Visitation

I love my Order dearly, but one can refer to deficiencies in one's own 'family,' and I freely admit that the homely, moving images Franciscans have given to popular devotion can make the divine Logos fade into the shadows of a carpenter's shop alone. :) It is not that I do not find popular images of the infancy narratives to be compelling. Yet I myself blush to admit that it is easy to become lost in picturing reactions and feelings of the characters at the outset of Luke's vivid gospel. Israel in worship and expectation, and the power of the Holy Spirit (overshadowing Mary, inspiring Elizabeth - and guiding the Church, as Luke tells us in his 'second book'), can become abstractions, as one pictures one or the other of Mary's joys or sorrows, or imagines her charity in visiting her aged and pregnant cousin.

The tone of the narratives in the Old and New Testaments differ markedly, of course, and it is well within my memory when preaching often referred to Jesus' instituting a 'law of love,' as if Yahweh had been persuaded to change his punishing nature. Yet Jewish scholars would see the sacred scriptures as presenting a picture of continuous fidelity from God, no matter how unfaithful his children were to the covenant. Luke provides us with an image of the continuation of salvation history - complete with angels, prophecies, temple worship and personal praise. Mary, Simeon, Anna, Zechariah, and Elizabeth are Israel not only in expectation (and fulfilment), but at prayer. They proclaim Jesus the Son of God - and the 'infancy' section concludes with Jesus Himself referring to his father's house and therefore his own divine sonship.

Yes, I know I'm falling into sounding pedantic! :) Bear with me. I have been Franciscan for many years, and seeing Elizabeth beyond her being an older woman who was distressed at having no children (yet happily visited by her charitable little cousin) is hardly an easy task.

Raymond Brown, in his commentary The Birth of the Messiah, notes that Luke has moved the christological moment (revelation of Jesus’ identity) from the resurrection to the virginal conception. Luke’s theological thought is of a new creation, wherein God’s spirit (as was the case in Genesis 1:2) is once again active in the first creation of life. Brown is careful to note, however, that too much creative theological thought has focused on Mary's feelings and dispositions - and reminds us that no one, including this first disciple of Christ, had post-resurrection understanding in advance. Mary's discipleship would involve waiting, uncertainty and so forth no less than does our own.

I so wish at times that my brothers, such as Giles of Assisi or Bernadine of Siena, had been a little less literal in their treatments of Mary as virgin. (They tended to be rather absorbed in making certain that no one thought childbirth had disturbed certain physical attributes.) No Jewish girl would have made vows of virginity (preparatory to announcement of her being the intended Mother of Jesus), nor been given 'in trust' in a marriage. I do believe that her virginity is literally true, because divine images (as I noted yesterday in relation to wheat!) often are revealed to us through what is physical and simple. Not only is Jesus' conception the new creation I previously mentioned, but Mary is an image of the Church.

We tend to forget today that any concept of virginity for the sake of the kingdom has to do, not with morality, but with eschatology. It points to that there is more to the relationship with God than the good of this earth. Israel, as the Old Testament shows us, did not refrain from painting a picture of her own infidelity. The Christian, of course, is no more faithful or laudable than was Israel - but, by divine power alone, we have a hint that creation continues, and that the kingdom, however begun, has further glory to be revealed in the future. Mary leaves us with an image of discipleship in such expectation - what Francis would call 'the virgin made Church.' (A priest friend reminded me yesterday of quite a contrary image in Hosea - Christian writers would never have the blunt honesty of Israel's prophets.) :)

A blog should contain a personal element, and I'm smiling now - suddenly seeing a contrast between Luke's idealistic images and Paul's (pastoral) realism. Acts depicts a communist Christian community of mega saints! (Luke must have known Christians who varied somewhat from those known to Paul!) If this is in any way historical (to such a great extent – Acts makes it seem that there were thousands), I would imagine it was in the ‘heat of the moment’ after the resurrection, and based on the expectation of Jesus’ imminent return to reign in glory (which they would share.) People expecting to be raised to glory shortly would not attend to temporal matters – where Paul was writing to those who had at least some grasp of that it might not be done by next Tuesday. Based on Acts, one would have the impression that Paul departed for Rome in some small glory... there is no hint of his martyrdom.

Luke shows us what the Church should be. Paul already knew, and was writing to deal with, what it is. :) Yet Luke, more so than any other writer, leaves us strong images of Jesus at prayer - and of Israel, in the persons of the faithful individuals in the infancy narratives, expressing herself in prophecy and canticle. We shall never have perfection - in fact, as Paul already knew, we'll be lucky to have anything except weakness, sinfulness, and conflict in our dealings with one another. Beyond that, we have expectation, an intention towards discipleship, and worship. Sounds like little - but it has kept us from self-destructing for 2,000 years.

I shall call this a tea interval...

I doubt that too many visitors to Gloriana's Court shall fully comprehend how frustrated I am today. :) I have been digesting the richness of Papa Benedict's superb sermon for the feast of Corpus Christi, and greatly wishing to write a meditation here, drawing on some of the related images and expounding on the 6th chapter of John. Perhaps I shall be able to do so later in the week... for now, I'm sipping a cup of Earl Grey, stroking the cat (who is indignant that I've been spending too much time on the Offices recently), and asking God to grant me patience.

I am an odd blend, of course, being at once scholar, peasant, renaissance lady and working class survivor. (Well, I suppose that Jesus could identify with at least some of that, though I doubt the renaissance was much to his liking.) Perhaps it is that blend within myself which makes me see the King of Kings in the monstrance as reminding us of divine transcendence and mystery, while equally the hand of the Creator reminds us that the symbol of Himself, and of his body the Church, and of the Eucharist which has united us since the first century (and something had to do it...) is as simple as the fruit of the field.

Currently, some of my studies centre on the worship, sacraments, and ministry of the very early Church. (I was a bit disappointed - loving the patristic era as I do, I had not wanted the studies to focus entirely on the New Testament, the Didache, and Ignatius.) Yet I can see the hand of providence in this somehow. Again and again, I am seeing the sheer evidence that what held the Church together from the beginning was the memory of a resurrected Lord - and, despite all the bickering, disagreements, lapses into idolatry of whatever kind, and eternal weakness and sinfulness of its members, the action of celebrating baptism and the Eucharist. It is amazing how divine truth was revealed to the Church in its worship before there were established forms for worship or creeds.

I am much one for splendour - for all that I love that carpenter from Galilee, I tend to focus more on the risen and ascended King of Kings. :) I love processions, monstrances, Benediction, praying in the presence of a hanging pyx. Still, my years of mediaeval and renaissance studies remind me that, glorious though such devotions are, the splendour can sometimes blind us to the essential. Those during the Middle Ages cherished the Elevation, but seldom partook of communion, and began a tradition of so focussing on the Passion and our need for forgiveness that the Incarnation in its fulness sometimes was a forgotten concept. Then, in an effort to counterbalance the excesses of the Reformation (though my pragmatic side reminds me that Martin Luther's criticisms were all too apt, and that Cranmer's snide comments about viewing the Elevation were sadly accurate), the Eucharistic devotions tended to become divorced from the Holy Communion itself - as if the church were a reliquary. We can forget our own mission to be the Body of Christ (as Benedict exquisitely expressed in the sermon to which I placed the link) if we think only of the Host - rather than recalling our deification, our being Christ's Body.

Heavens, how I can ramble at times... well, off to fix another pot of tea. Tomorrow is the feast of the Visitation - perhaps that Elizabeth can remind this one that, however sluggish one may feel in middle age, divine grace can bring about the most remarkable developments. :)

Musings

There are many frustrating periods in the basically solitary life (and for many reasons other than that one.) :) This has been one of my anxious and confused weeks, and the lovely essays I had planned on the Trinity, Corpus Christi, Philip Neri and Augustine of Canterbury never materialised. I'm trying not to let any sorrow come forth today, remembering Philip Neri, who once had a gloomy member of the Oratory have the humiliating experience of singing the Miserere at a wedding breakfast.

I may be rather shy and reserved, but quiet I am not - no 'life of the party' to be sure, but once I get on a topic, there generally is no stopping me. I suppose that is why 'words' are on my mind today. I have had the good fortune, more so than most, to have had expert spiritual direction - one of the biggest graces for keeping one in the truth, since our individual capacity for self-deception is enormous and, in those dedicated to prayer, all the more insidious because we can convince ourselves that our faults are virtues. In convent life, most unfortunately, there frequently was no individual direction at all. The closest thing, if you will, was a brief self-accusation in the context of sacramental confession - and, for all that I find that sacrament most valuable, often the matters which one most needs to 'face head on' are not what one would be confessing as sins.

For all that it contains enough horror stories for fifteen religious lives, I found that Kathryn Hulme's The Nun's Story, which was adapted from the experiences of her companion Marie Louise Habbets as a Sister of Charity of Ghent, provided some excellent illustrations of how the best-intentioned Sisters can have great confusion when left with nothing but 'live the Rule.' (Not that living the Rule is not a blessing!) One example from that text is a superb example of how good intentions can go awry, how impressions (on the part of those in authority) can be mistaken but understandable, and how genuine opportunities for spiritual growth can be missed when one has no chance to explain one's motives.

Unless one has been in the position, it is difficult to express how confusing the 'quest for perfection' becomes in many young Sisters.All too often, one's seeking to observe a practise that supposedly involves the practise of virtue is misread by the very Sisters who would have propagated the theories. In Kathryn Hulme's work, Gabrielle, a first professed who is an extremely gifted nurse, is assigned to a school of tropical medicines in preparation (or so she hopes) for an assignment in the Congo. Before she leaves for the school, Gabrielle has a frank conversation with her novice mistress (and frankness can be as rare in convent life as the apocalypse.) Both are highly intelligent and from privileged backgrounds, and there is common understanding about the difficulties of dealing with common life. The novice mistress says that her way of dealing with this was to take on 'humble' tasks, help sisters for whom one has a strong disliking, and otherwise seeking to be 'the little donkey of the community,' much as Christ endured being around simple-minded apostles who smelled of fish.

