't think I'm not connected!)... well, such a concept removes many of the dilemmas with which the theist must struggle, burdened with questions yet knowing there are no answers.

Many saints, mystics, and theologians of the theistic faiths would have seen God as unknowable in His essence, and I would agree. (Even if I light candles to the Infant of Prague now and then... folk religion is not without other benefits, and my mother used to get amazing results from that novena.) Even if we speak of God as, for example, omnipotent or all-loving, basically the divine is so far beyond our comprehension that we cannot truly define what those attributes mean. Yet I'm sure that Elijah, looking down from wherever he ended up on his chariot ride, is not surprised that Yahweh (the Trinity, Allah - the god of the monotheists) has many millions of those who adore and love Him to this day, where Ba'al and friends are a distant memory by comparison. (I say 'by comparison' only because, though I know of no Ba'al societies, any Google search will show that some pagan gods still have a following.) Yahweh communicated - revealed Himself, even if our comprehension was limited and his transcendence side by side with the immanence - loved, suffered with us, was active in creation.

The dilemmas about evil and so forth will never be resolved - there are no answers. But deism is not such a comforting place to be after all. I may be a cynic, apophatic, often going through my daily prayers (all liturgical) without a stir of comfort or emotional 'connection.' Yet I know, as I'm sure Elijah did and as Jews and Christians know to this day, that, for all the philosophical problems deism can seem to remove, it presents a larger problem!

How does one worship a "Ground of Being," or a "Source" who merely set the world in motion? Creeds can never capture all of what God is - nor can reason, or theology, or anything fully within our power to analyse. But Hebrews pained by Babylonian captivity, just to choose one example relevant to the redaction I mentioned earlier, still could worship. Effectively, worship is all that we have - everything in our relationship with God. Much will arise from this - moral improvement, social involvement, virtue, actions (even if not so dramatic as Elijah's.) We cry out, one way or another, for what goes beyond comprehending or seeking to practise orthodoxy. We don't know much at all - and, the more we explore theology, the more we concurrently may be stricken with awe yet aware of how we've barely scratched the surface and never will.

"Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit." It makes perfect sense on one's knees, does it not? Yet I defy anyone to explain it in 'exam terms.' :)

In case I do not "see" you before then, I wish you a blessed Lent.

Faith excludes curiosity - One should hope it would not!

Though I would imagine the examiners find this endlessly frustrating, I cannot help but suppress a giggle when I read, in reviews of exam results, of how certain varieties of Christian (I must add - I doubt Roman Catholic in any case) use the studies and examinations as a forum for castigating the university. Though I dare say that advanced theological studies require a full scope of knowledge (and, indeed, our programme requires just that), I repeatedly read of how students use their exam responses to deliver sermons rather than arguments, and see the programme of study as dangerous to their faith. I have a feeling my readers already get the picture. You probably also realise why I am laughing.


From The Two Catholic Churches, by Anthony Archer:
"In his rather luxuriant work on the Blessed Sacrament, Father Frederick Faber had described a helpless and captive God, experiencing a mournful solitude in the little dungeon of the tabernacle. This was the Jesus whose fondness for silence was known
because nothing more silent than the sacrament could be thought of; it was the God who was carried about and broken into 3 pieces by priests who washed the sacred vessels and napkins as Joseph might have washed the clothes of Christ.

All this was set against a background of speculation that Christ had given Mary the sacrament at the Last Supper, and that it had remained in her, uncorrupted, so that he could be in her during his Passion… And it evoked the desire to put 'our little crown of puny love on the long hair which covers his beautiful head.'

Newman remarked that he knew of no book that would so readily turn him into an infidel."

I believe that John Henry Newman was spot on in insisting that “Truth is wrought out by many minds working together freely. As far as I can make out, this has ever been the rule of the church until now,” provided that one considers the entire Counter-Reformation period as 'now,' rather than pnly Newman's own day. As Anthony Archer summarises: To cut the faithful off from study of doctrine and require implicit faith would “in the educated, terminate in indifference, in the poorer, in superstition.”

In the course of my studying varied documents which were either produced or largely consulted during the 19th century, I came across a manual which the Ursuline Nuns used for their schools. Teachers were cautioned about offering explanations or encouraging questions and discussions, because the goal of religious education was to
foster humble obedience and faith.

The nuns who taught me in my youth were of a congregation founded, in Ireland, directly after the period of the penal laws. Originally, the sisters (mostly educated by Ursulines), were of a certain Catholic elite - yet they wished to educate the poorer classes (sometimes referred to as 'wicked' children, but that is another topic), believing that vice stemmed from a lack of religious knowledge. That view is limited - and indeed rather naive - yet, for all my respect for those educational efforts, I see a great irony in that education was seen as the solution to the ills of the world and for fostering of the faith, yet the use of reason which is essential to true education was rather feared. (Of course, neither the secular authorities nor the bishops would have considered the first Sisters to have been particularly obedient... I must get to that topic some time. The foundress, a woman of some means, had endowed the Ursuline convent of Cork in the first place. When she wished to found her own congregation, though the bishop only had Ursulines on hand because of her generosity, she was initially denied permission because it might take away vocations from the Ursuline Order.)

In RC catechesis of children, I well remember that, in explanations of sin, the illustrations were of disobedience to church law, such as those governing Mass attendance and Friday abstinence. I had thought this was purely pragmatic, because such examples could be readily grasped by children of seven - where, for example,
explanations of the differences between gossip and calumny would be deep water. My own view was too limited. The idea of obedience as central was the natural outflow of the Council of Trent's statement that 'faith excludes curiosity.'

Newman would see a deplorable situation in which intellect "is not met with counter or stronger intellect, but by authority." I am an anarchist at heart, and could agree without such a position's truly affecting me. :) Yet would Newman or I ever even admit the possibility that some attitudes towards the faith are not intellectual in the least? (Certainly, neither of us were capable of being politically astute...)

Newman just might be canonised some day, except that, perhaps, those of us likely to favour his work are not the sorts who go around asking for miracles (and wouldn't consider them proof of anything in any case.) :) But let me raise a toast to John Henry - and to his not forgetting the valuable Anglican exhortation to having an enquiring mind!