The Power of Silence (1)

I am reading Cardinal Sarah's book, The Power of Silence. And very powerful it is, too. He reflects on silence and the sacraments; on silence and music; on how we are driven out of paradise, and out of ourselves, by sin, and need to rediscover our inner selves; on how the words that we do not say become prayers... and much more besides (and I'm only a third of the way through).

It is no coincidence that I have been blogging less, recently.

And in my self-imposed silence, I have been reflecting on why I blog and what I should blog about. There is much about which I should (and will) keep silent. But that is not everything.

My other reading recently has included Daniel Mattson's personal testimony, Why I don't call myself gay, and Gabriele Kuby's The Global Sexual Revolution. These have reinforced for me the urgency and the importance of combating the errors contained in Made in God's Image (follow the CESScandal tag for the whole sorry story).

Interestingly, my silence has brought greater clarity to that; and greater anger. The wickedness that risks being inflicted on our children is even more clear to me than it was before; but I am also clear that I must turn my anger on that wickedness, and not direct it at people.  That is a tricky balance, and I find it all to easy to rail against the CES or the bishops. 

I am still struggling with finding that balance, but I will certainly return to this fight, and will continue to do so until some resolution is reached...

My Lord and My God!

In the end, however, these words send us on a never-ending journey. They are so vast that we can never grasp them completely., and they always surpass us. Throughout her entire history, the pilgrim Church has been exploring them ever more deeply. Only by touching Jesus' wounds and encountering his Resurrection are we able to grasp them, and then they become our mission.

Jesus of Nazareth,  Joseph Ratzinger, p 305

--

How do I touch his wounds? In others, the wounded; in myself, the wounded...

How do I encounter his Resurrection? In death to self, in re-birth in Him; In sacramental confession.

My considered comment...

For my Lenten, and subsequently Eastertide, reading, I have been re-reading our Holy Father Emeritus' wonderful Jesus of Nazareth (Part 2).

I have just reached the passage where he is talking (retrospectively, as it were, since this is in the Epilogue) about today's Gospel.

In the Gospel, Our Lord, from high on the mountainside, where He is in communion with His Father, descends to the Lake, where the apostles (those doughty fishermen) are struggling in their boat against a strong headwind. He walks to them over the water, and suddenly their boat, which they had feared was foundering, is at its destination.

The Holy Father Emeritus comments: This is an image of the Church - intended also for us. The Lord is 'on the mountain' of the Father. Therefore he sees us. Therefore he can get into the boat of our life at any time. Therefore we can always call on him; we can always be certain that he sees and hears us. In our own day, too, the boat of the Church travels against the headwind of history through the turbulent waters of time. Often it looks as if it is bound to sink. But the Lord is there, and he comes at the right moment. "I go away, and I will come to you" - that is the essence of Christian trust, the reason for our joy.

In Which I Am Afraid...

All this talk about the Mandatum prompted me to re-read what our Holy Father Emeritus had to say about it in his Jesus of Nazareth (vol. 2) which, incidentally, will serve very well as my Lenten Spiritual Reading.

Needless to say, it is rich and profound reading. But what really struck me this time were his reflections on Peter's refusal to have his feet washed. Ratzinger links this to Peter's earlier 'Lord, may this never happen to you!' (Remember, that time when Our Lord forgot about being non-judgmental and not hurting people's feelings, and said: Get thou behind me, Satan!). He also links it to Peter's impetuous cutting off of the servant's ear, but most tellingly to Peter's denial of Our Lord.

He concludes: It is the response to Jesus that we find throughout history: You are the victor, you are the strong one - you must not lower yourself or practice humility! Again and again Jesus has to help us recognise anew that God's power is different, that the Messiah must pass through suffering to glory and must lead others along the same path.

So I was left with the question: was Peter's concern at Our Lord's suffering born out of a deep and probably unconscious fear that he might have to suffer too?

And of course that leads to the immediate realisation that at least one of the reasons I am so upset at the Church sets out, yet again, on the Way of the Cross, is that I am afraid I may be called to suffer; that I do not wish to tread that Way.

Top Posts of 2015

Just as I did  a year ago, I thought it might be interesting to look back over the year and see which of my blog posts had the most hits.

And just as it was a year ago, the Blackfen Affair topped the bill. My brief post announcing that Fr Fisher Resigns from Blackfen was the most visited post, by some considerable margin.  Another two in the top 12 (who needs decimals anyway?) were on the same topic: in More on the Blackfen Saga (no 5 in the charts) I raised the question of episcopal oversight in this case; and in Telling Fr Fisher's Story (no 10 in the charts) I discussed Joseph Shaw's post and reactions to it.  The whole saga was clearly one that my readers, at any rate, were keen to follow closely.