The gap between inevitable perceptions and the best of intentions is most striking in Gabrielle's situation at the school of tropical medicines. Sister Pauline, who is older and in the same class programme, is a poor student, and shows great disliking (more likely fear) for Gabrielle. Gabrille decides to be the donkey - and do so by pretending she wants Pauline to check her work, then going off to study facing a wall. The conversation with her Novice Mistress before she left the motherhouse explains much of Gabrielle's action - how unfortunate that, since explanations are never solicited, or even allowed, from the 'young,' her basically good intentions are shrouded in behaviour that the best of us would find exasperating. (Of course, the novice mistress's exhortation shows that it is not Gabrielle alone who maintains an element of snobbery, but this neither party would have recognised.)

Sister Pauline is far from an endearing character, yet anyone would sympathise with the patronising gestures Gabrielle makes in trying to perform an 'act of humility.' Gabrielle indeed is a superior student, and a direct offer to help Pauline could be uncomfortable from one much younger, yet the honesty in such an approach would be more acceptable. As many a young Sister would later blush to recall, the attempted humility in pretending to ask a poor student to review one's notes (because "I may have some mistakes") amplifies any appearance of pride to the hilt.

The superior's suggestion that Gabrielle 'fail exams to show humility' is deplorable, and out of accord with the most basic approaches to the spiritual life (humility being truth.) One cannot help but wonder why Mother Marcella made this bizarre suggestion (perhaps she, too, had memories of a younger sister's outshining her?), yet the tragedy is that Gabrielle neither recognises the blatant flaw in such reasoning nor consults anyone else. (Had she had any form of direction, both such a dishonest action and the 'donkey act' would have been 'cancelled,' yet her genuine desire to help others could have been harnessed realistically.) Of course, Marcella had ample opportunity to witness Gabrielle's ruses of humility . It is tragic that silence existed in all too many forms in convent life. Misguided though she was, had Gabrielle explained that she was trying to follow her novice mistress's counsel, Marcella's attitude may have been quite different.

Spiritual direction is not a Francican forte, yet one book on that topic, composed by a Franciscan friar, shows great common sense. He instructed readers not to tell their directors only of their weakness and sinfulness, but of everything - the good, the exciting, whatever. Wise this is - because we get into the largest messes, now and then, when we are trying to improve!

A few minutes with A. J. Cronin

With my background in English literature, dare I admit my love for the novels of A. J. Cronin? (Well, why not? I have an MA in musicology, yet admit to a passion for 1960s rock music.) Cronin indeed had a gift for using the language well, though his novels tend to the melodramatic - Laurence Carroll, the main character in "A Song of Sixpence," sees more of the morbid side of humanity in the first ten years of life than I have in nearly half a century. His themes are solid, but the plots cry out for negative criticism. With that established, I can confess that I always did find them addictive. :)

I suppose that Cronin's best-known work was "The Keys of the Kingdom." Though Francis Chisholm, the main character, and I have little in common, I strongly identified with many of the questions he had from childhood. He could see the hand of God no less in the Buddhist or atheist than in the Christian - and, indeed, some of the Christians depicted (who, on the average, were no worse than many I observed in a lengthy church career) could learn quite a bit from those 'heathens.' Yet one particular incident in the book reminded me of a constant problem - the balance between devotion and a desire to see supernatural manifestations. I suppose that, for any devout Christian, the remoteness which we can sense at times in our relationship with God makes us wish that, perhaps, a resurrected Christ would invite us to place his hands in his side. I could write an essay (which I'll spare my readers for now) on how maturity demands our giving up anthropomorphic images, and acknowledging the inadequacy of our vision. Yet there often is another, darker side, where we so ache to see the hand of God (whom, deep down, we perhaps fear was a Deist version, who set the world in motion but basically could not care a fig for us) that we look for the magical.

In "The Keys of the Kingdom," young curate Francis Chisholm is assigned to his home parish. A young woman with an inordinate taste for smells and bells (and don't think I do not love both), Charlotte Neily, becomes quite a phenomenon. Charlotte notices that a local spring, long dry, has flowing water - and, with visions of Bernadette in her head, fancies she has seen the Blessed Mother. As a consequence of the emotional impact, Charlotte is temporarily unable to eat, and marks of stigmata appear. All who know of this, save the sceptical Francis, are quite delighted - and Charlotte's mother and their servant keep up the appearance of her living in ecstasy, needing no nourishment and so forth, until Francis discovers the deception.

Though the specific circumstances are not one too many curates would have encountered, the underlying problem is not unusual. I well remember, when my sensitive, young artiste's soul was under the influence of an excessively charismatic group (the Holy Spirit did lots of inspiring and transforming, though the theology of discernment was ignored), and I thought, for a short while, that I could probably do anything but raise the dead, and perhaps even that given time.

Oddly enough, I love folk religion in some manifestations. I wish I had the faith my mother used to bring to her devotions to the Infant of Prague, or the simplicity with which she'd scold Saint Anthony if he was tardy in answering a prayer. The more do I wish I could turn to God with her trust, believing he helped us in temporal needs. Yet I cannot say that such manifestations were 'magical' - they seemed more an acknowledgement of providence existing in all of God's work in creation.

Most of A. J. Cronin's main characters contain an autobiographical element, since he himself was the son of a mother who was Church of Scotland and an Irish Catholic father (hardly enviable in Scotland in the early 20th century.) What blends we all can be - with one part of ourselves seemingly in conflict with the other. I'm thinking of C. S. Lewis - who would know, from his theological works alone, that there was another facet who fell through wardrobes and ended up in Narnia? (I would have loved to sit in the pub with him and Tolkien...) Or John Henry Newman, the liberal Catholic (in the 19th century sense!) who dreamt of the Arabian Nights figures (presumably expurgated version), always had a hint of the evangelical pessimism, yet was bound by Victorian optimism to believe that "to become perfect is to have changed often," as if all change meant progress and improvement.

I must return to Charlotte Neily's 'vision' for the moment. A.J. leaves us with an image, not only of Charlotte caught in a fib and the other curate's dejection, but of one unexplained. A local boy, who is terminally ill and in agony, is cured when his mother immerses him in the water flowing from the well which Charlotte saw. We are left to consider how faith, prayer, love of one human for another, all can be used by the divine hand - even when we are left far more with questions than answers.

Trinity

Behold the Lamb of God - this is my Beloved Son - the Spirit descended as a dove - the Comforter shall come - Go ye, therefore, and teach all nations, baptising them in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

I have read volumes on the Trinity, from the Cappadocians to Augustine to Karl Rahner, and much of it was brilliant. Yet what can more remind us of how love and worship reach out from the creature to the Creator, without any way of humanly expressing the truth, than the concept of the Trinity? It is the ultimate example of how what one knows and expresses in doxology cannot be explained in sermon or essay. I love the writings of Gregory of Nyssa on the subject, for example, because they lend to prayer - yet, from a 'rational' standpoint, they verge on the tritheistic.

This week, on a discussion forum, I read a thread about how to prepare a Sunday sermon, aimed at children, on the topic of the Trinity. There were various images suggested - my favourite being that of a yolk, white, and shell all making up one egg. :)

Well, I am hardly going to attempt any sort of 'sermon' on the topic here. Yet this I am coming to know in the life of prayer. Ultimately, the action of praise is all that we can offer. It was all that the first Christians could do - yet, within a generation, the Church had grasped the reality of the Trinity - knowledge which came from worship.

I would ask any reader to pray for me today - I have been in a rather difficult time, and I am weary, my mind not quite 'in gear.' Blessed be God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and blessed be His kingdom, now and forever. Almighty and everlasting God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our heart by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love you and worthily magnify your holy Name, through Christ our Lord, Amen.

Time for a bit of silliness

I did so want to be profound today. It has been a difficult week in some ways, not aided by that my cat (who is a housecat, but gets out from time to time) proudly presented me with a dead mouse, her first, when I returned from my studies this afternoon. I attended a nice, quiet Eucharist (perhaps 10 people in attendance, some clearly tourists who did not make responses), and, to my embarrassment, found that, as the priest said the words of institution ("This is my body.." for those unfamiliar), I audibly responded, "Amen." (I should not have blushed - he himself forgot to read the epistle.)

Ascensiontide - Pentecost round the corner - heavens, I would have thought I even could have got creative about the visions at Fatima (which first occurred on this date in 1917). But inspiration is not at hand at the moment, so silliness is my current outlet.

Eternal mysteries of the Church (though hardly of the faith )

• Were any 'pagan babies' actually baptised with the names children spent hours choosing? (If so, half of the emerging third world nations have populations all named Mary and Joseph - aside from yours truly, most kids stuck to the 'correct' answers. Then again, some nuns hogged the issue, naming the little pagans after themselves or after their novice mistresses.)


• Why, in the once popular picture of the guardian angel leading the kids over a bridge, do the two children share one angel?


• Why can Roman Catholics not say any prayer (save for the Paternoster and Ave Maria) unless the printed words are in front of them - even if they've said them daily for fifty years?


• Every religious 'unit' (be it parish, diocese, religious order, whatever) has a very active member who was supposed to have died many years ago - though, whether he is 40 or 90, he looks extremely robust. He is in every parish group photo since baptism.


• Why do those in 'authority' (normally at parish level) constantly complain that 'the people' are not open to an innovation - which they implemented supposedly because the people were insistent?


• Why do English translations of Latin hymns and prayers bear so little resemblance to the original texts?


• Every 'unit' has a member who seems to know everyone on earth, and who has whatever information about anyone is needed at the moment. Here I am not referring to gossips, but to those whose words are accurate and highly useful. (Of course you know someone like that - can you remember how it is that you know her?)


• Where schools or religious houses are concerned, there will be another Sister who is quiet, retiring, and has not served in many apostolic areas - yet everyone seems to know.

