I love good dramas, and, as far as film versions go, I'd give "Vera Drake" five stars. It was totally absorbing - acting superb - excellent ensemble. Imelda Staunton was outstanding.
Obviously, film reviews are not what I provide here. :) Yet the character of Vera brought several points to mind. When Vera is 'helping girls in trouble,' one never knows whether, based on previous experience (her own?), she does not expect there can be dangerous effects, or whether she is aware of but chooses to ignore this. The girl who nearly dies as a result of the abortion is saved only because she was not alone when she began to convulse. Vera is totally distraught at the news - and it appears that such a possibility would never have occurred to her.
At first glance, Vera seems to be a good-hearted sort who would drop in on anyone with a problem - even if only to offer a cup of tea. (That in fact is Vera's suggestion in any circumstance - and, for all that my own cups of tea are highly therapeutic, and I can think of no situation where a cup makes things any worse, her involvement with others is peripheral. Perhaps her sister-in-law, who sees Vera more as a busybody than having a 'heart of gold,' would not be alone in that assessment.) Yet there is complexity here which reminded me of an attitude I've seen in many, including those within the church, who seek to be involved in others' lives - with good intentions but a lack of prudence. Vera chooses to ignore the underlying problems.
We see Vera perform several abortions before the one which nearly causes a death, and several of the ladies clearly are deeply worried about possible consequences, one actually amazed that Vera will not be returning to see if she is all right, another asking point blank if she can die. ("What you need now is a nice cup of tea, dear.") The question is unanswered. Is Vera narrow of vision, where her own experience is the boundary and no other possibility admitted? Or does she not care to look at gruesome alternatives?
I made mention, in another post, of how those within the church too often are ready to shrug off those in need with stock answers. Lesson one in pastoral care (in any sense) should be "do not assume you know others' experience."
Pax et Bonum... it is a bit too hot for me to develop this now but, be forewarned, it is a topic to which I shall return. :)
Tuesday, 19 July 2005
Sunday, 17 July 2005
"That's all they're showing this year"
I happen to know two women, who have no connection with each other, both of whom are hairdressers. I would imagine that their customers go on about various details of their lives, and coincidentally both of them use the trite line I quoted as header for this post. Mention to either one that you painted your kitchen a particular colour, have a certain decor, are wearing a new outfit, whatever, and the inevitable comment will be, "That's all they're showing this year."
I suppose some people find that complimentary - I would not. Whether I have designed a room, a dress, curtains, or an Internet site, I value personal style and creative expression, not the opinions or trends which "they" would encourage "this year." I, in fact, would find it insulting that anyone would think my selections were based on trying to conform to some silly trend.
The hairdressers, of course, are using a stock line that is harmless. Yet it is unfortunate that, in my many years of church work, too many people, who were in positions that involved education or counsel, or who spoke or published for the masses, had a tendency to parrot trendy lines. For example, in answer to a serious question or criticism, I knew one Sister in a prominent position who would always say, "That's the way the church is moving." Another would respond, in similar situations, invariably with, "You have to be very open to change." That is not an answer - only a way to cut off a question.
In pastoral situations, it could be worse still. When I worked in a university campus ministry, one nun loved for people to confide in her, and indeed encouraged this immensely. Yet those who truly wished some sort of response or guidance would inevitably hear, "We like our lives tucked in neat little boxes."
No one loves words more than I, or clichés less. Most of the time, when another is troubled, there is nothing we can do - but, in such situations, listening in itself is preferable to cutting people off with a stock phrase. The latter only shows that one is not caring for the other, but just wishes to seem wise.
I suppose some people find that complimentary - I would not. Whether I have designed a room, a dress, curtains, or an Internet site, I value personal style and creative expression, not the opinions or trends which "they" would encourage "this year." I, in fact, would find it insulting that anyone would think my selections were based on trying to conform to some silly trend.
The hairdressers, of course, are using a stock line that is harmless. Yet it is unfortunate that, in my many years of church work, too many people, who were in positions that involved education or counsel, or who spoke or published for the masses, had a tendency to parrot trendy lines. For example, in answer to a serious question or criticism, I knew one Sister in a prominent position who would always say, "That's the way the church is moving." Another would respond, in similar situations, invariably with, "You have to be very open to change." That is not an answer - only a way to cut off a question.
In pastoral situations, it could be worse still. When I worked in a university campus ministry, one nun loved for people to confide in her, and indeed encouraged this immensely. Yet those who truly wished some sort of response or guidance would inevitably hear, "We like our lives tucked in neat little boxes."
No one loves words more than I, or clichés less. Most of the time, when another is troubled, there is nothing we can do - but, in such situations, listening in itself is preferable to cutting people off with a stock phrase. The latter only shows that one is not caring for the other, but just wishes to seem wise.
Friday, 8 July 2005
A wee tale of the value of casuistry
Between a question I was asked recently, and what I've been reading about the proper Victorians' shock at Alphonsus Liguori's casuistry, I wonder why 'Catholic guilt' is given such emphasis. Then again, my family is from the diocese which bordered on Alphonsus', and I have no genetic pre-disposition to excessive guilt. Our attitude was that God was, after all, our Father - and, anyway, we were very close with His mother. :)
If I were to be Thomistic for a moment, Thomas treated of grave sin as that which involved reflection and consent. In brief, casuistry admits that, if there is any doubt that gravity, use of reason, or consent of the will were deficient, such doubt cannot co-exist with certainty! I dare say that Alphonsus knew a person or two who would justify even murder, depending on the victim. (Of course, I think that, deep down, we know that the grave sins usually did involve reflection and consent... and the surest sign of certainty is when we are doing mental gymnastics to determine that we lacked use of reason or will in relation to our own sins... Alphonsus did not intend his instructions in moral theology to be a 'do it yourself' kit.) :) But I should like to share a little story I heard in childhood which is profound in its simplicity.
Terrence was the son of two thieves and, from earliest childhood, his parents had taught him the craft. One day, when he was sent out to pick pockets, a harsh rainstorm arose, and he ducked into the local Catholic church (where he'd been baptised - though he'd not been much of a visitor since) for shelter.
A group of children were gathered there, listening to a sermon explaining how to make one's first Confession, preparatory to their doing so that day. Terrence's interest was sparked, and he decided to join them.
Terrence confessed his disobedience, in that he had sat listening to the sermon when he'd been sent out to pick pockets.
If I were to be Thomistic for a moment, Thomas treated of grave sin as that which involved reflection and consent. In brief, casuistry admits that, if there is any doubt that gravity, use of reason, or consent of the will were deficient, such doubt cannot co-exist with certainty! I dare say that Alphonsus knew a person or two who would justify even murder, depending on the victim. (Of course, I think that, deep down, we know that the grave sins usually did involve reflection and consent... and the surest sign of certainty is when we are doing mental gymnastics to determine that we lacked use of reason or will in relation to our own sins... Alphonsus did not intend his instructions in moral theology to be a 'do it yourself' kit.) :) But I should like to share a little story I heard in childhood which is profound in its simplicity.
Terrence was the son of two thieves and, from earliest childhood, his parents had taught him the craft. One day, when he was sent out to pick pockets, a harsh rainstorm arose, and he ducked into the local Catholic church (where he'd been baptised - though he'd not been much of a visitor since) for shelter.
A group of children were gathered there, listening to a sermon explaining how to make one's first Confession, preparatory to their doing so that day. Terrence's interest was sparked, and he decided to join them.
Terrence confessed his disobedience, in that he had sat listening to the sermon when he'd been sent out to pick pockets.
Thursday, 7 July 2005
Briefest of thoughts on the day that London was 'blasted'
To my knowledge, all of my friends are safe, and for that I am very grateful. When I am upset, I tend to (to quote my spiritual father) worship at the altar of fear, rather than that of the true God - and so it has been today. I therefore encourage my readers to visit Father Gregory's blog, where one may find a reflection that has wisdom spiritual and earthly! :)
There is little that I can say, because I shall never understand attacks of this type. Why, since Cain and Abel, has a desire for power or control tended to equate to violence?
God grant us peace. As shaken as I am by what happened today, I tremble the more to think of what certain world leaders (I'm thinking of one who used a terrorist attack a few years back as an occasion to threaten eleven nations, none of whom were even involved, with atomic bombs*) might use this as an excuse for unleashing.
Auschwitz and Hiroshima (just as two examples) indeed cured the world of the mindset of Victorian optimism (and God keep us from ever falling into that again, because we can only meet God and neighbour in the real world, however fallen.) It is a shame that it did not cure mankind of the desire to crush and kill and destroy.
*My mentioning that the nations were not involved in the attack is not to be taken to mean that I think atomic warfare is moral in any case!!
There is little that I can say, because I shall never understand attacks of this type. Why, since Cain and Abel, has a desire for power or control tended to equate to violence?
God grant us peace. As shaken as I am by what happened today, I tremble the more to think of what certain world leaders (I'm thinking of one who used a terrorist attack a few years back as an occasion to threaten eleven nations, none of whom were even involved, with atomic bombs*) might use this as an excuse for unleashing.
Auschwitz and Hiroshima (just as two examples) indeed cured the world of the mindset of Victorian optimism (and God keep us from ever falling into that again, because we can only meet God and neighbour in the real world, however fallen.) It is a shame that it did not cure mankind of the desire to crush and kill and destroy.
*My mentioning that the nations were not involved in the attack is not to be taken to mean that I think atomic warfare is moral in any case!!
Thursday, 30 June 2005
Films can jar the memory
The problem with being a film buff, the more if one's preference is drama, is that some of the best acted presentations can jar deep memories. Yesterday, I saw "The Magdalene Sisters," undoubtedly one of the best-acted and most horrifying films in recent years.
I shall not comment here about the details of the Magdalene laundries - that misery is amply documented elsewhere. Yet, for all that my life is quite different from the unfortunate women who were housed there, certain religious themes presented were all too familiar to me. (In fact, the Order which educated me staffed some of the reformatories and 'penitent' houses in Ireland - though the attitude was hardly exclusive to those in such apostolates.) The idea that one can never atone enough for one's own sins, that suffering and sacrifice (by which I mean that beyond what one encounters naturally in life) is the way to holiness, and the general image of an angry God who must punish us to purge our weakness, is a grim memory I can never seem to shake.
Oddly enough, this in no way corresponds to what I believe, let alone to my intellectual convictions about the faith. But the emotional goblins, introduced at such a young age, indeed do reappear from time to time. I knew full well, viewing "The Magdalene Sisters," that, horrid though the abuse these girls received was, the lives of the nuns were probably no better. The headmistress (I am not about to say warden) reminded me vividly of nuns I knew in youth - capable of charm, humour, and engaging ways, yet brutal. I doubt this was born of hatred. I think those who behaved in this fashion genuinely believed they were saving others from going wrong - perhaps even from hell. Convent life, too often, equally was a way of personal 'redemptive suffering.'
Perhaps that today, when it seems that self-esteem reigns, one's personal desires are exalted, and we have little sense of personal sin at all, it is, at least in part, an over-reaction to the ways that were still popular only a few decades ago.
Franciscans stress 'penance' a good deal, yet, for all that Francis could torture himself (without imposing the same practises on the others), true penance is beautiful - a continuous metanoia. The difference between self-torture and genuine penance are as vast as those between a destructive storm and a peaceful, refreshing bath (heavy on the aromatherapy oils for me, please.) Penance is not inflicting pain. It consists of, first, acknowledging that actions have consequences. Oh, all of us are aware of natural consequences - but, even when there are few or none for an action, the spiritual consequences remain - the intimacy with God is hampered (and not because of a lack of initiative on His part.) Beyond this, it essentially consists in seeking to conform one's life to the gospel.
Is it ever possible to strike the proper balance...
I shall not comment here about the details of the Magdalene laundries - that misery is amply documented elsewhere. Yet, for all that my life is quite different from the unfortunate women who were housed there, certain religious themes presented were all too familiar to me. (In fact, the Order which educated me staffed some of the reformatories and 'penitent' houses in Ireland - though the attitude was hardly exclusive to those in such apostolates.) The idea that one can never atone enough for one's own sins, that suffering and sacrifice (by which I mean that beyond what one encounters naturally in life) is the way to holiness, and the general image of an angry God who must punish us to purge our weakness, is a grim memory I can never seem to shake.
Oddly enough, this in no way corresponds to what I believe, let alone to my intellectual convictions about the faith. But the emotional goblins, introduced at such a young age, indeed do reappear from time to time. I knew full well, viewing "The Magdalene Sisters," that, horrid though the abuse these girls received was, the lives of the nuns were probably no better. The headmistress (I am not about to say warden) reminded me vividly of nuns I knew in youth - capable of charm, humour, and engaging ways, yet brutal. I doubt this was born of hatred. I think those who behaved in this fashion genuinely believed they were saving others from going wrong - perhaps even from hell. Convent life, too often, equally was a way of personal 'redemptive suffering.'