The other issue that resulted in several highly-visited posts was the pair of letters, one from priests and one from the laity, in the run-up to the Synod, calling for fidelity to Catholic Teaching. The second most-visited post on this site over the year was A Roll of Honour, listing all those who had signed the letter from the laity. Just behind it in popularity, was the post inviting signatures In Support of Our Priests, Our families and Our Church ; the next most popular discussed Cardinal Nichols' Rebuke to the priests who had signed the original letter; and the one after that (no 6 in the charts, if you have been counting carefully [and even if you haven't]) was my post on The Bitter Pill on the Priests' Letter , which revealed the paucity of thinking of those opposed to the brave and faithful priest signatories. Again, I see it as very significant that this was a topic of such interest to my readers.

The remaining five in the top twelve dealt with different issues. Having said that,  no. 7 was also related to the Synod. In Not Wholly Convinced,  I took issue with Austen Ivereigh's claim:  Pastoral approach triumphs over doctrine at synod.

No 8 was pure self-indulgence: fisking Tina Beattie's absurd presentation of dissent as a legitimate Catholic approach to morality: Shooting Ducks in a Barrel. I mean, really... Even today, looking back, I cannot read her words without wondering what on earth she imagines she believes in - other than the magisterium of me. 

In at no 9 is A Straw God Argument, in which I discuss the idiocy of the increasingly ludicrous Stephen Fry, when he attempts to do theology. Maybe he and Tina should team up and found a new sect for narcissists.

At no 11 was one of my many posts on the issue of homosexuality, which often get a lot of hits. Making Gay Okay is a review of, and some reflections on, the book of that title. The subtitle is How Rationalizing Homosexual Behaviour is Changing Everything, and gives a clue to the comprehensiveness of the book, which is well researched and well worth reading.

The 12th most-read post was  More on ex-priests and ex-nuns as teachers, which does what it says in the title. I am always mildly surprised when a part two post has more hits than the part one to which it relates, but such is the blogosphere.

Needless to say, I don't think these are my 12 best posts; not necessarily the most important, nor the most edifying, nor the wittiest, nor the most thought-provoking, nor the most heartfelt. But who am I to judge?...

I hope all my readers have a happy and blessed 2016.

The Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple

The Holy Father has said that we are right to use our imaginations on the mysteries of Our Lord's life; and certainly that is consistent with the meditative traditions of the Church.

I have some concerns about the particular way in which he did that recently, on the subject of the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple, to which I may return in a later post.

But it reminded me that I have an unfinished book on the back-burner: one in which a modern teenager has a series of visions, under the tutelage of St Michael, of the joyful mysteries of the rosary. 

Here is an extract from chapter ten. To understand it, you need to realise that St Joseph is beside him, as his teacher, watching the mystery unfold, which (of course) also included St Joseph as a protagonist (in the context of the preceding chapters, that is much clearer).

The book (if I ever finish it) is intended for children approaching confirmation age: I would value any feedback.

--

And that evening St Michael did come.  He hardly said a thing, except that it was time for the final mystery, and that I needed to meet St Joseph to understand it.

“It would be wrong to say that this part of the story belongs to me,” Joseph tells me.  “But still, it is my role to tell you.  And in a way that sums up the strangeness of my life: I have a leading role in a story where I am the least important.

“You can’t imagine, and I can’t really explain, what it is to be husband to Mary and foster father to the child Jesus.  I knew that I wasn’t up to the job once I had learned the secret of her pregnancy, and it was only when the angel told me not to be afraid that I dared to marry her.  And all those years, I had to lead the family, to rule and govern and guide and teach, when my wife was so far above me in holiness, and the boy was the Son of the Lord.  Of course, I didn’t fully know what that meant...”

“And then, I lost him!  Can you imagine it?  My over-riding responsibility - and my joy - was to be trusted to look after them, and I lost him.  Come with me, and I’ll show you how it was.” 

It’s hot and it’s tiring.  We are walking away from Jerusalem in a large group.  Joseph is carrying bags both for his family and for others: he is a strong man.  Mary is listening: another young woman is pouring her heart out to her.  All around us, the crowd is constantly breaking into smaller groups and reforming.  Children are running ahead and trailing behind.  Teenagers are walking in small huddles, some earnest and some exuberant.  Overall there is a carnival atmosphere, tinged with tiredness. I long to be able to tell Mary and Joseph that Jesus isn’t with us: I can’t bear the thought of their distress when they realise.  And I know that there is nothing I can do, that it will be terrible for them, and also that it will all come right in the end.