And now to bed... I should have been able to think of far better items than these!

Self-absorbed rubbish from my Trash folder

Were Augustine to write of the effects of original sin today, I would imagine the current climate would give him the impression that self-absorption was the curse of Adam.

Occasionally, I receive e-mail that is mind-boggling. Perhaps the people who pen these gems assume that everyone with a Ph.D. is a psychologist. One which I received this week was a typical illustration of how self-centred people can become. I mention this because focussing so unduly on one's self would make any semblance of a spiritual life (which requires genuine self-knowledge - not close cousin to self-preoccupation) a far-off goal.

This correspondence was from someone I'll call "Jane," who apparently has found the answers to the problems of the universe by joining a 'diet club.' (Should you like to know why Jane thought that strangers were pining for this information, or why she was directing this missive to the webmistress of a site on mediaeval spirituality, I cannot enlighten you.) Jane, who reported her weight loss to date down to tenths of a pound, and, for good measure, explained why her programme was the best, is on verge of a "whole new life" because everything in this rubbish is connected to "achieving life goals."

However, Jane reported some serious, indeed quite distressing (ahem!), problems. Her family and friends, who probably received many yards of this material on a regular basis, are "not supportive of her efforts." This, Jane supposes, is because they are unable to "deal with change in her." She was wondering if she "needed to go to therapy" to deal with "these issues."

Keeping my usual firm grasp on Ocham's razor, I am wondering why Jane cannot see the obvious. She is not the centre of the universe, and others are hardly to be expected to direct their concerns towards her self-improvement kick. Presumably, Jane and her friends had some common interests which brought them together - and now all they hear of from her is about her 'diet club.' Most importantly, Jane is clearly so self-absorbed that she cannot pick up on their natural boredom, and is assuming that their lives are shattered by 'change' in her. I suppose she thinks she'll become all the more important and fascinating if she becomes a mental patient...

Why do I equally have the sense that someone out there will make considerable money taking her through this quasi-therapy - perhaps even more than whichever organisation put these ridiculous ideas into her head in the first place? Jane must have been quite narrow and self-centred in the first place, if the epitome of her existence is a slimming programme. (I'd be most curious as to which problems of this life would be any the less if one dropped a dress size.)

Now, back to my anchorhold, where one lives in the real world:

I spent a number of years in active ministry, and would say that most people who are dedicated to this have a genuine, quite deep concern for others. As I have noted in previous posts, because the essence of the desire to help others is loving, it is easy to be distracted by the desire to be special, to 'have all the answers,' and so forth. With consecrated life being a state wherein one has a certain detachment from those whom one serves, the loneliness, plus a longing for attention, can cloud our vision.

Of course, as I well know from experience, those (who are not in consecrated life) who are very involved in religious organisations often have the best of intentions - but, especially where 'programmes' are concerned, lose any larger perspective. I witnessed an online debate this week about churches maintaining a crèche for the little ones. (That shall be one of the last sounds that dies out on this planet at the last judgement.) One point of view will be that the children enjoy it - opposing voices will insist that it breaks up family worship - yet another is opposed to 'age segregation' on principle - the directors of the programme assume that children who do not attend have parents who are not aware of the availability - etc., etc..

There is no pat answer to such situations, of course, yet each of the arguments, valid though they may be, cuts off the awareness that other people's views and decisions are not a personal commentary on oneself.

Active ministry was quite a lonely situation - a life based on prayer and (largely) solitary is a step beyond. It is easy to become preoccupied with the needs one senses in one's own life. Yet one must be cautious in with whom, and how frequently, one shares this. Close friends can empathise, perhaps, and those very knowledgeable in the spiritual life can remind one that one's vocation is hardly based on (for example) getting attention. :) Yet most, understandably, will have no clue as to why one would live such a life - and one soon realises that the classic principle of 'reserve' is a balanced, realistic one.

I therefore am stopping here - lest truth I am seeking to express becomes an exercise in the very self-absorption which is problematic.

Ascension

The problem with the Ascension is not that I have nothing to say - it is that there is just so much one can say! I had intended to write a classic sermon on the topic here, but I'm particularly weary these days, what with all my searching for inexpensive frog free zones. So I'll just leave my readers with a few thoughts.

The strength and weakness of the Franciscan Order is the focus on Jesus' earthly life. Raymond Brown once commented aptly that most Christians tolerate only as much of Jesus' humanity as they can stand. True - but not for Franciscans. We emphasise the 'poor child / man' to such an extent that one can easily think that the Incarnation consisted of Jesus' being born and dying. The divine Logos gets lost in the shuffle, even if Franciscans can give all sorts of wonderful sermons about the simplicity of a baby or a mother's agonising at the foot of a cross.

Yet, for all that Francis himself tended to dwell a bit too much on his past sins, Franciscans never did fall into the trap of focussing on hell and our being saved from this. The emphasis was on the Creator - who 'wonderfully created man's nature, and still more wonderfully restored it.' Whatever good came of the Reformation, it is unfortunate that, concurrently, there was far too much stress on salvation as if what salvation meant was not cosmic redemption but being spared horrid torments in hell.

The Ascension is so wonderful - with our seeing human nature glorified, not only through God Himself assuming this but in the ascenscion to the right hand of the Father - that our deification shows us what salvation really means. Yet this, as with many truths of our faith, can only be expressed in doxology. One cannot 'rationally analyse' the ascension. I can just imagine a rationalist saying, "Created and then more wonderfully restored? What was wrong with creation in the first place? Why was it not created right the first time? Why are we still such a bunch of ... trouble makers if we are deified?"

Heaven only knows. Yet, when I say that prayer, I mean ever word. :)

Today is the feast of my 'good friend' Julian of Norwich. I've written quite enough on the site to give those interested a beginning - though I just may get to her a bit more this week. Yet I'll add one little reflection here.

Today, in some schools of thought, reflecting on Jesus' passion, as did Francis and Julian, is seen as rather morbid for 'an Easter people.' (Please! Did he not have to be dead first?) Yet Julian's picture of the suffering Christ, for all that it filled her with a horror of sin, is one of a God taking delight in us - and laughing at Satan's defeat. True, "all shall be well" is reserved fully to the parousia - but is Christianity not a faith that looks ahead to glory as well as back to its manifestations?

Ahhh, Easter people (of the incorrect sort I mentioned earlier - please see Father Gregory's blog for the correct interpretation, and what I assume was my dear friend's first reference to Augustine of Hippo), do not shudder at Julian's horror of sin! (Sin? What is that? Must be a lack of self-esteem!... The eighth capital sin, reserved to our own day, is self-absorption..) In the first manuscript of Julian's Showings, written at age 30 , she, in expressing gratitude for the true contrition (perfect love, self-esteem crowd!), commented, 'what a wretch I am.' Perhaps one needs to be fifty or so rather than thirty to notice that, in the second manuscript twenty years later, Julian has written "what a wretch I was." She is not writing of misery - in fact, there is not a trace of this in the entire manuscript. Julian is a woman in love, writing with gratitude. She had been transformed, bit by bit, by one who is Perfect Love.

Jesus, in his humanity, had taken upon himself fully the vocation to proclaim the kingdom. The sad but inevitable outcome was that, in our blindness and weakness, humanity showed itself at its worst - and he became a target for violence, treachery, betrayal, abandonment by those he best loved. A Messiah dying the cursed death of the 'tree' would be a bit much for comprehension.

Julian's visions, which sparked her deepest transformation and led to her exquisite writings, indeed were of the crucifixion. Yet she had grown so in love that this tortured man who laughed from 'the tree' showed her the Trinity as a warm family, evil as defeated by one who laughed, Eucharistic images, and so forth. She could hear him say 'all shall be well,' because the first stirrings of divine love within us remind us that 'what we have here' is not all that there is. We look ahead to when all shall be well.

Caterina, prega per noi

I have just made a note in my diary ("project section") that, once I finish tackling my exam material, I must prepare an essay on Catherine of Siena. I am surprised that I never did get to one - and on a site that deals with 14th century mystics.

Here is a selection from Catherine's dialogue "On Divine Providence":

Eternal God, eternal Trinity... you are a mystery as deep as the sea. The more I search, the more I find, and the more I find the more I search for you. But I can never be satisfied; what I receive will ever leave me desiring more. When you fill my soul, I have an even greater hunger, and I grow more famished for your light. I desire above all to see you, the true light, as you really are....

Eternal Trinity, Godhead, mystery deep as the sea, you could give me no greater gift than the gift of yourself. For you are a fire ever burning and never consumed, which itself consumes all the selfish love that fills my being. Yes, you are a fire that takes away the coldness, illuminates the mind with its light and causes me to know your truth. By this light, reflected as it were in a mirror, I recognise that you are the highest good, one we can neither comprehend nor fathom... beauty and wisdom itself. The food of angels, you gave yourself to man in the fire of your love... in our hunger, you are a satisfying food, for you are sweetness, and in you there is no taste of bitterness, O triune God!

For those unfamiliar with Catherine's biography, I am providing a link to a related article from the Catholic Encyclopaedia. Her most unusual life (imagine a consecrated virgin at age 6) would have caused her much scorn - few of the saints fit conventional moulds, but Catherine certainly went against the grain beyond what is usual even in hagiography. It is most fortunate she lived in the 14th century rather than the 21st - modern psychologists would have totally ruined her. :)

I admire Catherine immensely - please do not let my comments make it appear that I think her love was anything but perfectly genuine. Her writings are perfectly brilliant, and are an exquisite illustration of how the great lovers can present their 'songs' of praise whilst admitting that God is unknowable. Part of what I so admire is that she could go against the grain, as it were - summon the pope back from Avignon, somehow make peace between warring cities - yet be a mystic and solitary at heart.