Perhaps that today, when it seems that self-esteem reigns, one's personal desires are exalted, and we have little sense of personal sin at all, it is, at least in part, an over-reaction to the ways that were still popular only a few decades ago.
Franciscans stress 'penance' a good deal, yet, for all that Francis could torture himself (without imposing the same practises on the others), true penance is beautiful - a continuous metanoia. The difference between self-torture and genuine penance are as vast as those between a destructive storm and a peaceful, refreshing bath (heavy on the aromatherapy oils for me, please.) Penance is not inflicting pain. It consists of, first, acknowledging that actions have consequences. Oh, all of us are aware of natural consequences - but, even when there are few or none for an action, the spiritual consequences remain - the intimacy with God is hampered (and not because of a lack of initiative on His part.) Beyond this, it essentially consists in seeking to conform one's life to the gospel.
Is it ever possible to strike the proper balance...
Monday, 27 June 2005
Brief 'notes' on computer music
With the caveat that one must not expect an orchestra when one hears MIDI files, those of you who have asked about my sequenced folk and spiritual selections may hear some of them at Laura's MIDI Heaven.
Saturday, 25 June 2005
Clarification - mysticism and prayer
I received an e-mail today from a reader who disliked my essay on mysticism, believing that I had disassociated mysticism from prayer. That was not at all my intention, and I wished to record a few points here. (Perhaps the essay needs some updating in any case.)
First, I am amazed at how much mail I receive from people who had no idea that mysticism had any relation to Christianity, thinking it the exclusive province of New Age and Buddhist traditions. If I may quote myself for a moment: "Christian mysticism sees growth in spirituality as involving an ever deepening, personal relationship with God. The mystic, whose longing for a total bond with the Beloved, is not seeking nothingness, nor to “find the God within.” His Lover is also a Person, albeit one Divine. Since true contemplation is a gift of grace from God Himself, the mystic remains fully (and, perhaps, anxiously) aware that his own accomplishments and efforts cannot attain this union."
I had assumed (probably unwisely - though I treat of this in other essays) that it was understood that Christian mystics have a life centred on prayer and the sacraments. That reminds me of an important point. The writers to whom I refer on my site (such as the author of the Cloud of Unknowing) were addressing their words to a person or persons with whom they had a continued personal relationship, and whom they knew were committed to a life of prayer. If there is no reference to the need for prayer and sacrament, this does not mean that they are unimportant, much less that the mystic is 'beyond' them. These would be so integral to the mystic's life that they would require no reference.
One common mistake is to consider writings, such as Walter Hilton's Ladder of Perfection or the works of Teresa of Avila, as if they were a handbook. Those called to heights of contemplation are responding to a special grace - they are not superior to others, and it is not a matter of personal achievement. Though Walter, Teresa, et al indeed were referring to what one would expect (or how one should behave) at a certain point on the 'ladder,' this does not mean 'follow this step and proceed to the next.' That really is not in our hands. There are mystics whose lives contain many unusual experiences and consolations - others who face a sense of emptiness and desolation.
Bear with me - I am of a generation when 'contemplative prayer' (not necessarily properly understood, and with no consideration of discernment) was a hot topic. One could hear instructions such as 'do this particular prayer for a month, and you'll reach the prayer of quiet.'
I may be expressing this awkwardly, but we need to recall that Christ's Church is a 'whole.' That divine grace may ordain that one person is a mystic, another not so, has nothing to do with achievement or relative value. :) There are mystics, such as Richard Rolle, whose writings are exquisite (well, at their best), but who never could get past anger and tunnel vision. Margery Kempe, who I doubt was a mystic but who certainly thought herself one, thought herself a beacon of instruction for others, but her writings do not show true compassion even for her own husband - yet her will seems turned in the right direction.
Prayer indeed would be primary in the life of the mystic. Yet we cannot decide 'if I pray in this fashion or that, mysticism shall follow naturally.'
I do thank the writer I mentioned, who has reminded me that I need to expand and clarify what I included in the essay on mysticism itself.
Happy Midsummer's Day to all.
First, I am amazed at how much mail I receive from people who had no idea that mysticism had any relation to Christianity, thinking it the exclusive province of New Age and Buddhist traditions. If I may quote myself for a moment: "Christian mysticism sees growth in spirituality as involving an ever deepening, personal relationship with God. The mystic, whose longing for a total bond with the Beloved, is not seeking nothingness, nor to “find the God within.” His Lover is also a Person, albeit one Divine. Since true contemplation is a gift of grace from God Himself, the mystic remains fully (and, perhaps, anxiously) aware that his own accomplishments and efforts cannot attain this union."
I had assumed (probably unwisely - though I treat of this in other essays) that it was understood that Christian mystics have a life centred on prayer and the sacraments. That reminds me of an important point. The writers to whom I refer on my site (such as the author of the Cloud of Unknowing) were addressing their words to a person or persons with whom they had a continued personal relationship, and whom they knew were committed to a life of prayer. If there is no reference to the need for prayer and sacrament, this does not mean that they are unimportant, much less that the mystic is 'beyond' them. These would be so integral to the mystic's life that they would require no reference.
One common mistake is to consider writings, such as Walter Hilton's Ladder of Perfection or the works of Teresa of Avila, as if they were a handbook. Those called to heights of contemplation are responding to a special grace - they are not superior to others, and it is not a matter of personal achievement. Though Walter, Teresa, et al indeed were referring to what one would expect (or how one should behave) at a certain point on the 'ladder,' this does not mean 'follow this step and proceed to the next.' That really is not in our hands. There are mystics whose lives contain many unusual experiences and consolations - others who face a sense of emptiness and desolation.
Bear with me - I am of a generation when 'contemplative prayer' (not necessarily properly understood, and with no consideration of discernment) was a hot topic. One could hear instructions such as 'do this particular prayer for a month, and you'll reach the prayer of quiet.'
I may be expressing this awkwardly, but we need to recall that Christ's Church is a 'whole.' That divine grace may ordain that one person is a mystic, another not so, has nothing to do with achievement or relative value. :) There are mystics, such as Richard Rolle, whose writings are exquisite (well, at their best), but who never could get past anger and tunnel vision. Margery Kempe, who I doubt was a mystic but who certainly thought herself one, thought herself a beacon of instruction for others, but her writings do not show true compassion even for her own husband - yet her will seems turned in the right direction.
Prayer indeed would be primary in the life of the mystic. Yet we cannot decide 'if I pray in this fashion or that, mysticism shall follow naturally.'
I do thank the writer I mentioned, who has reminded me that I need to expand and clarify what I included in the essay on mysticism itself.
Happy Midsummer's Day to all.
Thursday, 23 June 2005
Fashion diversion
Now and then, I must go from the sublime to the earthy. I have a lifelong love for fashion (indeed, am a trained dressmaker), and my prejudiced views on that topic shall be recorded here for posterity. As a middle-aged woman (never a beauty, but in the fateful era of life where one questions "am I still pretty?," even if candour would make me admit I never was), some of the 'tips' I shall record are aimed at my age group - but the general standards apply to all ladies.
John Steinbeck once made a memorable comment and, though he was referring to children, it applies equally to some women: if the fashion became to hang pork chops round the neck, it would be a sad one who did not wear pork chops. For all that I shake my head at the dreadful new style of strapless wedding gowns, in total candour I've seen worse in my day. Those with long memories may remember (much as they choose to forget) the ludicrous spectacle of 'evening hot pants.' Or wedding dresses some in my day chose to wear - the top appearing to be a formal gown, but the skirt the size of a postage stamp. Fad and style are not synonymous! Of course, those like myself, who do have a personal style, will always have others who, assuming one does not know what is 'in,' instruct one in the topic... but at least we shall never blush to, for example, look at old pictures of ourselves in velvet short-shorts.
Here are a few of my 'rules.'
Having revealed how very un-spiritual I can be now and then... I wish you all the best. :)
John Steinbeck once made a memorable comment and, though he was referring to children, it applies equally to some women: if the fashion became to hang pork chops round the neck, it would be a sad one who did not wear pork chops. For all that I shake my head at the dreadful new style of strapless wedding gowns, in total candour I've seen worse in my day. Those with long memories may remember (much as they choose to forget) the ludicrous spectacle of 'evening hot pants.' Or wedding dresses some in my day chose to wear - the top appearing to be a formal gown, but the skirt the size of a postage stamp. Fad and style are not synonymous! Of course, those like myself, who do have a personal style, will always have others who, assuming one does not know what is 'in,' instruct one in the topic... but at least we shall never blush to, for example, look at old pictures of ourselves in velvet short-shorts.
Here are a few of my 'rules.'
- Do not believe that drawing a black line under your eyes 'looks like your eyelashes.' The effect is similar to that of a raccoon.
- Running shoes, white socks, and sweat suits are for sports activities only. Full stop. They do not make you look youthful - only sloppy.
- The most shapely legs on the planet would look terrible in (visible) socks.
- Whatever your size, obtain clothing that fits in the first place. Skin tight clothing gives one's rear view the appearance of a hippopatamus - never believe that wearing tight clothes makes you look slimmer, or that clothing that fits 'adds inches.' And I said "fits in the first place," not "fits after massive corsetry which you do not realise has pushed all your skin into the form of a hump on the upper part of the back."
- For reasons I shall never understand, a woman who chops off her hair will receive compliments at once (usually 'you look younger') - even if she looks terrible. Use some judgement here. Do you really wish to look like a highly effeminate man?
- If you wax or shave your legs, don't forget the toes. The combined effect of smooth legs, sandles, and long hair on the toes is far from flattering.
- Skirts that are half way up the thigh or shorter should be reserved to those under 25.
- Keep your judgement intact. Whatever fashion magazines called stunning in March they will call dowdy in June.
- Being transformed into a dowdy frump in the name of 'looking professional' is a crime.
Having revealed how very un-spiritual I can be now and then... I wish you all the best. :)
Wednesday, 22 June 2005
Humanity as icons of divine love
From a homily by Gregory of Nyssa
It is quite a task indeed to write a single syllable after quoting glorious words such as these! :)
My love for the patristic writings has increased with age - even if it seems an unusual development in a medievalist. The Cappadoccians, of whom Gregory is perhaps the most prominent, lived in an era following the conversion of Constantine, and one in which 12 church councils took place within 23 years. I often need to remind myself, steeped in post 1000AD history as I am, of the world at the time - and that the magnificent Cappadoccians were not preaching to packed churches, but largely in the midst of paganism. (I wonder if any of those around them understood them at the time?) Many ascetics had taken off for the desert - to be criticised, sometimes with justification (it could be a way to avoid military service and taxation...), as a burden on right-thinking people who had to end up being their support. Many a nut case had taken off in this manner, and Gregory's brother, +Basil of Caesarea, stressed an antidote of combining social concern, common monastic life, care for the poor, and manual labour as a way of true charity and balance in the ascetic vocation.
The unknowability of God was stressed by Plato, Philo, and Clement of Alexandria – what distinguished Basil (Synod of Constantinople, 360) is less the idea than its use. He had to defend himself against charges of agnosticism – and develop a distinction between incomprehensible being and the comprehensible activity of God.
Now, why do I combine Basil's treatment of monastic life (which Benedict himself would urge his monks to read centuries later) with his brother's wonderful words on our being 'mirrors'? I suppose because I always see a white-hot passion in the Cappadoccians' writings. The unknowability of God was not the pathway to a dark cloud, but an awareness that there is little that we can know of the divine nature - without this preventing our transformation.
It is regrettable that, for many centuries, there was far too much stress on avoiding hell, and those such as Calvin had a pessimism about our nature that made it seem we were basically wicked. Redemption was viewed as salvation from hell fire - rather than as the burning fire of love I mentioned in the previous paragraph. Our weakness and sinfulness tarnish the mirror somewhat... and I'm beginning to learn (well, perhaps I always knew deep down, but I'm a romantic, and we do not become practical until our later years) that the life of prayer, which one hopes disposes oneself for transformation, often boils down to what Basil set forth (even if one does not live in a monastery.) It is largely 'going through the motions,' admitting the limitations of one's own vision, and turning one's will in the right direction.
This, I hasten to add, is more than enough to fill three lifetimes...
Unless one has been hopelessly corrupted by the 'self esteem crowd,' I suppose that most of us have some awareness of our weakness. Yet I am seeing, more and more, that there are far more rampant, and often crippling, distractions (to borrow my spiritual director's apt term) in our lives than blatant sin. The education of the will, as it were, seems to consist in much 'going through the motions' regardless of the distractions at hand.
My current distraction being frustration at wanting to say much and writing so poorly tonight that I'd best get off to recite Compline...