And the Joseph beside me, as invisible as I know myself to be, understands: “Yes, you are right.  And one of the many things I learned as I looked back on this time was that one of the reasons for our losing him was that I still had lessons to learn.  You see everything he does, he does for everyone...” And he falls silent, leaving me wondering what lessons he still had to learn, but afraid to ask.  It would seem like prying into a private place.

Looking back towards Jerusalem, I can see an almost continuous stream of people leaving the city after the great feast.  A long line of pilgrims, snaking down the hill.  And suddenly it takes me back to Walsingham - I too have been a pilgrim.  I too know what it is to be part of a family so large that it is easy to lose touch with my immediate family.  The continuity of that idea of pilgrimage struck me for the first time: at Walsingham we had been doing what the Holy Family had done two thousand years before - and according to St Joseph, one of the reasons Christ had gone on that pilgrimage was specifically for me: ‘everything he does, he does for everyone...’

I am jolted from my day-dreaming by a sudden change in the tempo of the walk.  We are stopping for the night.  Everyone is moving into new clusters to settle down.  Rough circles are formed, bread and wine are produced from bags. Children are called to eat with their families. Mary is still listening to her young friend. It occurs to me how little I have ever heard her say - and how much I want to hear her talk again. Joseph finds the people whose bags he has been carrying. A lad of about twelve passes, looking for his family. Joseph greets him:

“Benjamin, I think your people are up ahead. I was speaking with your father earlier.”

“Thank you,” mumbles Benjamin and makes to move on, not sure what to say.

“Benjamin, was Jesus walking with you?  I’ve not seen him for hours.”

“No, he’s not been with us. We were surprised, but guessed he was with you. He’s probably carrying for someone further back.” And he’s off. I know exactly how he feels: I’m never comfortable talking with grown ups I don’t know too well.

Joseph glances at his wife, who looks up immediately. Her friend senses that, and pauses in her talk.

“Sorry, Ruth,” says Joseph.  “Mary, is Jesus ahead of us?”

She looks at his face with an openness of soul - that’s the only way I can describe it - that feels shocking. The mixture of tenderness and strength, of vulnerability and courage... but I would need to be an artist to convey her expression. And she shakes her head gently. I experience a huge disappointment, and it takes me a moment to realise why: I had been so hoping that she would speak.

“Then he must be further back.  I’ll go and find him.”  Mary smiles, gives the faintest of nods, and turns her attention back to Ruth.

So Joseph starts to re-trace his steps. And I follow, with another Joseph beside me (I still can’t convey quite how strange that was....)  Every now and then, Joseph stops, waits for someone to break off their conversation and give him their attention, and then asks after the boy. And every time the reply is the same: “No, he has not been walking with us.” Many of them know Joseph and Jesus, and some of these add, “And we haven’t seen him today.”

The further back he goes, the faster Joseph is walking. He is still unfailingly courteous to everyone, but his voice is getting crisper - he is speaking more quickly and with a higher pitch. Part of me wonders how high his voice will go: it started very low, the voice of a strong man, but is now more in the tenor range.

And then he pauses. And Joseph beside me says; “A tough decision - to go and fetch Mary - and worry her about the boy, when he might be with the next group - or to go on, leaving her further behind, knowing that the longer I leave it to fetch her, the less time we will have together to look.”

But the hesitation is brief. He turns around and makes his way back up the road. As he approaches, Mary lifts her face and sees that he is alone. She is on her feet almost at once, saying goodbye to Ruth. Joseph picks up their bags, and they are off again. Although this is all done very calmly and quietly, a few friends notice and realise the implications: Joseph has been asking after Jesus, and now he and Mary, without the boy, are heading back the way they have come. They call out words of encouragement: “He won’t be far...  He’s a good boy, Joseph...  He can look after himself - he’s a tough lad...”  Joseph acknowledges their kindness and concern with a nod as he passes, but neither he nor Mary pauses.

We are almost running now, and I am surprised at how quickly Mary can go, after the long day’s march. They reach the place where Joseph had turned round, and they slow down. It is starting to get dark, and a number of families are lighting fires by the roadside. These beacons tell us that we are nearly at the back of the marching line. And still nobody has seen the boy Jesus all day. By now we have passed many of his friends, the boys of a similar age, and all echo what Benjamin had said.

Now we are past the last of the travellers, and heading along the empty road back towards the town. The darkness is closing in. I realise that Mary and Joseph have not said a word to each other since realising the boy is lost.  

“No”, says Joseph beside me, “she said very little. And never a word of blame. But I could feel her distress, and it redoubled my own. But listen.”

And then I hear that Mary and Joseph were talking - or rather praying. Mary starts:  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want;  even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me.”