It is unfortunate that treatment of Catherine often centres on her sufferings. Even apart from that, as my other entries have shown, that is not a spirituality which I consider to be healthy, some of Catherine's sufferings were not of supernatural origin, and indeed could be traced to her eccentricities. (Both patrons of Italy are stigmatics - both very holy, both not of the highest degree of emotional stability.) Yet it is a reminder that the heights of sanctity can be reached even by those who, today, would be called 'sick.'

Considering she lived on the Eucharist for a time... well, I know what the diagnosis would have been, at least in part, and those into pop psychology would have noted that, in her mystic writings, she is always speaking of being 'famished.' Never mind the stigmata... or her having been wed to Christ and received a ring which, so Catherine believed, actually was the foreskin removed at His circumcision. Anorexics never feel they have control over their lives, and I know, from my own experience, that we so ache for such control that we'd like to be able to part the waters... for Catherine to ask God to let her take on the sins of the world does indeed seem to usurp his prerogative. That prayer undoubtedly is what led to some of her horrid physical sufferings - yet I am sure not because God precisely bestowed these.

I believe it was Thomas Aquinas who spoke of how grace is bestowed according to the manner of the recipient. Catherine, like myself one living a consecrated life alone (though I lay no claims to having either her holiness or her brilliance!), could not have fit into conventional (or conventual) models. Those who reproach governments and popes would not meet the model of meekness and obedience which many spiritual writers would have esteemed. A little child who decides on an anchoress' life certainly would have been formidable. Even those who tolerated Francis' frankness on the matter would have been unlikely to appreciate the humility Catherine showed in writing with candour of her strong sexual temptations. Yet however unstable Catherine may have been, her will was turned in the proper direction. Her actions were born of white-hot love.

My sister and my beloved, open yourself to me, you are a coheir of my kingdom, and you have understood the hidden mysteries of my truth.

'The bigger sacrifice'

I remember an old, dreadful joke about a young man who noticed that his new wife, whenever she prepared Sunday roast beef, used to cut off some of the meat at either end. He asked why, and she responded, 'my mother always did.' So, he asked his mother-in-law the same question, and received the identical response. Finally, he asked his wife's grandmother, who said, "the pan was too small."

Silly as that may seem, I saw much of the same in the religious realm! No one remembered (if indeed, they ever knew) the reasons for customs (usually unofficial, but all too often enshrined in the practise of religious Orders.) Either they continued in them because grandma always chopped off the end of the joint, or they gave them new and distorted meanings.

I would imagine that, in 1900, a devout mother may have gone to Mass each Sunday at dawn either because she had to stoke the fires and prepare the beef, or perhaps because, in the days of non-communicating High Mass, only early risers had a chance to receive communion. In 1940, by which time mum's devotion was legendary in the family, her daughter went to early Mass because her mother had. By 1970, her granddaughter, worried that her own children might not be religious, would have been off to the first Mass because "it's a bigger sacrifice to have to get up at 5:00." (Her own kids, of course, would be likely to never go to church at all once they moved from their mother's house... though one of them might be going to all night vigils today because he is not aware that the world always has been dreadful and has been convinced it was wonderful thirty years ago and has fallen apart.) Notice that Christ's sacrifice has taken second place to one's own...

I can remember the days when there were large enough congregations at very early Masses, but wonder why this was so esteemed. With the exception of police and hospital employees who had to go to work, and a few elderly insomniacs, those at 6:00 Mass usually were those who had been out all night.

Certainly, there is sacrifice involved in any life, but it is beyond me why it was considered 'holy' to manufacture this. Why do we fear that God is waiting with the cane if we have enjoyment in life? That is hardly a position I take - I'll take enjoyment anywhere that I can - but I knew many with the other approach.

The fear of 'wasting time' had a miserable effect - because the fear was not of sin, but of anything pleasant. Social contacts, relaxation, and just about everything in the category were to be 'sacrificed' - it was as if anything that was not sheer work was a distraction. Time we spent with others was treated as inherently negative!

Just a quotation today - enjoy

I am immersed in the study of the Philosophy of Religion today - and therefore chasing myself in a circle with logical arguments for the existence of God, when I have no idea if faith was ever intended to prove a thing. :) The 'argument from experience' probably is the most faulty in the philosophical sense... but points the most to the truth. We never 'know' - we can only respond in hope. It is all about worship in the end. (Development of this soon, you may be sure.) I shall leave you with a quotation (not philosophical, but one that seems to show some experience of the divine) for the day.

From Mechtild of Magdeburg:
The fish will never drown within the tide,
Nor birds fall from the air on which they ride.
The flame will not corrode or blacken gold,
For fire burns it pure and clean,
Giving it a shining colour.
To all His creatures God has granted
To live according to their nature.
How then could I deny my breath and bone?
In all things I submit to God alone,
Who is my father by nature,
Who is my brother by his humanhood,
Who is my bridegroom by his love,
And from the outset I am all His own.

Gloriana creeps off to read a volume which questions whether God has a nature... and another which maintains that the nature of God is to exist...

The Lord kept sending me prophecies!

No, he certainly has not sent any to me - though I dare say the Internet has increased the number of people who at least think they are latter-day prophets. The heading is a quotation from a rather self-absorbed Sister I knew during my charismatic days.

In M's convent, where many Sisters were in varied ministries and there was not much common prayer, it was the custom to recite the Office of Readings together, after the gospel at the daily, evening Eucharist. They did not follow the ordo for scriptural and 'second' readings, and whichever Sister was having a turn as leader for the week could use passages or authors at her own discretion. M. regularly complained, not only within the house but to those she knew elsewhere, that the superior kept telling her to use readings, when she could not because "The Lord kept sending me prophecies!"

No - she was not crazy, though she was very trying. It was the flavour of the time - and the idea of being personally, constantly granted special charisms, which is dangerously self-absorbed, was merely interpreted as the action of the Holy Spirit by those who were 'prophets' in their own eyes. It was a day of great enthusiasm, but little if any theology of discernment.

Memories also come to me of a young woman (very pretty, and striking in her lace mantilla - the more because hers was the only head that wore one by the time of our story) who was more traditional in her approach. I used to see B. at local Eucharistic celebrations or Vespers (she got around), and her saintly demeanour was rather overpowering. B. would always enter the church a second before the service was to begin, take the first pew after a very slow genuflection and Sign of the Cross worthy of Bernadette during the apparitions, then kneel throughout the entire Mass or Office, reading the collected works of John of the Cross. B. was a Carmelite tertiary, and I sometimes smiled to myself, knowing full well how the great Teresa would have greeted such behaviour.

In convent life and certain classic spiritual approaches, there often was such an emphasis on avoiding 'singularisation' that one's own individuality was crushed. A balance is hard to achieve. Yet one trait the very devout need to face, again and again, is that, honest though we may be about our (clear, serious) sinfulness, many of our distractions grow all the more powerful because they are sprung from wanting to preach the gospel, practise virtue, set a good example, and so forth.

Barnyard praise

I am wondering if I can possibly capture a scene I saw today with appropriate hilarity. Being in a time when I needed a dose of folk religion, I went to a small, Roman Catholic church which has all sorts of rather baroque statues. The unexpected interval of humour was a combination of comedy sketch and deja vu.

A nun of quite mature years was rehearsing a group of children (7 or so - probably preparing for first communion) in songs that were a combination of silly and ghastly - and, worse yet, these were being performed with gestures. (The entire effect was of nursery songs in a park.) The kids were raising their arms up and down, after the fashion of someone working out with hand weights - cupping their hands behind their ears - doing knee bends. I can enjoy a good boy choir, but otherwise hate children's voices (and the songs they sing in five keys simulataneously), and I hope I'm not sent to spend some time with sounds of the sort I heard today when I die. Yet I did manage to retain my composure, until the group got to the 'Alleluia.' Except for the final 'a,' at which point they raised their hands high, they were making motions with their arms which exactly resembled playing at being a chicken. I was surprised no one laid an egg.

My own first communion was naturally in the last days of the Tridentine Mass. Except for our singing a few poor and sentimental hymns, there was little room for nonsense. Yet it suddenly struck me, as I watched this Sister striking poses that seemed a combination of interpretative dance and grand mal seizure, that, when the 'something for the children' malady became epidemic forty years ago, she would have been about 27, and undoubtedly found it all relevant as things could only be relevant in the 1960s. The question in my mind, and one which I wonder if Sister was asking herself, then or now, if the games they were playing, and probably enjoying, constituted worship.

In too many parishes, liturgy, music, preaching, and just about everything else in public worship was ruined because influential Sisters and laywomen, who became very involved, wanted everything aimed at the kids. Adults and anyone over the age of ten were condemned to an aesthetic and intellectual wasteland. Of course, in my young adult years, there were liturgies aimed specifically at my age group, and that could work, provided the entire congregation was composed of the young. Sadly, those of my generation who would be involved with parish activities ten or fifteen years later forgot that what drew us to such celebrations was that they were part of an entire, now defunct, youth culture. Where the idea that the parents would bring in the (young) kids had been popular a generation earlier, they hoped the kids would bring in the parents. Stupidly, they would schedule liturgies for youth - but perish the thought that friends sat together! They were supposed to come with parents and sit with their families!

Yes, I know this idea was popular even when Victoria was on the throne - but liturgies should not be focussed on catering to kids (unless it is a service specifically for children) or on fostering family togetherness. When this is the case, one must abandon the practise if one cares to grow up.

To communion we shall go, we shall go, we shall go,
To communion we shall go, my fair kiddies...

Endless day which knows not night

This morning, with millions of others, I watched the Inauguration of Benedict XVI (my cat, Mirielle, snuggled with me throughout, happy that a cat lover is on Peter's throne.) His references to the Good Shepherd, a favourite image of mine, naturally called forgiveness to mind. Repentance, forgiveness, new life in Christ are such lovely concepts - and how we moderns shudder at the very words! Caught up in our own 'self esteem,' we cannot admit to the beauties of forgiveness because that would mean admitting we were not always right in the first place. "Penance," a word we Franciscans cherish (with its meaning getting back into line with the gospels - continuous creative power making us ever more real), is one which normally cannot even be mentioned.