- This is the blessedness of the pure of heart: in seeing their own purity, they see the divine Archetype mirrored in themselves.
Those who look at the sun in a mirror, even if they do not look directly at the sky, see its radiance in the reflection just as truly as those who look directly at the sun's orb. It is the same, says the Lord, with you. Even though you are unable to contemplate and see the inaccessible light, you will find what you seek within yourself, provided you return to the beauty and grace of that image which was originally placed in you. For God is purity; he is free from sin and a stranger to all evil. If this can be said of you, then God will surely be within you. If your mind is untainted by any evil, free from sin, and purified from all stain, then indeed you are blessed, because your sight is keen and clear. Once purified, you see things that others cannot see. When the mists of sin no longer cloud the eye of your soul, you see that blessed vision clearly in the peace and purity of your own heart. That vision is nothing else than the holiness, the purity, the simplicity, and all the other glorious reflections of God's nature, through which God Himself is seen.
It is quite a task indeed to write a single syllable after quoting glorious words such as these! :)
My love for the patristic writings has increased with age - even if it seems an unusual development in a medievalist. The Cappadoccians, of whom Gregory is perhaps the most prominent, lived in an era following the conversion of Constantine, and one in which 12 church councils took place within 23 years. I often need to remind myself, steeped in post 1000AD history as I am, of the world at the time - and that the magnificent Cappadoccians were not preaching to packed churches, but largely in the midst of paganism. (I wonder if any of those around them understood them at the time?) Many ascetics had taken off for the desert - to be criticised, sometimes with justification (it could be a way to avoid military service and taxation...), as a burden on right-thinking people who had to end up being their support. Many a nut case had taken off in this manner, and Gregory's brother, +Basil of Caesarea, stressed an antidote of combining social concern, common monastic life, care for the poor, and manual labour as a way of true charity and balance in the ascetic vocation.
The unknowability of God was stressed by Plato, Philo, and Clement of Alexandria – what distinguished Basil (Synod of Constantinople, 360) is less the idea than its use. He had to defend himself against charges of agnosticism – and develop a distinction between incomprehensible being and the comprehensible activity of God.
Now, why do I combine Basil's treatment of monastic life (which Benedict himself would urge his monks to read centuries later) with his brother's wonderful words on our being 'mirrors'? I suppose because I always see a white-hot passion in the Cappadoccians' writings. The unknowability of God was not the pathway to a dark cloud, but an awareness that there is little that we can know of the divine nature - without this preventing our transformation.
It is regrettable that, for many centuries, there was far too much stress on avoiding hell, and those such as Calvin had a pessimism about our nature that made it seem we were basically wicked. Redemption was viewed as salvation from hell fire - rather than as the burning fire of love I mentioned in the previous paragraph. Our weakness and sinfulness tarnish the mirror somewhat... and I'm beginning to learn (well, perhaps I always knew deep down, but I'm a romantic, and we do not become practical until our later years) that the life of prayer, which one hopes disposes oneself for transformation, often boils down to what Basil set forth (even if one does not live in a monastery.) It is largely 'going through the motions,' admitting the limitations of one's own vision, and turning one's will in the right direction.
This, I hasten to add, is more than enough to fill three lifetimes...
Unless one has been hopelessly corrupted by the 'self esteem crowd,' I suppose that most of us have some awareness of our weakness. Yet I am seeing, more and more, that there are far more rampant, and often crippling, distractions (to borrow my spiritual director's apt term) in our lives than blatant sin. The education of the will, as it were, seems to consist in much 'going through the motions' regardless of the distractions at hand.
My current distraction being frustration at wanting to say much and writing so poorly tonight that I'd best get off to recite Compline...
Sunday, 19 June 2005
Dinosauria and design
I have a lifelong love for dinosaurs - they absolutely fascinate me. The only 'down side' to my passion for them is that it means that I never miss an opportunity to visit a natural history museum. Invariably, when I choose to do so will be a day when many children are there for the same purpose... and to children I have no addiction whatever. Recently, I was quite delighted when a museum staff member let me hold a T. rex's tooth!
I have no gifts for science in the least, but it is amazing what can cause awe for me. (I'll devote other blog entries, I'm sure, to how I felt when viewing the pictures of the planets and their moons, and when I saw the diagram of DNA.) Looking up at those massive skeletons (my favourite is Triceratops), and recalling how these majestic creatures ruled the Earth for millions of years longer than mankind has existed, gives me further awe for the vastness of creation.
I often have thought how thrilling it must have been for the early paleontologists (less than two centuries ago) to have found the first dinosaur fossils. Yet I must smile, knowing that, for everyone who was inspired at the time, there were at least 2 Victorian minds saddened by becoming aware of these monstrosities (sorry, Creator!) :) whose discovery shook up the concept that earth was 6,000 years old - who became extinct, a horrifying thought in the days when it was assumed that God created each species individually, and with the characteristics it needed to survive - and that these animals seemed to have no purpose.
Part of the reason that I love dinosaurs, I suppose, is that they are a reminder of just how little we do know and understand.
On another note (but one related), I saw an embroidered pillow once which read, "Of all the things I've ever lost, I miss my mind the most." I wonder if that was made by another middle-aged scholar? Lord have mercy, do I miss the quickness I once had - the fluency in all the languages a musicologist studies, where, sadly, I barely remember all that much about music now - the analytical sense.... Sigh! I'm hoping I take ever my mother's family, because, if so, I'll have another 40 years ahead of me. I hope that nothing happens to interrupt my resuming my scholarly pursuits - and that, before my ashes are scattered in St James' Park, I have the mental ability that I had a quarter century ago, before I embarked on the (I thought then, temporary) hated years of business management and telecommunications.
In my day, I did love philosophy - but it is difficult resuming this again. (I doubt I actually know more than I did then... in truth, I know less for all I have forgotten.) I was extremely sad this year, because (for reasons I'll not mention here) circumstances prevented my sitting my exams for my divinity degree. I hope to do so next May, and, as a 'head start,' (I normally do two exams - but perhaps next year I'll do three) I've been studying Philosophy of Religion. I'm rather embarrassed - people young enough to be my children probably are having an easier time - and, in my case, I've studied most of this in the past. Yet I do enjoy looking through it all, now that I am at the age that could be the beginning of wisdom. Is any one of the arguments more complex or difficult than 'divine simplicity'? :)
Yet my musing on my beloved dinosaurs led me to smile. Yes, I respect Paley and others for their efforts, but the design argument was never intended to be a science or history text. :) Who (well, besides Hume... but he predated Paley by about 30 years anyway... I suppose Paley just ignored his objections..) would have thought that it would seem a blow to faith to consider that species could become extinct?
I believe that anyone studying theology needs a background in the philosophy of religion. It is valuable training in reason, and, after all, none of the philosophical arguments can do more than, at best, concede that (to use design as an example) a creative intelligence is more likely than not. They certainly cannot prove the existence of a God who has all of the attributes with which Jewish and Christian belief would endow him, much less one who became Incarnate.
I have no gifts for science in the least, but it is amazing what can cause awe for me. (I'll devote other blog entries, I'm sure, to how I felt when viewing the pictures of the planets and their moons, and when I saw the diagram of DNA.) Looking up at those massive skeletons (my favourite is Triceratops), and recalling how these majestic creatures ruled the Earth for millions of years longer than mankind has existed, gives me further awe for the vastness of creation.
I often have thought how thrilling it must have been for the early paleontologists (less than two centuries ago) to have found the first dinosaur fossils. Yet I must smile, knowing that, for everyone who was inspired at the time, there were at least 2 Victorian minds saddened by becoming aware of these monstrosities (sorry, Creator!) :) whose discovery shook up the concept that earth was 6,000 years old - who became extinct, a horrifying thought in the days when it was assumed that God created each species individually, and with the characteristics it needed to survive - and that these animals seemed to have no purpose.
Part of the reason that I love dinosaurs, I suppose, is that they are a reminder of just how little we do know and understand.
On another note (but one related), I saw an embroidered pillow once which read, "Of all the things I've ever lost, I miss my mind the most." I wonder if that was made by another middle-aged scholar? Lord have mercy, do I miss the quickness I once had - the fluency in all the languages a musicologist studies, where, sadly, I barely remember all that much about music now - the analytical sense.... Sigh! I'm hoping I take ever my mother's family, because, if so, I'll have another 40 years ahead of me. I hope that nothing happens to interrupt my resuming my scholarly pursuits - and that, before my ashes are scattered in St James' Park, I have the mental ability that I had a quarter century ago, before I embarked on the (I thought then, temporary) hated years of business management and telecommunications.
In my day, I did love philosophy - but it is difficult resuming this again. (I doubt I actually know more than I did then... in truth, I know less for all I have forgotten.) I was extremely sad this year, because (for reasons I'll not mention here) circumstances prevented my sitting my exams for my divinity degree. I hope to do so next May, and, as a 'head start,' (I normally do two exams - but perhaps next year I'll do three) I've been studying Philosophy of Religion. I'm rather embarrassed - people young enough to be my children probably are having an easier time - and, in my case, I've studied most of this in the past. Yet I do enjoy looking through it all, now that I am at the age that could be the beginning of wisdom. Is any one of the arguments more complex or difficult than 'divine simplicity'? :)
Yet my musing on my beloved dinosaurs led me to smile. Yes, I respect Paley and others for their efforts, but the design argument was never intended to be a science or history text. :) Who (well, besides Hume... but he predated Paley by about 30 years anyway... I suppose Paley just ignored his objections..) would have thought that it would seem a blow to faith to consider that species could become extinct?
I believe that anyone studying theology needs a background in the philosophy of religion. It is valuable training in reason, and, after all, none of the philosophical arguments can do more than, at best, concede that (to use design as an example) a creative intelligence is more likely than not. They certainly cannot prove the existence of a God who has all of the attributes with which Jewish and Christian belief would endow him, much less one who became Incarnate.
Wednesday, 15 June 2005
Not all assets are transferrable
(And I wrote that header without even checking to see if 'transferrable' is a word... humility must be catching up with me...)
Most people are fascinated with asking about the inner workings of convents, and I answer a question here and there. No, I have no tales of hair shirts, lesbianism, being locked in a barn with the rats, nor of anything else that is grotesque. Most of us were highly decent people, even if the sort of gooey love and respect of which the old books used to speak would have been a laugh. The most tragic element, in my experience, was that adult women were treated as if they were infants. I once read a theory that this was in order to keep them pre-pubescent and therefore more easily celibate, but that's too simple - and, in Assisi, the pre-pubescent fortunately are not sheltered or uncomfortable with the human condition. I think it was more a misguided attempt to 'remake' Sisters in an unreal mould of obedience and docility. Of course, superiors, believing theirs were the voices of God, could all too easily fall into seeing their own impatience, rudeness, rage, whatever as 'good for the others' soul.' (Ahem!)
In the particular Order which I entered, the Sisters (though not cloistered) had little contact with those outside the community save for that necessary in their professions. Though even the friars can have a tendency to maintain an idealistic innocence under all the exposure to the elements, the men had one advantage - most were priests, and Franciscans who spend a good deal of time in the confessional - Franciscan parishes welcome all, so any true naivete should not endure all that long. The nuns, though not ignorant, did tend to have excessive faith in human nature. I think that, deep down, we all wished that everyone was good, all failures were mere weaknesses, and ... well, to take it to an extreme (but one that I would encounter!) that criminal sociopaths have enormous trust in God and his mercy (when, as we'd never realise, they do not fret because they have no consciences at all.)
How well I remember Anne, a very lovely Sister who used to visit a prison (for hardened criminals) when there was an evening Mass each week. One of the inmates told Anne that it was a shame that only those attending Mass got to see her good example. Fortunately, a guard intercepted her when she took the inmate's advice to use the passage way to where the cells were...
But let's take this on a simpler level. Today, though much past religious practise indeed did need revision, there can be a tendency to see some customs as unhealthy when, in the convent context, they had their points. The problem was if one used them on the outside, the more if one met people who were, shall I say, not exactly focussed on ascetic theology.
Francis had placed a provision in the rule that, in any case of discord between the friars, they should 'immediately and humbly ask pardon of the other.' In our particular congregation, that had been more formalised. It was customary, if another started or involved one in a row, and later made an apology, to respond with "and I am sorry that I provoked you."
This, in a setting where all understand the custom, and the underlying humility and charity it is supposed to demonstrate (...even when the actual feelings may be smug and self-righteous...), is not a demonstration of the unhealthy. There are no implications of "I deserve to have you mistreat me - I think I am worth no better - I am to blame for what you did" or anything of the sort. Anyway, both people involved in the argument would have had to accuse themselves to the superior, and the verdict was highly unlikely to be 'not guilty' for either. (I once was penanced to three days of silence - probably the most appropriate penance in the Order's 700 year history.)