After a pause, Joseph says: “How long, O Lord? Wilt thou forget me for ever?  How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all the day? But I have trusted in thy steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.”  At the last words, his voice almost cracks, and I see Mary reach out and touch his hand gently, but their pace never falters.

There is a house set back from the road a little way out of the city. There are lights and the sound of music and conversation. They glance at each other and then approach the door. At Joseph’s call it is opened at once.  

“Shalom - may peace be upon you!” a tall cheerful man with dark hair and a long dark beard greets them.

“And upon you and your household,” replies Joseph. “And I am sorry to trouble you at this late hour, but we are looking for a boy...”

“You have lost your son!  That is terrible,  how old is he - a little one?” He turns without waiting for an answer: “Rebecca, have you seen a boy? These people have lost their little boy. About six.” He turns back: “Am I right?” but still doesn’t wait for a reply. “He ran off with some friends on the way back from the pilgrimage - they were playing a game - he was hiding - but he hasn’t turned up!” Again he turns back to Joseph: “You must be distracted with worry - a child that young and the night already dark! But trust in the Lord, for He is truly to be trusted.” At last he pauses for breath.

“Actually, Jesus is twelve. But we are certainly worried.”

“Rebecca, he’s twelve not six.” then he drops his voice to what he imagines to be a whisper, but which is all too clear: “You see how distressed they are - they can’t even remember the boy’s age!”

Then back to Joseph and Mary: “Come in, come in.  We will certainly help.”

“Thank you, you are very kind.  But we must go back to Jerusalem to find Jesus.”

“But the gates are closed. The road is dark. You will not find him tonight. Be sure that he is safe - you have friends in Jerusalem - he will be staying with them. Perhaps when he realised he was lost he ran back to their house. That is certainly the case. And we have dinner ready - we can assuredly feed you and give you a bed.”

“And that was another difficult decision,” says the Joseph beside me. “He was right: the gates were shut, Jesus was not on the road. Mary was tired - as was I. There was nothing more we could do that night but pray - and accept the blessing of the man’s hospitality - which at least meant we would be near the gates when they opened in the morning.”

Mary and Joseph go in, and the door is closed. We do not follow. “No,” said Joseph beside me. “We passed a terrible night there. You must appreciate, this was wholly new. Never before had Jesus disappeared. We did not know what to make of it. Had he met with an accident? Had he been the victim of a crime? Or was he absent of his own will? That last was hard to contemplate: never before had he shown what seemed to be such disrespect for his mother and me. Yet how could he have had an accident or fallen victim to others if he had stayed with the pilgrimage. Someone would have noticed. I did not sleep that night.

“But I must tell you,” he adds with a chuckle, “that as we left, our bearded host called after us: “And when you find this tearaway, give him a beating. As the psalm says: ‘Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you beat him with a rod, he will not die. If you beat him with the rod you will save his life from Sheol!’

“So I replied: ‘Thank you once more, we will remember what you have said.’ 

“And you need not witness the whole of the next day, when we went from house to house of everyone we knew in Jerusalem, and everyone who any of them knew. And we went to the temple - to pray. We did not see him there. A friend let us stay that night, and before she went to the bed they had made for her to sleep, Mary said something to me, so quietly and gently that I did not really hear it. It sounded like: ‘Tomorrow, Abraham.’ And she turned over and went to sleep.

“You must not think her callous: she had suffered all day, hoping every moment to find the boy. Yet she has the strongest trust in God, and she went to sleep knowing that she had done all she could, and trusting the rest to the Lord.

“I however, could not sleep. I do not have faith like hers. And I paced the room, wondering whether she had really said ‘Tomorrow Abraham,’ and if so why. And I thought of Abraham, the father of our people, and was pleased. She still trusted me to be father. And then I thought how Abraham was asked to give up his son. And I was scared. Finally, I made the link with ‘tomorrow.’ Isaac was lost to Abraham, (that is sentenced to die) for three days. It was on the third day that the angel told Abraham not to strike him - and tomorrow would be the third day since Jesus’ disappearance. So I was comforted at last, and finally got some sleep in a chair by the window. I never asked Mary if she had really said that... by the end of the next day it didn’t seem to matter - and we had plenty more to think about.”

And suddenly it is morning. Once more we are making our way into the Temple precincts.  As we pass through the gate, Joseph starts towards the court of Women, but Mary pauses, and, ever sensitive to her, Joseph stops too. Then she turns to our right, and we go towards the arches inside the wall at the southern end of the temple. There is a rabbi standing, teaching, there are men and boys sat around, and as we approach a large, strong lad gets up and comes towards Mary. I do not realise at first - I think it is a friend. He looks far too big for twelve. But he embraces his mother, and Joseph, and I... I just turn aside; I can’t watch. Though nothing is said, my eyes are streaming with tears.