Perhaps, if we could think of forgiveness without concurrently picturing that this means we'd otherwise be punished, we could grasp a bit of the reality. There has been too much focus, in the Middle Ages and beyond, on penalties, hell, atonement as if that last meant appeasing fury. Of course, I realise that such emphases were purely practical in some cases. Alphonsus Liguori (whose principles of moral theology were as sound and reasonable as any in history) wrote a work on hell that could make anyone's skin crawl... unless one remembered that Alphonsus, bishop of the neighbouring diocese to my family's, was dealing with people who had no excess of guilt, and who thought a sufficient defence for murder was that the bastard had it coming to him. :) The 'Dante-esque' depictions of purgatory often were merely sermons on the seven capital sins... trying to get a bit of restraint into the lives of the licentious, perhaps.

Forgiveness is healing and wholeness, and, above all, a call to greater intimacy with God. I am sure that most of us who've had a lengthy time on the Christian path know of many times when the Good Shepherd came after us before we even realised we wanted to be rescued. God keeps calling us to a greater reflection of his image in our lives. Our sins are all basically lies - his forgiveness removes the blinders (how we first hate that, with the sudden glare of light), and he draws us more closely to himself.

Though I would never deny the beauty of seeing the Eucharist as a source of forgiveness, nor would I think partaking of it as anything to be taken lightly, it is unfortunate that too much emphasis was placed on our being worthy. (Is that possible?) For centuries, people rarely if ever approached communion, and feared so being condemned if they were not in the proper state. So, Jesus is so vengeful that he is looking to chastise his people for partaking of his body and blood...

This quotation from an Easter sermon by Maximus of Turin expresses what I am trying to say... how I wish I could write two paragraphs of this quality before I die.

Christ is risen! His rising brings life to the dead, forgiveness to sinners, and glory to the saints...

The light of Christ is an endless day that knows no night... the coming of Christ's light puts Satan's darkness to flight, leaving no place for any shadow of sin. His everlasting radiance dispels the dark clouds of the past and checks the hidden growth of vice. The Son is that day to whom the day, which is the Father, communicates the mystery of his divinity..

The celestial day is perpetually bright and shining with brilliant light; clouds can never darken its skies. In the same way, the light of Christ is eternally glowing with luminous radiance, and can never be extinguished by the darkness of sin...

And so, my brothers and sisters, each of us ought to surely rejoice on this holy day. Let no one, conscious of his sinfulness, withdraw from our common celebration, not be kept away from public prayer by the burden of his guilt. Sinner he may indeed be, but ... if a thief could receive the grace of paradise, how could a Christian be refused forgiveness?"

Must be a weary time for Benedict XVI!

I sometimes make the comment (normally looking over my glasses as I do so) that it was a pleasure crossing the Tiber because I now could lecture on, for example, the Cloud of Unknowing without being interrupted by 'how could one talk about prayer when women are being oppressed world over by church stands on contraception?' Though my own theology is quite orthodox and could be 'backed up' at least to the 5th century, I do not agree with all of Rome's positions. Yet I do admire Her integrity. I find it very annoying, quite frankly, when writers do not uphold or question a doctrine or moral teaching based on an intellectual approach, but appeal entirely to emotions or other agenda. Lord have mercy, conflicts are as old as the Church, and hard-hitting Paul of Tarsus already had no illusions that his preaching what he saw as truth from the Risen Christ would be heeded by all and sundry. (Peter and Paul both had issues of inclusivity to address...)

It is so very ...restful to be worshipping in a setting where there already are married clergy, women priests, and so forth. :) And no illusions that having married and female clergy solve the problems of the world.

Today, I stopped at an RC cathedral and prayed in the presence of the Sacrament. Oddly enough, I found myself nearly crying with compassion for Benedict XVI. There is no equivalent of the sort of responsibility he has taken on - and obviously my first twinges were that a theologian, elderly and probably wishing for a peaceful time working on books, had to assume such a burden. Yet to take this on, not in a climate of loving warmth such as greeted John Paul, but with press reports already recording large disappointment about and fear of him, and some even speculating about his death and successor, Benedict now must be the loneliest man on earth.

Recently, I was reading of the Orthodox church's approach to the ordination of married men and to the remarriage of those who have divorced. Were Pope Benedict to proclaim positions in these areas which exactly conformed to Orthodoxy, he'd immediately be shouted down from left and right. "What? I'm supposed to say divorce is a sin, and remarriage a pastoral concession! My divorce was a new beginning!" (When is repentance anything but a new beginning?) Priest-sociologists would be saying it alienated people - or (if it were that annoying Andrew Greeley) that American ways do not include permanent relationships - nuns would be crying that this move was another oppression of women - some Catholic family movement or another would be seeing an attack on how they stayed together at all costs...

Were Benedict to speak on thousands killed in a battle or the modern equivalent of concentration camps, some web sites would be criticising that 'he didn't even mention abortion - the worst slaughter of all.' If he stated that the ordination of women could be open for further discussion, one side would criticise his discriminatory employment practises, another group would be moaning that encouraging ordination of anyone denied the universal call to holiness and contribution of the laity.

Benedict is in a position where indeed he must be a teaching authority and pastor, and where integrity must be maintained. Yet too many writers, scholars, etc., even if they are fully aware of the doctrinal positions and their development, will oppose them not based on the essence of the doctrine but on 'people could feel left out.' Just borrowing my earlier example, the Orthodox approach to divorce and remarriage has a sound theological basis - as does the RC attitude towards the same subject (though they differ, and regardless of whether one agrees or not.) An approach such as 'someone might feel left out and not come to church' is not theologically based.

I am wondering if there can be a proper balance, with any major church leader, between the current stress on being inclusive and maintaining doctrinal integrity - and shall be interested to see how one with as fine a theological mind as Benedict deals with this situation. The C of E always did tend to have a reluctance to say 'this is what we believe' lest those with Calvinist or Roman leanings have a sense of being outsiders. My attitudes towards ecumenism would not, for example, include understanding of the RC bans on intercommunion - yet I am uncomfortable with approaches to ecumenism that either ignore genuine differences of doctrine or hesitate to define either the difference or the doctrine.

In not only Benedict's case but that of every papacy within my memory, the press and popular authors indeed defy logic (and, since some are Roman priests, that is unforgiveable... I believe that, when I get to heaven, I'll learn that defying scholarly norms is the sin against the Holy Spirit.) The reasoning seems to be 'the popes hate women - they want everyone to have lots of babies and no one to have sex.' (I suppose the babies therefore arrive when the angels bring them. Angels used to do quite a business of that type in Ireland, unless the mother had plenty of gin and hot baths when she missed her first period, and this until she was sterilised at the age of 30.)

My point is that matters which are not related theologically are lumped together and judged as a wicked agenda. (I've been reading a number of online articles this past week - and one priest, who does not deserve to be dignified by a link, said that John Paul 'hated women,' a statement for which I see no substance whatever.) Celibacy for the clergy is a matter of discipline, not doctrine (not to mention that there are many married RC priests), and indeed could change. The ban on contraception is argued from a standpoint of 'natural law,' yet (though it is ignored by most Catholics, as every poll and any look at RC congregations would show) those who protested against it most seem more concerned with that Paul VI did not take the recommendations of the group he assembled to study the question than anything else. (John Paul, as far as I know, did not form any groups to discuss the matter - yet there are protests centred on the lack of, shall we say, a democratic vote more than whether the natural law position can be defended.)

I cannot imagine that any pope would declare abortion to be moral - and it seems far-fetched that anyone would have expected this. Perhaps (and I have seen essays on this) there is a position amongst some that, even if one is considered to be a human being with human rights even in the womb, this would not be so from the moment of conception, but when (for example) brain function begins. Logically (if one works from the RC premise that one is a human being from the moment of conception), one could not concurrently say that abortion is permissible if the mother is very young, or if the child is 'defective,' or the parents are unmarried, etc.. Such an argument would be, in effect, saying that whether one is a human being depends on the circumstances of one's conception.

Whether the RC position of abortion as immoral means 'one must vote, invariably, for a politician who gives lip service to opposing abortion, with no consideration of any other matters' (an idea I find absurd) would say more about the limited views (and possibly agendas) of those arguing that position than one with the intelligence and learning of Benedict. Ratzinger, as a theologian, and in saying that voting for someone in order to specifically further abortion is using sound principles of moral theology - where intent is an essential component of any moral act. I can see very serious problems if Benedict should encourage excommunication of those who are 'pro-choice politicians,' let alone those who vote for them, but that remains to be seen.

Whether women can be ordained has nothing to do with contraception, abortion, or divorce, though writers often class them together (a flight of the illogical that is beyond me.) It has to do with the nature of a sacrament - not with 'women are inferior and need to be barefoot and pregnant.'

Whether one agrees with Rome or not, the official positions are consistent and logical. I have no problem with (and indeed would encourage) scholarly agreement or challenges to any of them. What I find so irritating is that writers and theologians who know better than to do so present versions of the teachings (or the supposed motivation behind them) which not only can confuse people but spark anger at what is supposed rather than what is.

Time for a very brief meditation

It is a bit too soon for me to record my thoughts about the election of the new pontiff... e-mails to friends, yes, but not on the Internet. However, the day must be commemorated, so I am including a quotation from Dr Ratzinger's urbi et orbi speech:

I am consoled by the fact that the Lord knows how to work and how to act, even with insufficient tools, and I especially trust in your prayers. In the joy of the resurrected Lord, we go on with his help. He is going to help us and Mary will be on our side.

That certainly is a point worthy of meditation. I am sorry I did not get to see the live coverage - I'd never expected the election to be concluded so soon. I could not help but remember young, robust John Paul's enthusiastic speech when he was elected.