Unfortunately, when we are 'raised' with such customs and may grudgingly admit they can be useful, we can forget that there are characters on this earth who would not be edified by the example of humility and charity we're hoping we are presenting. (It was a big year for edification... I doubt we even realised the implicit condescension in our having to 'edify' our parents when we wrote them, as if the good and dedicated people who'd raised us needed their daughters' help to rescue them from their failings.) :) I well remember when one of the less pleasant people with whom I dealt, and whom I had in no way wronged, felt I'd offended her. Most fortunately, one of the friars (the one who told a man en route to rehab that, if he returned before his treatment was complete, said friar would 'break his fucking legs'... the treatment was successful) intercepted the message I nearly sent. "I am sorry I provoked you," if directed to the individual I mentioned, would only have been taken as further proof of weakness and a capacity for manipulation.
Admittedly, there are other times when we must have seemed a prissy little crop of snobs. (I was more intelligent and educated than the others - which is not saying much - so I came across as a cheeky and proud snob, which at the time was perfectly true.) Our community had retained most of the 'old ways' in an era when many congregations were modernising (is that a word?), some becoming quite secular. I suppose that the lowered eyes and demeanour as if we were sterile and feared someone would touch and contaminate us were taught to us in order that we not glance up and see modern touches that would be appealing. But, of course, that was never disclosed. No, our manner was supposed to demonstrate that we were 'recollected,' and therefore provide edification for these 'wicked' modern nuns who turned up at inter-community functions.
Forgive us - anyone who'd act 'edifying,' or concentrate on 'setting a good example,' to her own mother and father is temporarily beyond hope. ;)
Most people are fascinated with asking about the inner workings of convents, and I answer a question here and there. No, I have no tales of hair shirts, lesbianism, being locked in a barn with the rats, nor of anything else that is grotesque. Most of us were highly decent people, even if the sort of gooey love and respect of which the old books used to speak would have been a laugh. The most tragic element, in my experience, was that adult women were treated as if they were infants. I once read a theory that this was in order to keep them pre-pubescent and therefore more easily celibate, but that's too simple - and, in Assisi, the pre-pubescent fortunately are not sheltered or uncomfortable with the human condition. I think it was more a misguided attempt to 'remake' Sisters in an unreal mould of obedience and docility. Of course, superiors, believing theirs were the voices of God, could all too easily fall into seeing their own impatience, rudeness, rage, whatever as 'good for the others' soul.' (Ahem!)
In the particular Order which I entered, the Sisters (though not cloistered) had little contact with those outside the community save for that necessary in their professions. Though even the friars can have a tendency to maintain an idealistic innocence under all the exposure to the elements, the men had one advantage - most were priests, and Franciscans who spend a good deal of time in the confessional - Franciscan parishes welcome all, so any true naivete should not endure all that long. The nuns, though not ignorant, did tend to have excessive faith in human nature. I think that, deep down, we all wished that everyone was good, all failures were mere weaknesses, and ... well, to take it to an extreme (but one that I would encounter!) that criminal sociopaths have enormous trust in God and his mercy (when, as we'd never realise, they do not fret because they have no consciences at all.)
How well I remember Anne, a very lovely Sister who used to visit a prison (for hardened criminals) when there was an evening Mass each week. One of the inmates told Anne that it was a shame that only those attending Mass got to see her good example. Fortunately, a guard intercepted her when she took the inmate's advice to use the passage way to where the cells were...
But let's take this on a simpler level. Today, though much past religious practise indeed did need revision, there can be a tendency to see some customs as unhealthy when, in the convent context, they had their points. The problem was if one used them on the outside, the more if one met people who were, shall I say, not exactly focussed on ascetic theology.
Francis had placed a provision in the rule that, in any case of discord between the friars, they should 'immediately and humbly ask pardon of the other.' In our particular congregation, that had been more formalised. It was customary, if another started or involved one in a row, and later made an apology, to respond with "and I am sorry that I provoked you."
This, in a setting where all understand the custom, and the underlying humility and charity it is supposed to demonstrate (...even when the actual feelings may be smug and self-righteous...), is not a demonstration of the unhealthy. There are no implications of "I deserve to have you mistreat me - I think I am worth no better - I am to blame for what you did" or anything of the sort. Anyway, both people involved in the argument would have had to accuse themselves to the superior, and the verdict was highly unlikely to be 'not guilty' for either. (I once was penanced to three days of silence - probably the most appropriate penance in the Order's 700 year history.)
Unfortunately, when we are 'raised' with such customs and may grudgingly admit they can be useful, we can forget that there are characters on this earth who would not be edified by the example of humility and charity we're hoping we are presenting. (It was a big year for edification... I doubt we even realised the implicit condescension in our having to 'edify' our parents when we wrote them, as if the good and dedicated people who'd raised us needed their daughters' help to rescue them from their failings.) :) I well remember when one of the less pleasant people with whom I dealt, and whom I had in no way wronged, felt I'd offended her. Most fortunately, one of the friars (the one who told a man en route to rehab that, if he returned before his treatment was complete, said friar would 'break his fucking legs'... the treatment was successful) intercepted the message I nearly sent. "I am sorry I provoked you," if directed to the individual I mentioned, would only have been taken as further proof of weakness and a capacity for manipulation.
Admittedly, there are other times when we must have seemed a prissy little crop of snobs. (I was more intelligent and educated than the others - which is not saying much - so I came across as a cheeky and proud snob, which at the time was perfectly true.) Our community had retained most of the 'old ways' in an era when many congregations were modernising (is that a word?), some becoming quite secular. I suppose that the lowered eyes and demeanour as if we were sterile and feared someone would touch and contaminate us were taught to us in order that we not glance up and see modern touches that would be appealing. But, of course, that was never disclosed. No, our manner was supposed to demonstrate that we were 'recollected,' and therefore provide edification for these 'wicked' modern nuns who turned up at inter-community functions.
Forgive us - anyone who'd act 'edifying,' or concentrate on 'setting a good example,' to her own mother and father is temporarily beyond hope. ;)
Tuesday, 14 June 2005
Here's to John Macquarrie!
Just this morning, I read an online discussion of the use of 'president' rather than 'celebrant' to describe priests (or is using that term going to offend the 'we are a priestly people' crowd?) at the (select your preference) Mass, Eucharist, Communion Office. One contributor reminded me, all too well, of the liturgical committee discussions from a recent era. He insisted that 'celebrant' implies that the congregation are not all celebrating together.
I doubt that would occur to 99% of people, and to no one at all who did not attend committees of the sort I described or, worse yet, 'workshops.' Ideas which never would occur to people were spoken of as if they had far-ranging implications, whether for good or ill, and that disagreement with the earnest sort who presented this wisdom either indicated a lack of 'education' or some sort of resistance to the Holy Spirit.
I have had the privilege of studying many works of liturgical scholarship, some brilliant, others worth a look even if they are less distinguished. I particularly admire John Macquarrie's work, because it both shows a pastoral knowledge all too rare amongst the usual people (including me) who are caught up in theories and lofty concepts, and because he has the courage to say what others would fear was... well, let us say illustrative of a lack of 'education.'
Macquarrie, for example, though freely admitting that Confirmation as a rite apart from baptism was an accident of history (and one which stemmed from practical conditions, not theological considerations), reminds his readers not to overlook the value which this rite has developed during the past 5 centuries or so. He is cautious about administering Communion to infants - though the correct liturgical line is 'why excommunicate the young' - because of messages this may give which would evade those of us who spend too much time in libraries. I also appreciate that he has the honesty to admit that no one except liturgical scholars places such total emphasis on baptism.
I must add, of course, lest I seem uneducated, that I fully understand that (over)emphasis on baptism. Liturgists, unlike most of the world (including theologians of other varieties), are very focussed on public worship and sacraments, which I'm sure all are agreed are a privilege of baptism. Unfortunately, when such concepts are severed from the strictly liturgical connection, and freely interpreted by those who well may be unaware of the original context, we can be left with the distressing image of 'no vocation except baptism - the rest does not matter.' (Yes, I'm a cynic - but I have firsthand knowledge of how many in religious life were suddenly faced with the idea that their consecration was not a vocation, and that their contribution, which previously was presented as a blessing, was not appreciated.)
Liturgists are quite right to emphasise sign and symbol, yet, looking back to some idyllic fourth century rite (before all those troublesome Frankish innovations), they can forget that gestures may have quite a different meaning to those who are more used to what has developed over the past 1500 years. I well remember when, for example, the ancient practise of all standing for the Eucharistic Prayer was heralded. Trouble was, for all that worshippers in the patristic time (in the midst of their pagan neighbours) were equally unlikely to have Gregory of Nyssa in the next pew, the implications of standing which have been maintained in the Orthodox church were long superseded in the West. Standing for the Eucharistic prayer, whether people agreed or not, was taken for a denial of ordained ministry (or even the real presence), or as a lack of reverence. I dislike the practise myself.
Yes, I have read Annibale Bugnini. It is fun to see a firsthand view (and one for which the idealism would top mine at my most ethereal) of what liturgical innovations would mean, right from the time of Mediator Dei. But there were some huge mistakes along the way, where what happened in practise was a far cry from visions of branch outposts of Maria Laach on every corner. My vote for the worst RC innovation was the 'communion procession.' Bugnini and friends had an image of a glorious procession, everyone raising a voice in a common hymn of praise - probably a cross between the best of Corpus Christi processions and heavenly choirs at the last judgement. The result was more likely stumbling up to communion, a child in one hand and hymnal in another, being urged along by a song leader who is under oath to 'get the people to sing.'
I always hated hymns at communion, and still prefer reception kneeling (where one can find that.) I well remember discussions of this, usually led by someone who had two weeks of liturgical training (more than most priests) and remembered that Communion was the time when hymns were most important. The people who hated it saw it as a distraction and lack of reverence - those who loved it either applauded the lack of reverence (shades of Jesus is my friend) or liked having something to occupy them in the queue.
Looking back to antiquity can be very enriching - and I myself adore many patristic writings. Yet to transport 21st century congregations into what is imagined to be 4th century liturgy can be a case of tunnel vision.
I doubt that would occur to 99% of people, and to no one at all who did not attend committees of the sort I described or, worse yet, 'workshops.' Ideas which never would occur to people were spoken of as if they had far-ranging implications, whether for good or ill, and that disagreement with the earnest sort who presented this wisdom either indicated a lack of 'education' or some sort of resistance to the Holy Spirit.
I have had the privilege of studying many works of liturgical scholarship, some brilliant, others worth a look even if they are less distinguished. I particularly admire John Macquarrie's work, because it both shows a pastoral knowledge all too rare amongst the usual people (including me) who are caught up in theories and lofty concepts, and because he has the courage to say what others would fear was... well, let us say illustrative of a lack of 'education.'
Macquarrie, for example, though freely admitting that Confirmation as a rite apart from baptism was an accident of history (and one which stemmed from practical conditions, not theological considerations), reminds his readers not to overlook the value which this rite has developed during the past 5 centuries or so. He is cautious about administering Communion to infants - though the correct liturgical line is 'why excommunicate the young' - because of messages this may give which would evade those of us who spend too much time in libraries. I also appreciate that he has the honesty to admit that no one except liturgical scholars places such total emphasis on baptism.
I must add, of course, lest I seem uneducated, that I fully understand that (over)emphasis on baptism. Liturgists, unlike most of the world (including theologians of other varieties), are very focussed on public worship and sacraments, which I'm sure all are agreed are a privilege of baptism. Unfortunately, when such concepts are severed from the strictly liturgical connection, and freely interpreted by those who well may be unaware of the original context, we can be left with the distressing image of 'no vocation except baptism - the rest does not matter.' (Yes, I'm a cynic - but I have firsthand knowledge of how many in religious life were suddenly faced with the idea that their consecration was not a vocation, and that their contribution, which previously was presented as a blessing, was not appreciated.)
Liturgists are quite right to emphasise sign and symbol, yet, looking back to some idyllic fourth century rite (before all those troublesome Frankish innovations), they can forget that gestures may have quite a different meaning to those who are more used to what has developed over the past 1500 years. I well remember when, for example, the ancient practise of all standing for the Eucharistic Prayer was heralded. Trouble was, for all that worshippers in the patristic time (in the midst of their pagan neighbours) were equally unlikely to have Gregory of Nyssa in the next pew, the implications of standing which have been maintained in the Orthodox church were long superseded in the West. Standing for the Eucharistic prayer, whether people agreed or not, was taken for a denial of ordained ministry (or even the real presence), or as a lack of reverence. I dislike the practise myself.