At last Mary speaks: “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, your father and I have been looking for you anxiously.”

Joseph beside me comments: “I should have spoken. It was my role as father in the family to ask that question - to discipline the boy. But I could not; and as I hesitated, Mary spoke,  And she was right to do so. I recognised immediately that this was something different, something between him and her particularly. And even in that moment I was delighted at her courtesy - putting me before herself (which is not done in our language) and using the title ‘father’ of me at the time I felt I least deserved it. But then Jesus...”

And then Jesus speaks, in a firm and unapologetic voice: “How is it that you sought me? Did you not know that I must be in my Father's house?” 

At that moment, the rabbi and several of his followers join us. Joseph and Mary greet the rabbi with respect, but his eyes are shining: “Your son!” he says. “Never before have I had such questions; never before have I heard such answers to my questions. Give thanks to the Lord for this great gift he has entrusted to you.” And as the rabbi finishes, others join in; “Are you not from Nazareth?  Who is the teacher there that has taught such wisdom to this boy? You must be very proud of him!”

Joseph beside me says: “You must not misunderstand our astonishment.” For indeed, Mary and the Joseph in front of me look amazed. “We knew his wisdom, of course. We had got used to the speed with which he learned the Law and the Prophets. But never before had he displayed it to others in that way. And we did not understand why he had done so then. But there was more. My pride in Mary’s use of the word ‘father’ was quickly put in its place. For Jesus had called the Lord his Father; something never before done. I had grown used to thinking of him as the Son of the Lord - yet still this shocked me... Suddenly it felt as though everything had changed - but then we went back to Nazareth, Jesus was once more the most loving and dutiful son. He learned my trade and was there at my deathbed...”

As the Joseph beside me talks, the rabbi and his followers go back to their makeshift school, the Holy Family turns towards the sanctuary of the temple. Jesus is in the middle, one arm around his mother, the other around Joseph, and they walk in silence together, giving thanks to the Lord.

Fr Delp on Authenticity

I have just been reading more of Fr Delp's wonderful Advent of the Heart: his sermon for today, preached in Munich in 1941 (before he was arrested and executed for opposing Hitler).

He talks about two spiritual dangers which St John teaches us to avoid. 

'Do not permit regard for private security or personal existence to make you into an inauthentic person.' He points out that when a prophet encounters a king, the prophet is nearly always in the weaker position, as John was. 'What is easier, what is simpler than to muzzle a prophet! Yet indeed, hasn't it been - not the voices of those who went into the palaces and were welcome there - but rather the voices calling in the wilderness who filled the cosmos, who prepared the way, who directed people towards Advent, and who arranged for the proper meeting with the end and the Ultimate?'

His second point: 'Futility or ineffectiveness do not dispense one from speaking the truth, declaring what is wrong, and standing up for what is right and just.' He continues: 'Whoever considers success, or makes his decisions or attitudes dependent upon whether something is futile or certain of success, is already corrupt.'

As I have said before, this is highly recommended Advent reading.

Tigger Warnings

So there I was, reading The House at Pooh Corner, when suddenly, without warning, I was bounced.

I had loved Winnie-the-Pooh. I had really identified with all of the characters; I was Pooh (of course) but also Piglet. There is Eeyore in me, and also Rabbit; Owl and Kanga, and of course Roo.

But reading the sequel, after a deceptive first chapter, in which all was as it should be, suddenly, in Chapter 2, I was bounced. There was Tigger: a new and threatening character, introduced with no warning.

I had always loved the 100 Acre Wood as a Safe Space. So you will appreciate my sense of violation. Moreover, a friend of mine was once nearly run over by a Jagular sports car, so the gratuitous introduction of the Jagular sub-plot - again without any warning - was deeply disturbing.

And lest anyone thinks I am over-sensitive, I would point out that Rabbit, Eeyore and Piglet all find Tigger threatening in their various ways. In particular the violent scene in which Tigger bounces Eeyore into the river is profoundly upsetting. 

Of course, I am not calling for the complete censorship of Tigger; there may be those who are in some perverse way gratified by his bouncing. But I do think we should be able to declare the 100 Acre Wood a Safe Space, and moreover, that his appearance in any book should always be preceded by a Tigger Warning.

On Re-Reading Books

I am a great re-reader of books.

This Lent, I have just started re-reading (for the second time, ie reading for the third) Advent of the Heart, by Fr Alfred Delp. Written in part whilst in a Nazi jail, awaiting his death, these are profoundly powerful and moving reflections. I re-read them in part because I have forgotten so much; I am a bad learner and need to repeat my lessons.