Time for a bit of intercessory prayer here. I shudder to think of the weight of assuming the papacy - and the struggles ahead as this old man takes on the most difficult position on the planet. He is a highly competent theologian, but the pastoral role - the ecumenical dialogue - the responsibility of dealing with perhaps 16 rites and countless cultures (in many places, where Christians are a small minority) - well, the Holy Spirit can be the only source of that kind of strength.

Blessings on Benedict XVI, on the Church of Rome, and on all of Christ's Church. God grant us peace, and keep us one in our Saviour Jesus Christ - and the power of the Holy Spirit, the vicar of Christ on earth.

But, Your Grace, it is a windmill!

I'm having great fun this week, both hearing and (online) seeing discussions about candidates for the papacy. In reading of the Cardinals, I am wondering if their comments are related to what they genuinely believe to be important (if so, in some cases, some of them should go on retreat or spend some time in a first rate university), or if it is merely either catering to public silliness or having some fun with the press.

I know little of Cardinal Tettamanzi, though reports hint that he would find Peter's throne to be a pleasant spot to occupy. (That cannot possibly be true of anyone... can it?) Yet what is making me laugh aloud is first that he warns of the DaVinci Code's being contrary to Christian teaching and history, and second that he finds gambling of any kind to be dangerous. I cannot picture that the DaVinci Code would be taken for anything except far-fetched fiction (nor that it was intended as anything else), and have a strong sense that the bets Paddy is taking (for example, on who will be the next pope) are intended more for fun and relaxation than anything else.

My guess is that Cardinal Tettamanzi is a clever man who knows how to get media attention. Italians have far too much experience of the papacy to not be aware that there are true stories from church history which would top anything in the rather silly DaVinci Code. Nor is there the Calvinist influence that would make gambling seem, I imagine, a waste of time for which one must account at the judgement seat.

My generation, in their younger days, often were committed to strong causes. (Today, most of them are super-frumps, some ready with lengthy sermons about, perhaps, how television is the ruination of the world. They have forgotten that people used to consider it rather entertaining to watch someone drawn and quartered... or crucified. Middle age can be a time when one is nostalgic for a past which never existed.) There was conflict involved - for example, those my age who were opposing war were the children of those who thought the Allies had made the world safe for freedom. Today's 'causes' are boring, partly because they are so 'safe.' Someone who is trying to make the world safe from smoking will at most get embarrassed apologies from those who disagree. I also wish that people would remember their history, logic, rhetoric, and so forth, and realise that presenting an argument depends on more than 'our children deserve better than this!' or 'my sainted mother told me that...'

In the early days of the Internet, when I first rejoiced at the potential for online resources and then realised that the down side was that whinge bags and nut cases all could become authors immediately, I remember a tale which still makes me laugh aloud. It had to do with (no, this is not a joke...) Barbie dolls! I imagine it was the domain of parents who, deep down, would like to be protesters, but so fear losing the favour of the Establishment that they take refuge in picketting schools which have soda machines.

Well, one of the Barbie dolls 'talked,' and it seems that she commented that mathematics was difficult. (I heartily concur... I still have not the slightest grasp of mathematics.) Oh, for shame! Here, an image of woman was being promoted that would make females seem inferior in that field. Well, I have taken offence at many things in my day, but never once at words uttered by a plastic mouth.

This gets better! Advertisements showed said doll in settings where she was performing on stage and other rot of that sort. (It is not rot in a kid's imagination - but protesters on such matters have too much imagination in all the wrong places.) Children, of course, would see such things, and be disappointed that they could not reproduce the settings and special effects. The manufacturer, filled with social concern, agreed that further advertisments would show Barbie only in a child's hand, to make it plain what size the doll actually is. I am wondering what child was unaware of that in the first place.

Ah, but things do get worse! The wicked doll is destroying girls' self-esteem today! With her curvaceous body not meeting normal proportions (in fact, if I could grasp the simplest concepts of maths, I dare say I'd gather that a woman actually shaped that way would topple forwards), she is instilling 'body image issues.' If there is any relation at all, I'm sure the little girls here are managing to have their mothers turn them into nut cases, not their dolls.

I'll give odds of five to one that warnings about the DaVinci code are sly and ironic... but that the crusaders against doll-dom are dead serious. I am trying to remember, regarding the latter, just which author originally said that it is futile to try to have a battle of the wits with an unarmed man.

Frog free zone, anyone?

In strong contrast to my usual practise, today's post shall be highly personal, if only so that others pursuing the spiritual life have no ideas that those doing so are any less 'nuts' (see my March archive) than those who do not. Not that, for example, it ever was denied that the English Church had some rather extravagantly eccentric characters (acceptable for the upper class - working class kids like myself are just 'crazy.') I understand that the Orthodox actually have a deep affection for the larger nut cases in their history - witness that Saint Simeon Stylites is honoured, rather than an embarrassment.

I believe, if I search hard enough, I shall find my lineage stretches to John the Divine. (Too bad I've learnt he is not the Evangelist, if indeed the evangelist was the apostle, and the apostle was 'the beloved.' I was born on the feast of John the Evangelist - or Apostle - and always felt affinity with one who was not only highly loving and steadfast but had his days of wanting to call down fire from heaven.) You'll recall how, in Revelation, John sees the evil spirits come forth as frogs. Though I have never had any visions (thank heavens), were I to see evil spirits that is precisely the form they would take. I am deathly afraid of frogs. For some reason, they remind me of evil.

Having always lived in large cities, I obviously was not likely to have any evil spirit figure hopping by - and I imagined that frogs were way off in very rural ponds. (I never was one to take chances, nonetheless. One of my good friends lives in Basildon, yet I've never been to her house, because I know the creatures hop by now and then. Nor did I ever visit a friend's house in North London, because his neighbour was a frog-o-phile.) It was only with my recent flat-hunting (never a fun prospect in any case) that I learnt that, even within this urban area, the very places where buildings that could be propects are located are near (I would imagine, manufactured) streams and ponds. And, somehow, from near and far, the frog community is always finding new homes.

I have resigned myself to that lower income people are not going to make those selling properties leap for joy. I have learnt that 'immaculate' means stripped to the bare bones - that "park like atmosphere" means 'next to a boarded warehouse' and so forth. Yet never did I imagine that, in a city, one would have to say 'frog free zone.' Nor that the only places available within my budget are near these blasted ponds.

Were I Francis of Assisi, I suppose I'd go out and preach to them - some ecstatic little sermon to Brother Frog. Not likely. I'm more inclined towards the fairy stories which have the same imagery for the creatures that there was in Revelation.

And now, to hide somewhere.... because I just know that I have new readers today, who otherwise might find my site helpful if not edifying, who are retreating at my nuttiness.

Oh, yes, a conclave

O Gracious Father, we humbly beseech you for your holy Catholic Church; that you would be pleased to fill it with all truth, in all peace. Where it is corrupt, purify it; where it is in error, direct it; where in any thing it is amiss, reform it. Where it is right, establish it; where it is in want, provide for it; where it is divided, re-unite it; for the sake of him who died and rose again, and ever lives to make intercession for us, Jesus Christ, your Son, our Lord. Amen.

There is much speculation (especially in this, the first conclave since the Internet was begun) about the papacy ahead - amusing (such as the bookmaker in Ireland), interesting, frustrated, sad, whatever. I am enjoying being able to consider this from a distance, in a sense. I'm not about to reveal just which candidates, for whom Paddy is giving nearly even odds, I am hoping do not end up on Peter's throne...

Many people are discussing what they should like to see change during the reign of the next pontiff. (I am sorry that it seems that all anyone remembers of John Paul, or perhaps any other contemporary pope, would make it seem that we mortals were composed of bodies that went only from the waist to the knees...) I am far from old, but, even if I copy the longevity common in my family, forty years from now I'll be gone. There is much hope that I have for the future of the church (and my use of Catholic hardly means Roman only), and which I shall not live to see if indeed it does occur.

I'm becoming quite 'patristic' in my 'old' age. I shall save lengthy essays on that for another time - but I do believe the papacy needs to move more in the direction of the early centuries. John Paul began his reign when the church was in quite a mess - his centralising authority may have kept things from crumbling. Yet one with less hard life experience - or less warmth - could not sustain a similar stance without becoming an autocrat.

I should like to see Rome finally admit that the judgement about Anglican Orders has "evolved" since the days of Leo. I cherish my own celibacy, but believe that it further is time to allow married men to be ordained. Yet what I should like to see change most of all is uncommon, and therefore merits mention here.

Though John Paul cannot be faulted for this, I should like to see far more respect for, and encouragement of, consecrated life. It saddens me greatly that the Roman Church, which its vast and rich heritage of monastic and 'active life,' lost so much in that area during my own lifetime.

Where does the 'universal call to holiness' (which I frankly doubt ever was in question!) become compromised by a life dedicated to monastic norms - and dating from the early centuries? Why has the 'age of the laity' and 'getting the people involved' , for all the value there can be in those efforts, led to a denial of the value of permanent, vowed commitment to the counsels? We need to recover the eschatological dimension of this witness - not merely emphasise the 'work' or the 'corporate identity' of such religious as are still here.

One old joke in the days when I first studied logic and rhetoric was this fractured syllogism: "God is love. Love is blind. Therefore God is blind." Perhaps a little understanding of the use of the predicate in logic is in order. Edvard Schillebeeczx, some years ago, made a statement about how, once a strong theology of marriage became common, vocations to consecrated life would decrease. (It is a surprise to me, since I never noticed that the married doubted the value of their vocation, but be that as it may.) Even if this were true, and I believe there are many totally unrelated factors which led to the situation today, let us not 'argue backwards.' It does not mean 'here is a candidate for religious life - she therefore must not realise the value of marriage.' Nor should religious (as they often did in the years following Humanae Vitae) see the Church as oppressor of women - therefore fighting such 'oppression' as their own major focus.

All right... I have one last wish (fulfilled only when I attend Westminster Cathedral, it seems, as far as RC churches go.) Let us remember the musical heritage as well... and that the eleventh commandment is neither mediocrity nor 'everyone must sing everything.'