Yes, I have read Annibale Bugnini. It is fun to see a firsthand view (and one for which the idealism would top mine at my most ethereal) of what liturgical innovations would mean, right from the time of Mediator Dei. But there were some huge mistakes along the way, where what happened in practise was a far cry from visions of branch outposts of Maria Laach on every corner. My vote for the worst RC innovation was the 'communion procession.' Bugnini and friends had an image of a glorious procession, everyone raising a voice in a common hymn of praise - probably a cross between the best of Corpus Christi processions and heavenly choirs at the last judgement. The result was more likely stumbling up to communion, a child in one hand and hymnal in another, being urged along by a song leader who is under oath to 'get the people to sing.'
I always hated hymns at communion, and still prefer reception kneeling (where one can find that.) I well remember discussions of this, usually led by someone who had two weeks of liturgical training (more than most priests) and remembered that Communion was the time when hymns were most important. The people who hated it saw it as a distraction and lack of reverence - those who loved it either applauded the lack of reverence (shades of Jesus is my friend) or liked having something to occupy them in the queue.
Looking back to antiquity can be very enriching - and I myself adore many patristic writings. Yet to transport 21st century congregations into what is imagined to be 4th century liturgy can be a case of tunnel vision.
Sunday, 12 June 2005
Heavenly extended family
Years back, I was a director of music in a Franciscan parish. It was a friendly, casual environment, with a congregation consisting largely of Italian immigrants and their children. I love the Italian attitude towards God, Mary, and the other saints (an idea to which I'll be returning.) Perhaps southern Italians are not the most avid churchgoers (Cranmer would never approve), and, as far as worship is concerned, they generally are more attracted to devotions than to liturgy and sacrament. The church is their father's house, and they are quite comfortable there (when they do visit - which may not be anywhere near as frequent as time with their earthly parents, whose care is a large and godly responsibility.) Italian people will wave, shake hands, kiss in greeting, talk, laugh, play with their children, and so forth in church.
In the parish where I served, the cook, Mary, was a blunt, down to earth sort. The chief sorrow of Mary's life was the corns on her feet, and anyone within earshot would hear the details - though it was far from her only topic of conversation. Who knows a parish inside out better than the cook?
Once, I shared a silly joke with Mary, about a man who always made the wrong decisions. I'll spare my readers the details, but the joke ends with the man falling out of an aircraft, and calling out, mid-air, "Saint Francis, help me." A big hand comes from the sky and grasps him, but a voice asks, "Francis Xavier or Francis of Assisi." I'd told this joke to several people, with one response being, "It must have been Francis of Assisi!," the other, "Oh, if it were the wrong one, I can't believe he'd drop him." But Mary, very matter of fact but with an undertone of annoyance, informed me that, "It's no use talking to Saint Francis. Do you know how many times I have told him about the corns on my feet?!"
For all that I tend to get lost in speculation about our deification, disappearing into a quiet and sometimes dark haze of apophatic mist, a part of me longs for the simplicity and trust of those - such as I met at the parish, and a number of people within my own family - who can turn over temporal needs to the saints.
Surprised? Well, please do not write me some stern lecture about how saints are unnecessary, God should not be made inapproachable, Jesus as the only mediator, and the like. My mother used to pour out woes to Saint Mary, shout at Saint Anthony if he did not 'come through,' bring temporal needs to the Infant of Prague. (How I wish I could do it with the simple trust she had!) God was hardly inapproachable - she gave him bloody hell at my dad's funeral, for causing her to be left alone. The saints were extended family. Just as one might tell a sister about this problem, another sister about that one, one's cousin about another (especially if he was well connected), my mother did this with the saints.
One Sicilian devotion (of which I was unaware, since my own family is from Avellino) was to "Our Lady of Miracles." The parish I mentioned had a little alcove where her statue, complete with other figures of those who had been healed through her intercession, was displayed, to be placed near the sanctuary for her feast day. When the church was remodelled, and the "lateral altars" removed, the section to the right of the altar was designed to contain the tabernacle (a ghastly, modern one which resembled a 1970s ice bucket.) One devout man, irate at the change, asked, "Why don't they take out that box and put Our Lady of Miracles there?"
I was young and foolish then, and undoubtedly made some comment about devotion to the Eucharist. (Which naturally would hold today!) But a remote, mystical, incomprehensible God - the very one that I somehow have been called to worship - would be too difficult with which to identify. A peasant woman, who must have felt just awful travelling to Jerusalem on a donkey in a state of advanced pregnancy - whose cheeky adolescent son contradicted his elders and disappeared for three days, not even offering an apology when his distraught parents found him - who well may have been a widow whose only son left her alone to go about with all that dangerous preaching - and who suffered the agony of watching her beloved son executed - is far more likely to be a confidante.
I attended a small Italian festival today, in a little Benedictine house near my home. The chapel is devotional grotesque - the sort of nightmare one might have if one combined garlic and Saint Anthony's oil, tossed it on pasta, and ate it right before bed. The grounds are inviting and lovely, and open to all in a spirit of OSB hospiality. I was unfamiliar with the particular Marian devotion. The procession was led by a nun, who sang Italian hymns into a microphone in a voice which must be the worst on the planet, and those processing joined in with great fervour, largely in voices no better than hers, but good and loud. (I was saddened, missing the days when I had a polished operatic voice, but joined in the songs nonetheless - with a bit of pathos, remembering my deceased family members and the priests I'd once known there who also have gone to the next life.) There were copes and incense in abundance, and everyone recited the rosary in Italian - what did it matter if one ate a sausage or drank wine and beer from paper cups en route?
I'm going to blush and 'tell one on myself.' One lady, hearing my rough peasant accent on the Ave Maria, approached me, asking my 'region.' She burst into tears when I mentioned Teora - she herself is from the neighbouring town. I'm sensitive about all of my accents, ruefully recalling when a professor of music told me that my Italian 'sounded like the fish market.' I once commented, in front of a simple man I knew, that, for all my operatic training and concentration on diction, my Italian would have the 'market' accent of Teora. (I'm not even going to tell you what my English sounds like... though fortunately, thanks to the Sisters from Cork, at least my grammar, vocabulary, and diction are usually impeccable.) Carlos responded, with a degree of truth that evades us overly intellectual sorts, "But that's great - that's who you are."
Carlos, of course, was correct. And today's feast moved me deeply, because folk religion, simple peasant faith, earthiness, pragmatic views of life, and so forth are also part of who I am. When I returned home, I took out my mother's old book of novenas, and petitioned Saint Anthony to help me in my flat hunting. In fact, I addressed Anthony in Italian dialect (yes, he was Portuguese, but who's counting?), going into such detail as, "I know there is not terribly much in my price range, and I'm indeed grateful to have a roof over my head at all, but, after all, this flat will be my monastery - please help me find one I'll really like, and don't forget that I need to be near the bus or train."
I'll let all of you know if the prayer works. Had it been my mother who uttered the same words, Anthony would arrange for her to be informed of the perfect property on his feast day tomorrow.
In the parish where I served, the cook, Mary, was a blunt, down to earth sort. The chief sorrow of Mary's life was the corns on her feet, and anyone within earshot would hear the details - though it was far from her only topic of conversation. Who knows a parish inside out better than the cook?
Once, I shared a silly joke with Mary, about a man who always made the wrong decisions. I'll spare my readers the details, but the joke ends with the man falling out of an aircraft, and calling out, mid-air, "Saint Francis, help me." A big hand comes from the sky and grasps him, but a voice asks, "Francis Xavier or Francis of Assisi." I'd told this joke to several people, with one response being, "It must have been Francis of Assisi!," the other, "Oh, if it were the wrong one, I can't believe he'd drop him." But Mary, very matter of fact but with an undertone of annoyance, informed me that, "It's no use talking to Saint Francis. Do you know how many times I have told him about the corns on my feet?!"
For all that I tend to get lost in speculation about our deification, disappearing into a quiet and sometimes dark haze of apophatic mist, a part of me longs for the simplicity and trust of those - such as I met at the parish, and a number of people within my own family - who can turn over temporal needs to the saints.
Surprised? Well, please do not write me some stern lecture about how saints are unnecessary, God should not be made inapproachable, Jesus as the only mediator, and the like. My mother used to pour out woes to Saint Mary, shout at Saint Anthony if he did not 'come through,' bring temporal needs to the Infant of Prague. (How I wish I could do it with the simple trust she had!) God was hardly inapproachable - she gave him bloody hell at my dad's funeral, for causing her to be left alone. The saints were extended family. Just as one might tell a sister about this problem, another sister about that one, one's cousin about another (especially if he was well connected), my mother did this with the saints.
One Sicilian devotion (of which I was unaware, since my own family is from Avellino) was to "Our Lady of Miracles." The parish I mentioned had a little alcove where her statue, complete with other figures of those who had been healed through her intercession, was displayed, to be placed near the sanctuary for her feast day. When the church was remodelled, and the "lateral altars" removed, the section to the right of the altar was designed to contain the tabernacle (a ghastly, modern one which resembled a 1970s ice bucket.) One devout man, irate at the change, asked, "Why don't they take out that box and put Our Lady of Miracles there?"
I was young and foolish then, and undoubtedly made some comment about devotion to the Eucharist. (Which naturally would hold today!) But a remote, mystical, incomprehensible God - the very one that I somehow have been called to worship - would be too difficult with which to identify. A peasant woman, who must have felt just awful travelling to Jerusalem on a donkey in a state of advanced pregnancy - whose cheeky adolescent son contradicted his elders and disappeared for three days, not even offering an apology when his distraught parents found him - who well may have been a widow whose only son left her alone to go about with all that dangerous preaching - and who suffered the agony of watching her beloved son executed - is far more likely to be a confidante.
I attended a small Italian festival today, in a little Benedictine house near my home. The chapel is devotional grotesque - the sort of nightmare one might have if one combined garlic and Saint Anthony's oil, tossed it on pasta, and ate it right before bed. The grounds are inviting and lovely, and open to all in a spirit of OSB hospiality. I was unfamiliar with the particular Marian devotion. The procession was led by a nun, who sang Italian hymns into a microphone in a voice which must be the worst on the planet, and those processing joined in with great fervour, largely in voices no better than hers, but good and loud. (I was saddened, missing the days when I had a polished operatic voice, but joined in the songs nonetheless - with a bit of pathos, remembering my deceased family members and the priests I'd once known there who also have gone to the next life.) There were copes and incense in abundance, and everyone recited the rosary in Italian - what did it matter if one ate a sausage or drank wine and beer from paper cups en route?
I'm going to blush and 'tell one on myself.' One lady, hearing my rough peasant accent on the Ave Maria, approached me, asking my 'region.' She burst into tears when I mentioned Teora - she herself is from the neighbouring town. I'm sensitive about all of my accents, ruefully recalling when a professor of music told me that my Italian 'sounded like the fish market.' I once commented, in front of a simple man I knew, that, for all my operatic training and concentration on diction, my Italian would have the 'market' accent of Teora. (I'm not even going to tell you what my English sounds like... though fortunately, thanks to the Sisters from Cork, at least my grammar, vocabulary, and diction are usually impeccable.) Carlos responded, with a degree of truth that evades us overly intellectual sorts, "But that's great - that's who you are."
Carlos, of course, was correct. And today's feast moved me deeply, because folk religion, simple peasant faith, earthiness, pragmatic views of life, and so forth are also part of who I am. When I returned home, I took out my mother's old book of novenas, and petitioned Saint Anthony to help me in my flat hunting. In fact, I addressed Anthony in Italian dialect (yes, he was Portuguese, but who's counting?), going into such detail as, "I know there is not terribly much in my price range, and I'm indeed grateful to have a roof over my head at all, but, after all, this flat will be my monastery - please help me find one I'll really like, and don't forget that I need to be near the bus or train."
I'll let all of you know if the prayer works. Had it been my mother who uttered the same words, Anthony would arrange for her to be informed of the perfect property on his feast day tomorrow.
Friday, 10 June 2005
I'm mad about Chaucer!
Now and then, I receive e-mail from irate Christian souls who, I assume, are relatively selective about what parts of my site they have read. They tend, unwittingly of course, to be slightly higher on the entertainment scale than even those who note only my reference to unicorns and assume my domain is New Age. (New covenant, perhaps, but hardly new age in the common parlance, whatever my addiction to aromatherapy oils and herbal medicine.) One exceedingly earnest 'sermon' scolded me severely for including the essay on Chaucer's Miller's Tale. The writer was irate that I could see humour in a story which makes light of adultery and features an astrologer. I naturally am left with puzzlement that anyone could read the Miller's tale and find it to be anything but hilarious.
I doubt that too many Internet writers who devote extensive time to Francis of Assisi, Julian of Norwich, and company are looking to promote adultery - and Chaucer's treatment of the astrologer itself hardly shows encouragement for consulting masters of that art. Still, without in any way adopting his philosophy, I somehow can understand how Swinburne, in the Victorian age which so glorified 'example' and what today would be termed 'family values,' could prefer the old gods, and sadly muse about 'Thou hast conquered, O pale Galiliean...'