But that has also prompted me to reflect on re-reading more broadly. Certainly, many of the religious and spiritual classics re-pay re-reading. It goes without saying that one should be re-reading the Gospels constantly, and the whole of Scripture regularly (I try to read the whole Bible from start to finish at least every decade).

Then there are those books, such as Sheed's Theology and Sanity that are so dense and rich, that frequent re-reading is necessary just to stay on top of the subject matter. 

But there are others where re-reading changes them - or you. The first time I read St Therese's autobigraphy, I found it dull and uninspiring. But the second time, quite the reverse: immensely inspiring, full of insight and very moving. And that wasn't a change of translation; both times I read Mons. Knox's translation (of course). It was simply where I was in my life at the time.

There is also what I might term comfort-re-reading. I know when Anna (the redoubtable Mrs Trovato) is tired or stressed, when she re-reads more than one Georgette Heyer novel in a row. For me, it is more likely to be P.G. Wodehouse, Russell Hoban, Tolkien, or someone else whose use of language delights...

Our children are great re-readers, too. Sometimes that distresses me: does Dominique really need to re-read Harry Potter, rather than get on with Wuthering Heights, the other book she has on the go at present? And then I look in the mirror, and consider that at the moment I am reading no fewer than six different books, some more worthwhile than others, and I relax... I don't take myself as a paragon, but I can and do justify that particular habit, and if it's good enough for me, then I can scarcely fault it in her. Her taste, of course, is another matter.

An Artistic Education

All this talk of art and music, and especially my passing comment about the need for education in order to discern the good from the bad, made me reflect on what I meant by education in this context, and indeed on my own artistic education.

By artistic education, I don't mean teaching This is the canon: Shakespeare at the top and the rest in some sort of hierarchy beneath him;  or Mozart at the top at the top and the rest in some sort of hierarchy beneath him; or Leonardo da Vinci  at the top and the rest in some sort of hierarchy beneath him...

I think it a gentler and more reflective process; as much to do with exposure, the removal of barriers, and perhaps the discussion of context and why and how some works get their effects, why some are perceived as great, and so on.

The result of that may be an educated taste that goes a little deeper than the immediacy of an uneducated taste. I have likened this before to weaning children off a diet of junk food. 

If the only music a child is ever exposed to is what's currently in the charts, or used in advertisements, or accompanying tv programmes or computer games, it is pretty pointless to expect him or her, at first hearing, to enjoy the Beethoven string quartets, beautiful though they are.

I make no secret of the fact that the visual arts are not my forte. All I learned in art classes at school was that I cannot draw: a conviction it took me many years to shed. (For anyone similarly afflicted, I recommend Betty Edwards' book, Drawing on the Left Side of the Brain). However, I was fortunate that an enlightened General Studies teacher told me to go to the National Gallery and choose a painting, and look at it for thirty minutes. That seemed a tall order, but I decided to give it a go, and stood in front of one of Monet's paintings of waterlilies.

Prior to that experience, I had always preferred photographic realism: the more like the real thing it looked, the better I thought it was. Monet taught me to look differently.

My musical education was richer. My father was a fine pianist, so from earliest childhood I would go to sleep to the sound of him playing Bach, or Schubert, or Chopin, or Rachmaninov or... Then as a schoolboy I joined a good church choir, and quickly learned to love early polyphony. It was very obvious to me that Byrd, Tallis, Gibbons and so on were doing something rather more wonderful than Gregory Murray, Wilfrid Trotman or Joseph Gelineau.


Strangely (or perhaps not, given the historical context, early 1970s) we sang almost no chant. All I can remember is a version of the Ave Maris Stella, with alternate chant and polyphonic verses, which was magnificent. We also sang some Duruflé, based on chant melodies, which was also ravishing.  But my love of chant comes much later in my musical education, and is based on obedience to the Church, and then the discipline of learning to sing it, and, eventually, falling in love with it.

As I wrote that, I suddenly wondered how we have educated the children, artistically. They have not had the same opportunities as me: no good church choir locally, no National Gallery... But I think we have managed to achieve the same basics via different means. They have all learned to play at least two instruments to a reasonable standard, and played in the school orchestra and various other ensembles, which has given them a fairly good exposure to a broad repertoire. It must be a product of Original Sin that their musical taste (like mine) remains execrable. But while they may, for choice, fill their playlists with Disney songs, they genuinely enjoy it when we get the opportunity to go to a concert and hear, dare I say it, good music.

In the visual arts, their school education has been very much better than mine was; and not only have they learned to draw and paint, but they have been encouraged to do artists' copies, which again has exposed them to a range of works, and some understanding of both aesthetics and technique. In that field, as in so many, they are ahead of me.