Blessings on the conclave - and on the entire Roman Catholic Church - ubi et orbi.

How we do punish ourselves...

I have been cleaning out my library, which contains quite an assortment of old books which I inherited from elderly priests who long have departed this earth. I was thumbing through one, entitled "The Sisters are Asking," which, far from being ancient, was authored during my childhood. One chapter particularly made me shudder. It encouraged the use of corporal penances (instruments that cut the skin... one example is sufficient, I am sure), and in fact saw this as a mark of more advanced devotion, though always with the caution that one who wished to inflict physical pain on herself should have permission from her superior before she ordered the instruments.

Readers who are expecting elaboration on themes of sadism or masochism here shall be greatly disappointed. I not only never saw a trace of that in convent life or my lengthy association with nuns, but believe that most women in consecrated life are quite innocent - in fact, most of us, were we to see a man with a whip, would think he was a horse trainer. No, I doubt the self-inflicted pain had any sexual connection. It came from a distorted sense of sin, forgiveness, and even of atonement.

For many centuries, popular theological thought seemed to provide quite a cut and dried picture of redemption. All centred on the cross, not on creation or cosmic redemption. The formula unfolded as follows: God creates the world, with mankind in a painless, blissful paradise. Adam and Eve disobey and insult him, so God indulges his sense of justice by making the world quite a dreadful place in which to dwell, then bolts the gates of heaven shut. (When the original plan of creation was thwarted by man's free will, God had to go to Plan B.) Because God needed restitution, and this could only come from one equal to himself, his Son became man, and the crucifixion satisfied the justice of the Father, who allowed entry to heaven afterward but would not remove any of the earthly agony he imposed in Adam's day. This world was not only a vale of tears but one in which God sent his friends suffering - all one could hope for was happiness in heaven.

We tended to forget that Jesus suffered because of other people - that his crucifixion was a dreadful but natural outcome of his following his vocation to proclaim the kingdom. Paul, indeed, spoke of suffering but, again, his own imprisonment, martyrdom, and so forth were natural consequences of his vocation.

It is interesting that Julian of Norwich, though explaining visions which were of the crucifixion itself, could leave us with a picture of Christ laughing at the defeat of Satan, and taking joy in all of us. This is not a day when meditations on the Passion are popular (and when Freud, regrettably, would leave us a legacy of seeing what is sick in what is merely expressive... God knows what Freudians would make of depictions of Christ's blood, where I have another view since I just drank some.) Yet those of Julian, as one example, and however graphic they are in mourning Jesus' suffering and the sin of ours which contributed, are very positive and warm in their way. There is no suggestion of a God to be appeased - or that we need to inflict pain on ourselves.

My logical side tells me that, in Julian's time and place, suffering of all sorts (the Plague being a key example) was too 'near' to be ignored. (My own generation are convinced that they'll never die if they only join the right gym...) I have my own theories about the development of the excess strain on suffering - may write a book on it some day - but one point is on my mind at the moment.

Perhaps because we live in an era when persecution is not at our door, and when even those of us who are relatively poor have better health and shelter than those of the past, there is a sense that God is not going to let us be that 'comfortable.' Yes, the days of Nero are rather a faded memory - but the Sisters who taught me were not about to forget other persecutions and massive deaths, quite a lot closer to home.

My theology is totally at odds with 'God as punisher' images - yet those ghosts still do haunt me now and then. In fact, it can become "I had best punish myself before God takes it upon himself."

Perhaps I need to brush up my Greek and Latin even more than I have needed to do for my divinity course. If I really achieved high facility in the Greats, I would recognise that image - of a God who is insulted, takes revenge, inflicts punishment, needs constant placating - very well. He looks a good deal like Zeus...

Site update

Those interested in my reflections on The Cloud of Unknowing (a classic example of my being able to comment on texts while pouting about having to live their principles) will find that I have updated the section to include my personal commentary on the selections from the Cloud.

The unknown God

A. N. Wilson, in God's Funeral, a work on the "Victorian Crisis of Faith," notes the following:

"The nineteenth century had created a climate - philosophical, politico-sociological, literary, artistic, personal - in which God had become unknowable, his voice inaudible against the din of machines and the atonal banshee of the emerging ego-mania called the Modern. The cohesive force which orgainsed religion had once provided was broken. The nature of society itself, urban, materialised, industrialised, was the background for the godlessness which philosophy and science did not so much discover as ratify."

Later, he makes the telling point: "God's funeral was not the end of a phase of human intellectual history. It was the withdrawal of a great Love-object." (Emphasis mine.)

I have no talent for the social sciences, and dare say that ego-mania dates to the days when our 'first parents' took the word of a serpent that God was depriving them of the fruit of the tree lest they have knowledge equal to His. My own speciality in theology, if indeed I can claim any expertise at all, is ascetic. It is difficult for me to fully grasp the sorts of faith crises which stem from believing that intellectual integrity is at odds with faith, when (for example) belief seems to contradict 'facts,' because I know, all too well and for all of my own intellectual leanings, that worship is a matter of Love. (It deserves the capital L.)

One of the most painful parts, perhaps especially for the intellectual sorts such as myself, is that prayer does not involve knowing anything at all. There is no certainty in faith. We have no 'proofs' for the resurrection, revelation whether at Sinai or in the Incarantion, and so forth. Somehow, I am recalling the glorious words of John of the Cross: "I entered in, I know not where, and I remained, though knowing naught, transcending knowledge with my thought. So borne aloft, so drunken reeling, so rapt was I, so swept away, within the scope of sense or feeling, my sense or feeling could not stay."

The great mystics all had their different emphases. Just to mention a few I treat on my own site, Julian of Norwich had a tender, homely way of speaking of God - expressing great truths in 'parables' of the Trinity as a family. Her total solitude must have been agonising (nearly as much as the gossip the supposed 'seekers,' must have brought to the grate.) Francis of Assisi, a great lover but fragile, extreme, and passionate, needed to keep most of his expression to images of the earthly Jesus - the poor man who was humble in birth and suffering. Francis never could get past the remembrance of his own sinfulness, and perhaps the divine Logos was too overwhelming an image, unlike an impoverished Holy Family or agony in a garden.

Yet the mystics would have agreed with the agnostics on one point. God indeed is unknowable. We who believe can seek to see the hand of the Creator in the world, to try to 'know Him through his actions.' I suppose that all of us devoted to prayer have times of intense, silent awareness of God (or is it imagination - or a wish?) If indeed it is a glimpse of Him which we caught, awe inspiring though it is momentarily, afterward one is left with the doubt... or the sensitivity which makes the world's evil all the more painful.

Where are you, Lord? is a constant undertone. (Naturally accompanied, at times, with the "Are you there at all?") Pining with love and longing, the idea that we cannot truly know the beloved leaves us in 'limbo.' Are we merely recognising, and this importantly, the limitations of our own vision? Or have we 'created God'?

The Gnostics would claim indeed to 'know' - and, in the process, strip God not only of omnipotence but of any part in Creation, let alone Incarnation. In modern times, too many of those who 'doubt' lose me, because either I wonder what faith they really had in the first place, or why (just to cite one example) they shuddered that Genesis might not be an explanation of the details of creation when I cannot see it ever was intended as anything of the sort. I see the emphases, in the century preceding my birth and the one in which I lived, on 'progress' and 'family values' as idolatry, and this though I am an avid Christian socialist (which at least a few Victorians were, even if the richer ones words leave me with an aftertaste of calves' foot jelly) and one who, at least, cannot be faulted for caring for family. I pine for knowledge, read the theology with a passion, yet have the sense that Thomas Aquinas had a point about its being all straw (and who, after all, felt all he could define was what God was not.)

In the end, truth about the divine (...Master, don't let me discover you are not there!) can only be expressed in doxology. It is not that I doubt one word of orthodox teachings - yet it is impossible to provide a logical explanation, and, once we allow for divine intervention and revelation, a 'scientific' treatment can become bizarre. A man who was crucified, then rose from the dead - his continued presence in Church, sacrament, the inspiration of the Holy Spirit - there is no explanation. I can be caught in an intense love and silence, praying before the Sacrament, yet the simplicity of a Creator who can express himself, so that the ultimate awe can be accompanied by the knowledge of kneeling before a piece of bread, is beyond me.

I am beginning to see that, at best, all a doctor of humanities (such as myself) can offer is a history of belief. Yet A. N. Wilson, who hardly was writing for devotional purposes (and whose insightful and witty work I'd highly recommend), does capture an important point in one of his comments. All many believers can do is act with faith.

Quite. Perhaps, one of these days, Christianity shall catch up to the Judaism which knew that the kingdom is here - that God is acting in creation - that our own actions express worship more than any creed. (And this not denying the creeds! A good part of the action is the doxology I previously mentioned.) We can get so caught up in wondering who is right - how we are going to be rewarded or punished in the next world - whatever. The true God indeed is not our own creation - but how do we know Him, when we indeed do create many idols?

Assorted thoughts

To begin, one that is on my mind is just which prophecies and elements of the Scriptures the Risen Christ explained to those two disciples at Emmaus... even I may overcome my aversion to exegesis if I could read that account. There must be a wonderful course of thought to pursue, contemplating the Risen Christ in our midst, present in his Church, his spirit, his word and the breaking of the bread... but I need to warm up to that one, since my thoughts are far more playful today.

I have noticed, these past few days, what fun the media are having, condemning or commenting upon who grasped the hands of whom at the Peace during John Paul's funeral. I suppose, for example, that the Prince of Wales was supposed to focus some sort of death ray on Mugambe during this liturgical action... though I find the apologetic stance of the Mid-Eastern leaders to be somewhat more entertaining. Of course, the seating arrangements were the Vatican's doing, yet I cannot help but wonder, remembering what a man of peace and of prayer John Paul was, if he were not looking down from heaven and pushing a button.