The pale Galilean and I have had more than a passing acquaintance, and it probably is clear that I have rather a different attitude towards Jesus (the real one - not the androgynous goody-good who appears in some of the worst of religious art) than Swinburne's. Yet it does irk me when art and literature, which can reach magnificence in reflecting the human condition, are expected to be sanitised.
Before I proceed to my few reflections on Chaucer, I'll make one statement to protect my "Safe Surf" rating. (The few readers who know me personally probably have been dissolved in laughter since the first paragraph - whatever weaknesses I possess, I doubt too many baby boomers are more strait-laced than I in their personal behaviour.) I believe it is foolish and dangerous to ... start what one cannot finish, and it is quite a troublesome distraction in the process. Were Chaucer's writings pornographic, degrading, or even likely to push one's sexual arousal to a high point on the scale, yes, I would think they should be approached with caution. But they are not - his bawdiness is comfortable, realistic, and exceedingly funny, and I cannot imagine anyone's reading the tales of the Miller or Reeve with any reaction except laughter. The correspondent whose e-mail inspired this post is of another breed - the sort who host sites which caution parents about a harmless film which features wine glasses on a table. The human condition is of no interest - art must be sacrificed to a disinfected world where, I suppose, quiet little children spend all their time fawning over the perfection they have found in their parents. The Bible would need to be heavily censored. Any pleasure, however harmless, would be suspect - consuming a croissant would be a fault when it could have been given to the poor (though the poor must be kept at a distance.) No one, including in marriage, could have sex without dwelling on scripture verses or sacramental images a la Kingsley.
I'm mad about Chaucer - but somehow saying that is second only to admitting to a passion for Shakespeare in making me blush to think the obvious answer is 'who isn't?' His characters and use of language have a delightful richness. (I read the tales aloud, in Middle English, now and then.) Of course, the Canterbury Tales is hardly a religious work, yet Chaucer provides us with a picture of the Church that was apt and colourful - and I can testify, from my many years in religious ministry, that each of the characters still exists in abundance, even if seldom in such a clever and wry portrayal. The Miller or Reeve would be welcome to join me for an ale - but I would not care to sit next to the Pardoner. (Anyone who thinks the Pardoner is defunct has not seen the tactics that I've observed in some - don't shake your head, I said some) of those in fund raising.)
Those in the Middle Ages were no better or worse than those since, though they lived closely with the reality of pain, war, death, and the like to an extent where they, unlike some today, could not pretend that these could be avoided, or that children could be protected if they were sheltered from the knowledge of human weakness. The 'pilgrimage' itself has a hearty realism - aside from a vague hope for blessing, most of the characters are far from prettily devout, and the churchmen are worse than the miller. Judging from my Internet searches (some key word searches can lead one to the oddest sites), there are characters out there, hoisting religious banners, who cry out to be worked into a modern version of Chaucer's prologue. I do not have his gifts, of course, but shall admit that I've written one... how I wish I had the courage to post it here. I would not even mind a bit of salty language... I've read the writings of both Martin Luther and Thomas More, whose filthy mouths were at their worst when they took shots at each other, and therefore can handle anything.
And why do I not? It is not only a recognition that I am not the poet or observer of nature such as Geoffrey Chaucer was. :) It is more because, between political correctness, Freudian crap and the other amply spread pop psychology, and other sad accretions of the modern era, it is difficult to express the sense of the ridiculous. People are too quick to take offence.
Perhaps I should post the first poll on my site to ask if such a parody would be acceptable...
Are we any less ridiculous than those of other eras? Certainly not - the Church has been a ship of fools since the apostles could not 'get' the parable of the sower and were arguing about who'd sit at the Master's right hand - and the higher ups have made asses of themselves since Peter and Paul confronted one another at Antioch. I dare say that I would not need to develop caricatures, because there are many people who are caricatures in themselves. Extreme feminists who see everything as the oppression of women - 'conservatives' who write the sort of e-mail I mentioned above - visitors to the EWTN site, where all worries about moral theology seem to be on the order of 'I fear I may be getting more pleasure than I'm giving' - nut cases who think Osama bin Laden was God's instrument in taking away the US's 'veil of protection' (as far as I know, both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans still exist and have not been moved) - well, I could go on. Dare I do so? :)
I would imagine that most Christians are troubled when they first realise that they are a bit of a sham. I know it pains me - but perhaps that is my first step towards growth, since the years of Franciscan romance (a blessed thing, that!) need to give way to a bit more terra firma, lest I begin acting like a half-wit. Chaucer's characters, like ourselves, are all too genuine. Yet, where the Wife of Bath (I must write an essay on that wonderful tale) or the Miller can be honest, the cultured Prioress or the various clerks, being more schooled in things churchly, have a facade which fools none of the peasants but could indeed fool the 'actors.'
I've known some wonderful people in my years of church work - even a few, here and there, who were worthy of canonisation. (Those in that category were not at all self-absorbed, and had no idea they were special.) I may call myself a sham (as we all are), but am not denying my own genuine commitment - to do so would not only be dishonest but would deny the gratitude to the God who gave me the grace to wish to know him at all. That does not mean that we all do not have our impossible days - or that we are not capable of being major shites - or that we cannot be blinded by one goal and not see we are about to step off a cliff.
"..Absalon hath kissed her nether eye; Nicholas is branded cross the bum; and may God lead us all to Kingdom's Come."
I doubt that too many Internet writers who devote extensive time to Francis of Assisi, Julian of Norwich, and company are looking to promote adultery - and Chaucer's treatment of the astrologer itself hardly shows encouragement for consulting masters of that art. Still, without in any way adopting his philosophy, I somehow can understand how Swinburne, in the Victorian age which so glorified 'example' and what today would be termed 'family values,' could prefer the old gods, and sadly muse about 'Thou hast conquered, O pale Galiliean...'
The pale Galilean and I have had more than a passing acquaintance, and it probably is clear that I have rather a different attitude towards Jesus (the real one - not the androgynous goody-good who appears in some of the worst of religious art) than Swinburne's. Yet it does irk me when art and literature, which can reach magnificence in reflecting the human condition, are expected to be sanitised.
Before I proceed to my few reflections on Chaucer, I'll make one statement to protect my "Safe Surf" rating. (The few readers who know me personally probably have been dissolved in laughter since the first paragraph - whatever weaknesses I possess, I doubt too many baby boomers are more strait-laced than I in their personal behaviour.) I believe it is foolish and dangerous to ... start what one cannot finish, and it is quite a troublesome distraction in the process. Were Chaucer's writings pornographic, degrading, or even likely to push one's sexual arousal to a high point on the scale, yes, I would think they should be approached with caution. But they are not - his bawdiness is comfortable, realistic, and exceedingly funny, and I cannot imagine anyone's reading the tales of the Miller or Reeve with any reaction except laughter. The correspondent whose e-mail inspired this post is of another breed - the sort who host sites which caution parents about a harmless film which features wine glasses on a table. The human condition is of no interest - art must be sacrificed to a disinfected world where, I suppose, quiet little children spend all their time fawning over the perfection they have found in their parents. The Bible would need to be heavily censored. Any pleasure, however harmless, would be suspect - consuming a croissant would be a fault when it could have been given to the poor (though the poor must be kept at a distance.) No one, including in marriage, could have sex without dwelling on scripture verses or sacramental images a la Kingsley.
I'm mad about Chaucer - but somehow saying that is second only to admitting to a passion for Shakespeare in making me blush to think the obvious answer is 'who isn't?' His characters and use of language have a delightful richness. (I read the tales aloud, in Middle English, now and then.) Of course, the Canterbury Tales is hardly a religious work, yet Chaucer provides us with a picture of the Church that was apt and colourful - and I can testify, from my many years in religious ministry, that each of the characters still exists in abundance, even if seldom in such a clever and wry portrayal. The Miller or Reeve would be welcome to join me for an ale - but I would not care to sit next to the Pardoner. (Anyone who thinks the Pardoner is defunct has not seen the tactics that I've observed in some - don't shake your head, I said some) of those in fund raising.)
Those in the Middle Ages were no better or worse than those since, though they lived closely with the reality of pain, war, death, and the like to an extent where they, unlike some today, could not pretend that these could be avoided, or that children could be protected if they were sheltered from the knowledge of human weakness. The 'pilgrimage' itself has a hearty realism - aside from a vague hope for blessing, most of the characters are far from prettily devout, and the churchmen are worse than the miller. Judging from my Internet searches (some key word searches can lead one to the oddest sites), there are characters out there, hoisting religious banners, who cry out to be worked into a modern version of Chaucer's prologue. I do not have his gifts, of course, but shall admit that I've written one... how I wish I had the courage to post it here. I would not even mind a bit of salty language... I've read the writings of both Martin Luther and Thomas More, whose filthy mouths were at their worst when they took shots at each other, and therefore can handle anything.
And why do I not? It is not only a recognition that I am not the poet or observer of nature such as Geoffrey Chaucer was. :) It is more because, between political correctness, Freudian crap and the other amply spread pop psychology, and other sad accretions of the modern era, it is difficult to express the sense of the ridiculous. People are too quick to take offence.
Perhaps I should post the first poll on my site to ask if such a parody would be acceptable...
Are we any less ridiculous than those of other eras? Certainly not - the Church has been a ship of fools since the apostles could not 'get' the parable of the sower and were arguing about who'd sit at the Master's right hand - and the higher ups have made asses of themselves since Peter and Paul confronted one another at Antioch. I dare say that I would not need to develop caricatures, because there are many people who are caricatures in themselves. Extreme feminists who see everything as the oppression of women - 'conservatives' who write the sort of e-mail I mentioned above - visitors to the EWTN site, where all worries about moral theology seem to be on the order of 'I fear I may be getting more pleasure than I'm giving' - nut cases who think Osama bin Laden was God's instrument in taking away the US's 'veil of protection' (as far as I know, both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans still exist and have not been moved) - well, I could go on. Dare I do so? :)
I would imagine that most Christians are troubled when they first realise that they are a bit of a sham. I know it pains me - but perhaps that is my first step towards growth, since the years of Franciscan romance (a blessed thing, that!) need to give way to a bit more terra firma, lest I begin acting like a half-wit. Chaucer's characters, like ourselves, are all too genuine. Yet, where the Wife of Bath (I must write an essay on that wonderful tale) or the Miller can be honest, the cultured Prioress or the various clerks, being more schooled in things churchly, have a facade which fools none of the peasants but could indeed fool the 'actors.'
I've known some wonderful people in my years of church work - even a few, here and there, who were worthy of canonisation. (Those in that category were not at all self-absorbed, and had no idea they were special.) I may call myself a sham (as we all are), but am not denying my own genuine commitment - to do so would not only be dishonest but would deny the gratitude to the God who gave me the grace to wish to know him at all. That does not mean that we all do not have our impossible days - or that we are not capable of being major shites - or that we cannot be blinded by one goal and not see we are about to step off a cliff.
"..Absalon hath kissed her nether eye; Nicholas is branded cross the bum; and may God lead us all to Kingdom's Come."
Brief thoughts about Anthony of Padua
Sermons of Anthony of Padua
Article on Saint Anthony from Wikipedia
Francis of Assisi had rather a dim view of Anthony. Anthony was originally an Augustinian, in itself enough to trouble the far from cerebral Francis, and famously a Franciscan who did not let it be known that he was a priest until his services as preacher were necessary. In the single preserved bit of correspondence from Francis to Anthony, he cautions the young friar that theological studies can turn the friars from the gospel.
Well, as we all know, though Franciscans as a group will not be noted as having a huge quantity of theologians, Anthony's words and example did no one any harm. :) I must smile. There probably is no saint to which there is a more extensive devotion, yet Anthony is remembered more for what he, as 'saint of miracles,' is supposed to be able to obtain than for being one of the greatest theologians of the Order of Friars Minor.
I shall leave my readers with one thought from Anthony's writings. "Our speech is alive when our works speak!" Eloquent though Anthony was, and much as the Franciscan friars were generally engaging and enthusiastic preachers, words can never touch the essence of God, which is so beyond our comprehension. Actions of worship and devotion (in a day when books were expensive and Communion rare, the friars recited the breviary and encouraged the Eucharist), and those in which we seek to act with love towards neighbour, are really all that we have to offer.