And in literature, I do my best with them. Again, they read a ton of junk, but in between they occasionally read something worth reading; and again, genuinely enjoy the live screenings from the National or RSC (we saw the Broadway production of 'Of Mice and Men' this week, and very good it was too. And Dominique loved it).

So, a long and rambling post, but I think the point I am edging towards making is that the need for education to appreciate and evaluate art is not some induction into a world of snobbery; but rather a truly Catholic approach that exposes one to a wide range of works, and that good learning will ensue.

New LMS Mass Booklet

I recently received my latest copy of Mass of Ages, the Latin Mass Society Magazine, and along with it a new Mass Booklet, compiled by Joseph Shaw.

It is excellent. Its cover page accurately sums up the contents: The Ordinary Prayers of the Traditional Latin Mass (Extraordinary Form, or Vetus Ordo), Benediction, Angelus and other prayers and devotions.

The layout is clear, in the traditional manner, with the Latin text on the left hand page, and an English translation (a traditional one, with thee and thou etc) on the opposite page. There are explanatory notes in the margins. I rather like: Commonly used postures for the Faithful: Kneel when the server kneels. For traditionally, the Faithful were not told how they had to pray the Mass: there was licence for many different ways, allowing for the Catholicity of the Church. It is a recent (post-Vatican II) innovation to require us to behave and pray in the way Bugnini and his confrères thought we should. But I digress.

As I was saying, there are explanatory notes in the margins, and also line drawings (by Steffano Mazzeo) showing the posture of priest (and server where appropriate) at different points in the Mass. One of the wonderful things about the traditional rite is that one can follow what is happening with one's eyes, even if one cannot hear (or understand) the Latin. So this is a very practical, useful and educative aid. My children certainly found this helpful in their children's missals as they were learning the Mass, as did I.

This booklet is particularly helpful in a few other ways. One is that it has the local prayers after Mass: the Prayer for the Sovereign (Domine salvam fac) along with the music and accompanying collect. It also has the prayers for England, Scotland and Wales (the latter in Welsh with an English translation) in the appropriate place in Benediction. As well as various other prayers (Prayers after Communion, the Angelus, etc) there is a section on Chants for the Mass. This contains the Asperges, and Vidi Aquam, and then (interestingly) Masses XI (Orbis Factor) and XVII, and Credo I. There are also the four Marian antiphons (simple tones) and the Litany of Loreto.

It is well-produced, on good paper, and runs to 72 pages. It is available from the LMS, for a very reasonable £3.75 (plus postage).

Some... err... oddities...

I have blogged a couple of times (here and here) about my reading of Abbot Jamison's Finding Happiness. I am finding a lot of it very good.

However, there are some... err... oddities... And what worries me is that they all seem to be about the sacraments.

For example, he says: 'Jesus chooses food as the means by which his followers are to remember him in future.' (He then quotes Matt 26: 26-28, and continues) 'This eating and drinking continues to this day as the central act of Christian worship and remembrance.' 

Perhaps I am being over-picky in finding that so inadequate as to be troubling.  I would probably have overlooked it, had it not seemed, later, to be part of a pattern.

But he seems to short-change matrimony, too. Consider this, when discussing sexuality: 'The second choice is about status, where we can choose to be single, married or celibate (ie committed for life to being single). The status of long-term partners has also become common in recent decades, and while the Christian tradition does not sanction this status, it is nevertheless a sexual status choice made by increasing numbers of people. (...) the goal for true human fulfilment in sexual matters is chastity, remaining faithful to our chosen path.'

It seems to me that he is as inadequate in his treatment of marriage as he is in his treatment of the Blessed Eucharist: what he does not say, in both cases, is the really important stuff!

And then, I came across this: 'This desert practice of sharing thoughts would later evolve into the Catholic practice of Confession, known nowadays as the Sacrament of Reconciliation.'

That strikes me as very problematic: we believe that all of the Sacraments were instituted by Christ.

Again, perhaps I am being over-picky in my reading, and what he means is the way the desert monks shared their thoughts influenced the way in which the (already-existing) Sacrament of Confession developed.

But the impression given by the text is not that; and I find it sad - and troubling - that the three times (so far) anything sacramental has come up in this book, the treatment has been so inadequate.

It is increasingly clear to me that I will soon be leaving Abbot Jamison behind and going straight to Cassian. But I have got a lot from this book too - all I would say is caveat lector!

Acedia

I mentioned the other day (here) that I have started reading Abbot Jamison's Finding Happiness. Yesterday, I read the chapter on Acedia, and it really hit home. Fr Jamison mentions that the Eight Thoughts of Cassian and the Desert Fathers were reduced to Seven Deadly Sins: and that it was Acedia that was dropped from the list.