Today, based on what I read on a discussion forum, there is quite an uproar about Cardinal Law's offering a Mass as part of the mourning for the Bishop of Rome. The media would give the impression that Law was being given some very special honour, as if it were an endorsement of his past negligence or what transpired in Boston. Lord have mercy, Jesus is the High Priest - should there be all sorts of bitterness arising from the exchanging of the Peace of Christ or the Breaking of the Bread?

Fiat

My self-control this morning was admirable. A group of employees of a church had been debating a question which was directed to me for resolution. Was the Beatles' "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" a reference to the old custom of tapping a deceased pope's forehead to ascertain that he had died?

With today's being the Feast of the Annunciation, there are easily fifty related themes on which I could dwell. Though I prefer the approach which Irenaeus, rather than Augustine, took towards original sin, the Franciscan in me cannot help but recall a position which my own Order held, and which has a certain charm. Franciscans, whether they understood Augustine or not (more likely the latter), did tend to promote the Immaculate Conception during the Middle Ages, much to the chagrin of Thomas Aquinas. Well, developing that favourite devotion most creatively, some Franciscans spoke of how , with Mary's being preserved from the impairment of reason and will which had existed since the unfortunate expelling from Eden, her 'fiat' was unique, amongst all save Christ, in that it was free of any selfishness.

That treatment is poetic, of course, but poetry is a favourite mode of expression for me. Luke would place a canticle of humble trust in God, and of exaltation in God's fulfilment of covenant, on Mary's lips in his account of the annunciation.

What on earth is total conformity to the will of God? Rhetorical question, of course - I doubt any one of us could have the answer. It goes beyond morality, most certainly, and most of us have quite enough struggle with that alone. Yet I would imagine it has much to do with such absorption in praise and worship that selfishness is quite alien. The great mystics reached a point where the only desire they had left was for God - and then had to deal with the frustration and darkness of such total love for the Transcendent One.

In the light of the Incarnation and Resurrection, Mary would know that, in her otherwise probably very ordinary life, she had been the tabernacle for the Incarnate Lord. May the grace of God transform all of us into His image and likeness. (Oh, how Augustinian of me!) ;)

Things could be worse

I am flat hunting at the moment - surely not a prospect that anyone would find particularly enjoyable. Fool that I am, I naturally asked others of my acquaintance if they knew of places available. I had forgotten that there is a human weakness for hearing of a situation and deciding to inform the other of how much worse things could be. Between, "how are you going to afford this?" or "you'll never find a buyer for your parents' house," (my flat money comes from that), and so forth, I was left with total tension and frustration... and, in a few cases, a strong uneasiness that those less fortunate than I (we all are working class, but my dad managed to buy a little house) were intensely jealous of me (even though my prospects are for the most modest of accommodations.)

Bad fortune, good fortune - it matters little. Too many people delight in upsetting others, and reminding them of how much worse things could be, or decreasing the value of the good. I normally am the most private of people, and had only mentioned the situation to others looking for prospects. Henceforth, I'm telling no one anything... I am too superstitious, and do not want the jealous ones hexing me.

However, if any of my readers see this forgettable post, I do ask for prayers - both that I find decent accommodation and that I do not stuff any of the ill-wishers up a chimney...

Now, having revealed what a superstitious, irritable little character I can be, I shall 'tell one on myself.' Appropriately, it has to do with the election of the recently deceased pontiff. One must recall that this was the 1970s, a time of great tumult for the Church indeed, but also the period of excessive charismania and a New Age flavour to the spirituality of young adults.

I was a director of music in a parish then, and the organist, who also was in his 20s, was a devout, deep, but rather eerie sort. Though his family was from the Ukraine, Paul took his seers where he could find them, and was very interested in the (probably spurious, and easily twisted... but who knew that then?) prophecies of Saint Malachy. When Paul VI died, Paul told me that, if the next pope came from the Slavic area, it would be a sign of the end times - so I had sighed with relief when delightful Albino Luciano occupied Peter's throne.

It was terribly sad, so few weeks later, when John Paul I departed this earth. I was watching the next papal election with my parents when the white smoke proclaimed 'habemus papam.' When Karol Wojtyla's election was announced, the screen showed a photograph of this young, robust, handsome Pole - and I went into a panic! "There's the last pope! It's the end times!"

It's different now. I have no notion of who Malachy has announced as the next successor to Peter... but, at this age, I have few worries, because Paul had told me that two more pope's would follow the one from Poland, each to reign as long as John Paul did. In fifty years, I'll be dead... so my own end times are not far off. :)

May the angels lead John Paul into Paradise

I'm breaking one of my own rules today, allowing purely personal observations (and therefore of no general interest). Yet somehow I wanted to record the context of learning of John Paul's death. I finally read the confirmation on Yahoo news, and turned on the BBC coverage, which I'll undoubtedly have on for hours to come. I joined in the Italian prayers and hymns, so wishing I could be in Rome today.

I admire John Paul's integrity - and indeed crossed the Tiber because of my own. I just cannot 'sign on the dotted line' on everything, and too much local RC public worship had become an intellectual and aesthetic wasteland. :) I also am more of the patristic "Rome, Jerusalem, Antioch, Alexandria, (Canterbury, Moscow)," mindset than the later papal model. How well I remember John Paul's election. I was in graduate school then, and for some reason was with my mother and father that afternoon. When my dad heard the Dean of the College of Cardinals announce the new pontiff was Ka-ROL Wo-TEEE-ya, he told me that an African pope had been elected.

John Paul was the 5th pope to reign during my own lifetime. I was a small child when Pius XII died; old enough to remember warm, merry, and homely John XXIII; came to maturity during the time of insightful, aristocratic Paul VI, whose later papacy would be a time of such grave tumult. Before his election to the papacy, Karol Wojtyla was hardly more than a name to me.

He was a man of strength and conviction - I never saw him as the autocrat that some others do, but he always gave a sense of tough-mindedness. I greatly admired his concern for social justice; his opposition to war; his frank condemnation of the atheistic, materialistic 'religions' of both communism and capitalism; his meeting with and gathering those of all faiths, Christian or not. As Eamon Duffy aptly mentioned today, John Paul had a total dedication to respect for life in what he saw as a culture of death. (They were by no means the only tyrants in John Paul's lifetime, but heaven knows that Death was a very close friend of Hitler's and Stalin's, and Karol had ample acquaintance with the tactics of both. I, too, have yet to see evidence that a culture of death is a thing of the past... but I doubt anyone will see that day.)

I am very glad that a pontiff of such intellectual abilities, and extraordinarily diverse life experience, could reign for a quarter of a century. Gladder still I am at the glory he must be contemplating right now! What a wonderful close to the octave of the Resurrection... and isn't tomorrow's gospel that of the Good Shepherd?

Welcome, Sister Death

I'm assuredly not alone in having expected the doors of the Vatican to be closed this morning. I have this odd, perhaps silly, idea that John Paul shall 'hold out' until Monday - with his Marian devotion, for him to die on the feast of the Annunciation would be most appropriate. (I never underestimate the inward will of the dying, or how it can affect their last hours.)

Francis of Assisi's welcome to Sister Death sounds in my memory today. Franciscans often puzzle others with their attitudes towards 'her' visitation! I can remember, for example, an elderly sister of my acquaintance. Her motherhouse had a cemetery for the congregation, and, when one nun died, the community found it less expensive to have the grave dug not only for the deceased sister but for two others who would be joining her shortly. The other two calmly recited their devotions outdoors, on the lovely spring day, in no way troubled by watching the gravediggers prepare their spot.

I want to qualify yesterday's entry - because I have read comments on other sites from those who see John Paul's death as a blessing because they hope his successor will 'bring the Church into the 21st century.' My 'Te Deum' had no flavour of 'glad to see him go.' It is based on gratitude and on joy at John Paul's entering the next phase of life - growth, adoration, possible purification, whatever, which fits mortal eyes to behold divine glory in its splendour. (And that progress shall never end...)

I seldom make personal observations, but I shall add one because others may be a bit curious at what enters the mind of those in consecrated life as far as death is concerned. I fear suffering on this earth as much as does anyone, yet am not afraid of being dead, which I see as only progressing to another stage of intimacy with the Beloved. If there is a practical reward for celibacy, it is that one need not fear a child's being left without care at one's passing. Nor do religious have any illusions that their work is irreplaceable.

Yet, on a more human and emotional plane, most of us know that our memory will die practically at once. Were I to leave this world today, no one would truly mourn me. I served many people through the years, but the detachment which consecrated life brings keeps one from the sort of intimacy where one remains cherished and remembered. Those whom we have served forget us as soon as our work for them is finished.

This is rather silly and selfish, as I well know. :) Those of us who embrace consecrated life know, deep down, that our witness is primarily eschatological - a reminder that there is more to human life than what one sees on this earth - and that creation and cosmic redemption are glorious yet vague concepts because we do not have divine minds.

John Paul is in no danger of not being remembered - how many lives have more historical significance or impact? He is well loved, and billions will mourn him. (And just as many shall speak of how they feel his pontificate went on too long and halted progress.... but that is for others to chronicle...) Yet they did not know Karol - most are seeing the incredible impact he had on world affairs, the wonderful ideals he promoted, the stability he showed in doctrine and / or the progressive stand on social justice. They are mourning the pope, not Karol, who undoubtedly had a great detachment, and resultant solitude, because of the role ordained for him.

The great people of prayer (and this observation is based on my having studied their writings practically since I could read) had a joy and sorrow which is beyond average comprehension. Having caught a glimpse of divine glory, they had a longing for the Beloved (whom they could not fully know - and who is no Lover who provides fun times and emotional sustenance) :) compounded by a heightened awareness of the evil in this world. They loved creation, certainly, but had a frustration, a sense of longing for what is beyond this earth. Intense love of God would mean such for neighbour as well, naturally. Yet, in the end, there is silence, unknowing, solitude - and always the uncertainty.