One notable excess in wake of the Reformation was a negative attitude towards 'good works.' Considering what went on right before the Reformation, this is quite understandable! Though doctrine had no provisions for 'buying one's way into heaven' (or, at any rate, out of purgatory), it was widely believed - and this because of actions. There were times when preaching on merit would give one the impression (well, if one read the works today) of a giant cash machine, with one's credit limit raised by further permissions to use Christ's treasury. But the backlash was unfortunate - in extreme cases, a stress on personal 'conversion' as if this could be a singular event (...I dare say that conversion, for any sincere Christian, ceases, at the least, when the doctor says to hold the CPR and asks for the time... and even then there is plenty of transformation ahead..). It is no accident, I'm sure, that, the more 'conversion' of this type was stressed, often the less emphasis there was on charity towards others or on liturgy.
The older and wearier I get (heavens, did I have zeal in youth, when I believe I thought I was Michael the Archangel), the more I see that seeking to act with worship and love (or, more properly, just going out and doing it whether we have loving emotions or not) is the only way that one can respond to God. Franciscans were vivid, anthropomorphic, and emotional - and their stress on Christ's 'poor' humanity was quite regular. Yet, and this in addition to their liturgical emphasis (common for monastics, but certainly notable in a Rule which is 30 paragraphs, half quotes from scripture), there was a reminder to act with love - even if that meant kissing the leper and seeing Christ. It was a "life of penance" - that is, constant turning to get one's own life in accord with the gospel.
I often wonder how well Anthony did with actually seeking to teach the friars theology! The early friars were generally uneducated and rather unruly - many very young, some a step above vagabonds. Francis left the rule 'live the gospel,' yet one less saintly than himself could be left wondering what on earth this meant. They had an obligation to correct (or to accuse themselves of faults to) one another - which I find rather amusing, since most times the knowledge of one would be just as slim as that of the other. (Not everyone was Bonaventure or Duns Scotus.)
I equally wonder why Anthony was so great a worker of miracles... perhaps the exhortation to act, in an Order where there was far more talking than in others, had to be brought vividly to life, and the Saviour was accommodating in making this quite dramatic.
Article on Saint Anthony from Wikipedia
Francis of Assisi had rather a dim view of Anthony. Anthony was originally an Augustinian, in itself enough to trouble the far from cerebral Francis, and famously a Franciscan who did not let it be known that he was a priest until his services as preacher were necessary. In the single preserved bit of correspondence from Francis to Anthony, he cautions the young friar that theological studies can turn the friars from the gospel.
Well, as we all know, though Franciscans as a group will not be noted as having a huge quantity of theologians, Anthony's words and example did no one any harm. :) I must smile. There probably is no saint to which there is a more extensive devotion, yet Anthony is remembered more for what he, as 'saint of miracles,' is supposed to be able to obtain than for being one of the greatest theologians of the Order of Friars Minor.
I shall leave my readers with one thought from Anthony's writings. "Our speech is alive when our works speak!" Eloquent though Anthony was, and much as the Franciscan friars were generally engaging and enthusiastic preachers, words can never touch the essence of God, which is so beyond our comprehension. Actions of worship and devotion (in a day when books were expensive and Communion rare, the friars recited the breviary and encouraged the Eucharist), and those in which we seek to act with love towards neighbour, are really all that we have to offer.
One notable excess in wake of the Reformation was a negative attitude towards 'good works.' Considering what went on right before the Reformation, this is quite understandable! Though doctrine had no provisions for 'buying one's way into heaven' (or, at any rate, out of purgatory), it was widely believed - and this because of actions. There were times when preaching on merit would give one the impression (well, if one read the works today) of a giant cash machine, with one's credit limit raised by further permissions to use Christ's treasury. But the backlash was unfortunate - in extreme cases, a stress on personal 'conversion' as if this could be a singular event (...I dare say that conversion, for any sincere Christian, ceases, at the least, when the doctor says to hold the CPR and asks for the time... and even then there is plenty of transformation ahead..). It is no accident, I'm sure, that, the more 'conversion' of this type was stressed, often the less emphasis there was on charity towards others or on liturgy.
The older and wearier I get (heavens, did I have zeal in youth, when I believe I thought I was Michael the Archangel), the more I see that seeking to act with worship and love (or, more properly, just going out and doing it whether we have loving emotions or not) is the only way that one can respond to God. Franciscans were vivid, anthropomorphic, and emotional - and their stress on Christ's 'poor' humanity was quite regular. Yet, and this in addition to their liturgical emphasis (common for monastics, but certainly notable in a Rule which is 30 paragraphs, half quotes from scripture), there was a reminder to act with love - even if that meant kissing the leper and seeing Christ. It was a "life of penance" - that is, constant turning to get one's own life in accord with the gospel.
I often wonder how well Anthony did with actually seeking to teach the friars theology! The early friars were generally uneducated and rather unruly - many very young, some a step above vagabonds. Francis left the rule 'live the gospel,' yet one less saintly than himself could be left wondering what on earth this meant. They had an obligation to correct (or to accuse themselves of faults to) one another - which I find rather amusing, since most times the knowledge of one would be just as slim as that of the other. (Not everyone was Bonaventure or Duns Scotus.)
I equally wonder why Anthony was so great a worker of miracles... perhaps the exhortation to act, in an Order where there was far more talking than in others, had to be brought vividly to life, and the Saviour was accommodating in making this quite dramatic.
Saturday, 4 June 2005
Lying Awake (the novel)
I've begun this book today, having given myself a slight rest from my studies. I had heard much of it, but I suppose the title, which brings to mind the horrible years when I had dreadful insomnia, made me shudder. So far, I am finding it quite intriguing.
The Carmelite nun on whom the action focusses had gone through a period, in her early religious life, of emptiness - perhaps a taste of what comes to the fore in the genuine Dark Night of which her namesake, John of the Cross, wrote so beautifully. (With warmth I shall add - desolation in the life of prayer is round each corner, but all young religious who are centred on contemplation believe they are in the "Dark Night" - by my age, when that sort of thing becomes a possibility, one hopes not to face it.) Sister John of the Cross then began to experiences ecstasies, during which she felt a great awareness of God's presence and heightened understanding. She concurrently begins to suffer from migraines, but uses even this experience to unite herself to the Suffering Servant.
The problem arises when she learns that her ecstasies (and headaches) are the result of temporal lobe epilepsy - then struggles to decide over whether to have the operation to remove the lesion causing this.
Thank heavens, since I by nature am not the most emotionally stable of people, I have never had any visions or other unusual mystic experiences. I began my reading of Teresa of Avila early on, and know she thought these consolations were quite a nuisance. :) My pragmatic side, which comes forward now and then, makes me think that, were I suffering from blinding headaches, and had a condition which could lead to more serious illness (a strain on the community as well as myself), I would probably think I should have the operation. Yet, as I see it, the message in this novel is far deeper. It is not about whether ecstasies are genuine, or about caring for one's health - but about the agony of doubting one's own integrity.
I would imagine that it would be crushing to discover that experiences which seemed a special grace had a physical cause. Still, as a Carmelite would know better than anyone, charisms, even miracles, are always ambiguous, and mean nothing in themselves. (The consolations of Teresa and the apophatic dark night of John of the Cross mean no greater or lesser holiness.) Still, modern psychology (which this Sister seems mercifully spared) often can have us believing there is no good in us. Especially when one is unusually devout, the love is taken for an obsession - the good works, perhaps, as a desire to be loved - the poverty as a sign of bad self-esteem - struggles for humility as self-hatred - charity a personal need we have rationalised into a Christian commitment - whatever. One can easily believe one's commitment is a sham or a symptom!
Under it all, I believe that God works with whatever material we present. The gulf between intellectual and emotional worlds, nonetheless, often makes me wonder just what is real. By their fruits you shall know them, indeed, but some members of the medical community can try to convince one that both the fruit and the dedication are illusions.
I remember once hearing that, in the later years of his short life, one of Francis' favourite prayers was, "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" (I wonder if this prayer was the more intense as he looked down at his own stigmata.) Another was "My Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is yours."
The Carmelite nun on whom the action focusses had gone through a period, in her early religious life, of emptiness - perhaps a taste of what comes to the fore in the genuine Dark Night of which her namesake, John of the Cross, wrote so beautifully. (With warmth I shall add - desolation in the life of prayer is round each corner, but all young religious who are centred on contemplation believe they are in the "Dark Night" - by my age, when that sort of thing becomes a possibility, one hopes not to face it.) Sister John of the Cross then began to experiences ecstasies, during which she felt a great awareness of God's presence and heightened understanding. She concurrently begins to suffer from migraines, but uses even this experience to unite herself to the Suffering Servant.
The problem arises when she learns that her ecstasies (and headaches) are the result of temporal lobe epilepsy - then struggles to decide over whether to have the operation to remove the lesion causing this.
Thank heavens, since I by nature am not the most emotionally stable of people, I have never had any visions or other unusual mystic experiences. I began my reading of Teresa of Avila early on, and know she thought these consolations were quite a nuisance. :) My pragmatic side, which comes forward now and then, makes me think that, were I suffering from blinding headaches, and had a condition which could lead to more serious illness (a strain on the community as well as myself), I would probably think I should have the operation. Yet, as I see it, the message in this novel is far deeper. It is not about whether ecstasies are genuine, or about caring for one's health - but about the agony of doubting one's own integrity.
I would imagine that it would be crushing to discover that experiences which seemed a special grace had a physical cause. Still, as a Carmelite would know better than anyone, charisms, even miracles, are always ambiguous, and mean nothing in themselves. (The consolations of Teresa and the apophatic dark night of John of the Cross mean no greater or lesser holiness.) Still, modern psychology (which this Sister seems mercifully spared) often can have us believing there is no good in us. Especially when one is unusually devout, the love is taken for an obsession - the good works, perhaps, as a desire to be loved - the poverty as a sign of bad self-esteem - struggles for humility as self-hatred - charity a personal need we have rationalised into a Christian commitment - whatever. One can easily believe one's commitment is a sham or a symptom!
Under it all, I believe that God works with whatever material we present. The gulf between intellectual and emotional worlds, nonetheless, often makes me wonder just what is real. By their fruits you shall know them, indeed, but some members of the medical community can try to convince one that both the fruit and the dedication are illusions.
I remember once hearing that, in the later years of his short life, one of Francis' favourite prayers was, "Lord, who are you? Lord, who am I?" (I wonder if this prayer was the more intense as he looked down at his own stigmata.) Another was "My Lord God, I am nothing, but all of it is yours."
Friday, 3 June 2005
Feast of the (Good Shepherd's) Sacred Heart
I'll admit it - I am an aesthetic (if only occasionally truly ascetic) snob. The hardest part of the devotion to the Sacred Heart is that it tends to be represented in the worst of religious art, and devotional religious art is quite bad enough in itself.
If only I had a talent for drawing...
Yet this is a lovely feast - a reminder of the divine creative power, ever transforming us. I shall admit that I am not exactly one for Margaret Mary's visions, if only because I am highly cautious about visions of any kind. I preferred the writings of Bonaventure which I read this morning, in which he speaks (in very honest terms, since the middle ages were a time of more open expression than the post-Freudian) of the blood and water from Jesus' heart - and the sign of redemption.
The devotion to the Sacred Heart was always based on reparation, but the problem with that lovely term is that we forget that it means being restored and tend to think it has to do with some Jansenist remnant of punishing ourselves (or thinking of Jesus of Nazareth as having been punished for us.) Somehow, it is easier to shudder at an image of Jesus broken on the cross than to face our own brokenness.
Earlier this week, I once again was looking at the portion of Augustine's Confessions in which he reminds us that 'our hearts are restless until they rest in thee.' Heaven knows that seeing the dark side was a tendency that Augustine had in some measure, yet the older I get, the more I realise how very much Augustine was expressing awe and gratitude for the workings of grace in his life.
I know that some of the less spiritually minded young tend to be disappointed by the Confessions, expecting all sorts of titillation in the text - they naturally will find none. In fact, once would think (accurately!) that about the worst thing Augustine ever did was steal pears in an act of mindless defiance (I may get back to that theme, which I love, though perhaps not today.) Augustine may have been excessive in seeing grace as irresistible, but it may only be in middle age that one knows that, looking back on one's life (even if one was not a particularly distinguished sinner, we all have a few pears at the core), that grace was leading us constantly, and the Good Shepherd coming after us before we even knew we wanted to be rescued.
I've no idea why, but I have an image in my mind, as I think of Love, of Michelangelo's image of God's creating Adam. Love is always creative power - awesome in its intensity. The Franciscan John Duns Scotus would beautifully develop the idea that Love is sanctifying grace - all love, for God and neighbour, is a reflection of the Trinity indwelling in creation. Except perhaps in the case of a few extraordinary lovers, the lives of humanity will ever be rising up after a fall of one type or another. The more devout we are, the worse it gets, because we have such a way of canonising our weaknesses - all the more dangerous when we disguise them as virtues.
We turn to God to be restored. He constantly re-creates us in his image. Augustine would bemoan his failings (and, unfortunately, write of the fear of punishment he never could lose), yet look back on his life and see how God was there even when he was turning his own search in the wrong direction. Francis of Assisi could torture himself till his dying day with excessive fear and mortification, though he, too, saw all of creation as glorifying God just by being what it was intended to be.
I was annoyed, when I read a 'new' translation of the Revelations of Julian of Norwich. In Julian's original writings, the first edition says "what a wretch I am," the latter, 20 years later, "what a wretch I was." It is a hymn of praise from one who delights in God's creative, transforming power! Why, in this politically correct version, the 'wretch' was turned into 'this humble woman' is beyond me - it sounds self-congratulatory. The 'wretch' was not a manifestation of self-hatred, such as pop psychology would render it in the days when self-esteem is supreme. Far from this - Julian was in awe of the God who transformed her, and who delighted in creation - so much so that sin would be a glory in heaven because divine power had transformed it into greater virtue.
If only I had a talent for drawing...
Yet this is a lovely feast - a reminder of the divine creative power, ever transforming us. I shall admit that I am not exactly one for Margaret Mary's visions, if only because I am highly cautious about visions of any kind. I preferred the writings of Bonaventure which I read this morning, in which he speaks (in very honest terms, since the middle ages were a time of more open expression than the post-Freudian) of the blood and water from Jesus' heart - and the sign of redemption.
The devotion to the Sacred Heart was always based on reparation, but the problem with that lovely term is that we forget that it means being restored and tend to think it has to do with some Jansenist remnant of punishing ourselves (or thinking of Jesus of Nazareth as having been punished for us.) Somehow, it is easier to shudder at an image of Jesus broken on the cross than to face our own brokenness.
Earlier this week, I once again was looking at the portion of Augustine's Confessions in which he reminds us that 'our hearts are restless until they rest in thee.' Heaven knows that seeing the dark side was a tendency that Augustine had in some measure, yet the older I get, the more I realise how very much Augustine was expressing awe and gratitude for the workings of grace in his life.
I know that some of the less spiritually minded young tend to be disappointed by the Confessions, expecting all sorts of titillation in the text - they naturally will find none. In fact, once would think (accurately!) that about the worst thing Augustine ever did was steal pears in an act of mindless defiance (I may get back to that theme, which I love, though perhaps not today.) Augustine may have been excessive in seeing grace as irresistible, but it may only be in middle age that one knows that, looking back on one's life (even if one was not a particularly distinguished sinner, we all have a few pears at the core), that grace was leading us constantly, and the Good Shepherd coming after us before we even knew we wanted to be rescued.
I've no idea why, but I have an image in my mind, as I think of Love, of Michelangelo's image of God's creating Adam. Love is always creative power - awesome in its intensity. The Franciscan John Duns Scotus would beautifully develop the idea that Love is sanctifying grace - all love, for God and neighbour, is a reflection of the Trinity indwelling in creation. Except perhaps in the case of a few extraordinary lovers, the lives of humanity will ever be rising up after a fall of one type or another. The more devout we are, the worse it gets, because we have such a way of canonising our weaknesses - all the more dangerous when we disguise them as virtues.
We turn to God to be restored. He constantly re-creates us in his image. Augustine would bemoan his failings (and, unfortunately, write of the fear of punishment he never could lose), yet look back on his life and see how God was there even when he was turning his own search in the wrong direction. Francis of Assisi could torture himself till his dying day with excessive fear and mortification, though he, too, saw all of creation as glorifying God just by being what it was intended to be.
I was annoyed, when I read a 'new' translation of the Revelations of Julian of Norwich. In Julian's original writings, the first edition says "what a wretch I am," the latter, 20 years later, "what a wretch I was." It is a hymn of praise from one who delights in God's creative, transforming power! Why, in this politically correct version, the 'wretch' was turned into 'this humble woman' is beyond me - it sounds self-congratulatory. The 'wretch' was not a manifestation of self-hatred, such as pop psychology would render it in the days when self-esteem is supreme. Far from this - Julian was in awe of the God who transformed her, and who delighted in creation - so much so that sin would be a glory in heaven because divine power had transformed it into greater virtue.
Wednesday, 1 June 2005
Lankester Merrin's history
A few unanswered questions about my own tastes undoubtedly shall go with me to the grave. For example, though I am so delicate and squeamish that I cannot watch news broadcasts containing reports of violence, I have an entire shelf of books about Jack the Ripper, and have had a drink or two in the pub where Mary Kelly had her last drink. I love films (passionate about theatre, but not able to afford a ticket - a film I can manage now and then), but loathe horror pictures as a rule. I never read detective stories, let alone anything in 'horror' mode. Were I to hear of anyone's being suspected of being possessed by a demon, I not only would stay five miles away but would carry my relic of the true cross if my bus ventured into the region.
Yet I must admit to loving William Peter Blatty's "The Exorcist" (book version - there were too many deficiencies in the film, and little treatment of the spiritual elements.) The novel has an incredible richness - Damien Karras' struggles of faith; the question of whether Regan's possession is from her use of the occult or flavoured with her tutor's New Age quest for serenity (old hat today - but a new topic in 1973); Mary Karras' being left to die alone and mentally unstable, when her priest-psychiatrist son cannot care for her; Chris MacNeil's confused atheism; William Kinderman's shining decency after a life of dealing with murderers.
I read today of the new Exorcist prequel, which I'll undoubtedly be sure to see one of these days. I doubt that the young, who seem to think (being used to the digital special effects of recent years) that the original "Exorcist" is camp, or even those who were not fans of Blatty's excellent book, shall be particularly concerned about the past of Lankester Merrin, the exorcist. I cannot say that I blame them, I suppose. The sequel films to the Exorcist were diabolically dreadful, and only a year has past since Lankester's history was last explored on screen, and this an effort that would make any critic blanch.
Those who have seen only the film version of the Exorcist may be puzzled at my interest in Merrin. On screen, despite Max von Sydow's excellent performance, Lankester is a rather vague character, and, with his discussions with Chris and Damien mostly 'chopped' from the final print, has the chance to do little except use the Roman Ritual and drop dead. The film's opening (in Northern Iraq - hardly a location on which anyone is likely to wish to dwell in 2005) gives a hint that Lankester has and shall continue to battle Pazuzu, but, unlike the book, does not give us the picture of a man who once could not love others, and learnt to do so by, as he says, acting with love. With a flair that must come from his Jesuit education, Blatty manages to give Lankester elements of both Teilhard de Chardin (whom I have never understood) and John Henry Newman (whom I understand all too well.)
Now here is my most humbling admission since those about loving A. J. Cronin and 960s rock music. Though I could see all the literary deficiencies in "Exorcist: The Beginning," and thought the possessed woman made Linda Blair and the pea soup look sophisticated, I cried at some points during its viewing. Lankester Merrin had lost his faith and abandoned his priesthood - and perhaps only those who cherish faith and vocation (not those looking for horror) can realise the constant, deep fear one can have of losing both. Merrin had encountered human evil during a Nazi occupation (I'll not include a 'spoiler' of the details here), and knew well that the human capacity for hatred, violence and destruction does not need any help from demons to come forth.
At one point in the action, Merrin is brought to faith and repentance, and, using dirt from the ground of a cave, traces the penitent's cross on his forehead and utters a prayer for forgiveness. (The kids near me, snickering at the poor special effects and complaining in whispers that the film was not frightening enough, must have thought I was crackers if they saw my tears.) Merrin then holds the child who is with him closely, and says not to listen to the demon's ranting, "They are only his lies." One who had lost his faith calls on the power of Christ to exorcise the demon directly afterward.
I have little knowledge of demonic possession, and it certainly is not a topic I care to pursue. (I hate being afraid - and fear such as that would be sufficient to turn my legs to jam.) But today's meditation perhaps shall be on what a treasure we have in Truth.
I remember 1973 very well - I was a very promising musician, writer, and student at the time, and very involved with liturgical efforts. True to the spirit of the time, nonetheless, I was sampling the New Age business. I cannot say whether it had any demonic element, but it presented (at least for the avid Christian believer) rather a smooth path to some 'infestation' of Gnosticism. Evil cannot be explained - but perhaps some special knowledge will keep us from being able to be harmed. The exotic 'search' for knowledge of the future, or controlling one's life through mind control, whatever, can be quite appealing to those of us who are momentarily disappointed with the banal action of just reciting from the psalter. The sense of being in some way elite is quite an 'ego builder.' Our intentions were good, perhaps, but we could not see the food for our human tendency to self-deception.
I hope to have the grace to recall, for always, who is the Way, Truth and Life, and wish this as well for my readers.
Yet I must admit to loving William Peter Blatty's "The Exorcist" (book version - there were too many deficiencies in the film, and little treatment of the spiritual elements.) The novel has an incredible richness - Damien Karras' struggles of faith; the question of whether Regan's possession is from her use of the occult or flavoured with her tutor's New Age quest for serenity (old hat today - but a new topic in 1973); Mary Karras' being left to die alone and mentally unstable, when her priest-psychiatrist son cannot care for her; Chris MacNeil's confused atheism; William Kinderman's shining decency after a life of dealing with murderers.
I read today of the new Exorcist prequel, which I'll undoubtedly be sure to see one of these days. I doubt that the young, who seem to think (being used to the digital special effects of recent years) that the original "Exorcist" is camp, or even those who were not fans of Blatty's excellent book, shall be particularly concerned about the past of Lankester Merrin, the exorcist. I cannot say that I blame them, I suppose. The sequel films to the Exorcist were diabolically dreadful, and only a year has past since Lankester's history was last explored on screen, and this an effort that would make any critic blanch.
Those who have seen only the film version of the Exorcist may be puzzled at my interest in Merrin. On screen, despite Max von Sydow's excellent performance, Lankester is a rather vague character, and, with his discussions with Chris and Damien mostly 'chopped' from the final print, has the chance to do little except use the Roman Ritual and drop dead. The film's opening (in Northern Iraq - hardly a location on which anyone is likely to wish to dwell in 2005) gives a hint that Lankester has and shall continue to battle Pazuzu, but, unlike the book, does not give us the picture of a man who once could not love others, and learnt to do so by, as he says, acting with love. With a flair that must come from his Jesuit education, Blatty manages to give Lankester elements of both Teilhard de Chardin (whom I have never understood) and John Henry Newman (whom I understand all too well.)
Now here is my most humbling admission since those about loving A. J. Cronin and 960s rock music. Though I could see all the literary deficiencies in "Exorcist: The Beginning," and thought the possessed woman made Linda Blair and the pea soup look sophisticated, I cried at some points during its viewing. Lankester Merrin had lost his faith and abandoned his priesthood - and perhaps only those who cherish faith and vocation (not those looking for horror) can realise the constant, deep fear one can have of losing both. Merrin had encountered human evil during a Nazi occupation (I'll not include a 'spoiler' of the details here), and knew well that the human capacity for hatred, violence and destruction does not need any help from demons to come forth.
At one point in the action, Merrin is brought to faith and repentance, and, using dirt from the ground of a cave, traces the penitent's cross on his forehead and utters a prayer for forgiveness. (The kids near me, snickering at the poor special effects and complaining in whispers that the film was not frightening enough, must have thought I was crackers if they saw my tears.) Merrin then holds the child who is with him closely, and says not to listen to the demon's ranting, "They are only his lies." One who had lost his faith calls on the power of Christ to exorcise the demon directly afterward.
I have little knowledge of demonic possession, and it certainly is not a topic I care to pursue. (I hate being afraid - and fear such as that would be sufficient to turn my legs to jam.) But today's meditation perhaps shall be on what a treasure we have in Truth.
I remember 1973 very well - I was a very promising musician, writer, and student at the time, and very involved with liturgical efforts. True to the spirit of the time, nonetheless, I was sampling the New Age business. I cannot say whether it had any demonic element, but it presented (at least for the avid Christian believer) rather a smooth path to some 'infestation' of Gnosticism. Evil cannot be explained - but perhaps some special knowledge will keep us from being able to be harmed. The exotic 'search' for knowledge of the future, or controlling one's life through mind control, whatever, can be quite appealing to those of us who are momentarily disappointed with the banal action of just reciting from the psalter. The sense of being in some way elite is quite an 'ego builder.' Our intentions were good, perhaps, but we could not see the food for our human tendency to self-deception.
I hope to have the grace to recall, for always, who is the Way, Truth and Life, and wish this as well for my readers.
Tuesday, 31 May 2005
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.
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.
Monday, 30 May 2005
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. :)
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. :)
Friday, 27 May 2005
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!
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!
Thursday, 26 May 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, 24 May 2005
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.
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.
Friday, 13 May 2005
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 )
And now to bed... I should have been able to think of far better items than these!
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!
Wednesday, 11 May 2005
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