That is a great shame: Acedia,  according to Fr Jamison, is spiritual carelessness, and is an evil to which we should pay especial attention in our time, as it is so prevalent that we risk not seeing it at all.

And then he writes: 'Gossip and idle curiosity are top of the list of things to avoid: these activities waste our time, distracting us from more generous or thoughtful conversation or reading. Celebrity news magazines would be a good example of this; they do no apparent external harm but are a complete waste of internal time and space. So cut out reading rubbish and allow reading time to become spiritual reading.'

My version of 'Celebrity news magazines', is probably 'idle internet browsing.' 

I had a somewhat restless night (post hoc, but not, I think, propter hoc), and by the morning had composed this limerick:

I pointlessly browsed Wikipedia And self-diagnosed: "It’s Acedia! I spend nights and days Online, in a haze, Especially on social media."

So I will be attempting to exercise vigilance in my use of social media: not eschewing them altogether - I think Twitterangelus a good thing, and I learn a lot from, for example, Fr Hunwicke. I even think my blogging may serve some good ends. But I will try to refrain from 'gossip and idle curiosity.'

A Happy Death

I have just started reading Abbot (of Worth) Christopher Jamison's Finding Happiness.

Although I have only read the introductory chapter, The History of Happiness, I am already finding it a rich read. The summary of the philosophy of happiness, finding the origins of monastic  happiness in Platonic Contemplation and Aristotelian Virtue, was a good starting point, but it was the section on A Happy Death that really gave me pause for thought.

Abbot Jamison starts by recalling the happy death of one of Worth's great monks, Fr Michael Smith. This clearly had a profound impact on the Abbot and the rest of the community. He then considers what might be the constituent elements of a happy death.

Apart from the usual features of daily care and nourishment, a happy death might involve: the absence of mind-numbing pain (but the total absence of pain is not essential), the absence of anger, either because it has been passed through to acceptance, or because it never occurred; a sense of communion with loved ones and with God. Ideally, it also involves a conscious awareness of what is happening, so that there can be a letting go - no greedy clinging or demanding things of others. It may include a grateful looking back at life and expressions of gratitude to loved ones.

Written for a secular world, it is perhaps unsurprising that he does not unpack the 'sense of communion with God', but I would certainly want to be in a State of Grace, and strengthened by the Sacraments.

However Abbot Jamison is surely right to insist on the importance of each of us giving serious thought to what would make our own deaths happy. For if we live our lives in a way that will lead to a happy death, then we are likely to lead happy, and blessed lives. 

An Offer You Must Refuse!

I am currently reading Surely You're Joking, Mr Feynman!, a collection of autobiographical sketches by the great physicist Richard Feynman.

There are many lovely anecdotes, including the one where two Universities are in a Dutch auction for him, and he decides simply to stay put at Caltech. Later, a third tries to bribe him away, and he won't even let them tell them how much salary they want to offer him. 

A week later, he gets a letter, quoting a huge salary, and he replies: 'After reading the salary, I've decided I must refuse. The reason I have to refuse a salary like that is I would be able to do what I've always wanted to do - get a wonderful mistress, put her up in an apartment, buy her nice things... With the salary you have offered me, I could actually do that, and I know what would happen to me. I'd worry about her, what she's doing; I'd get into arguments when I came home, and so on. All this bother would make me uncomfortable and unhappy. I wouldn't be able to do physics well, and it would be a big mess! What I've always wanted to do would be bad for me, so I've decided I can't accept your offer.'

--

You can see why he was a great mind!

Making Gay Okay

I have just finished reading Making Gay Okay, by Robert R.Reilly, and published by Ignatius.  The subtitle is How Rationalizing Homosexual Behaviour is Changing Everything.

It is a compelling and very informative read. Part 1 is The Rationalization and How It Works. Reilly starts by describing the current culture war: the war that has as its goal that we should all approve of homosexual activity, and that is being waged with increasing vehemence as the gay agenda goes from strength to strength. Any dissent must be crushed. He then gives an overview of Natural Law as described by Aristotle, and describes how Rousseau turned that on its head. This philosophical tension, between the idea that we can know the truth of the meaning of human acts by inquiring into their nature, and in particular the end to which they are ordered (the telos), and the contrary idea that we can decide for ourselves what is good - this philosophical tension underlies the culture war.

Reilly's thesis is that the militant gay lobby needs to rationalize their behaviour, and to get everyone else to approve it, precisely because it is against the Natural Law, and at some level they know that.

He continues to advance his argument by looking at the nature of justice and how that applies in this case, and then he examines the Lessons from Biology about the telos of human sexual behaviour, and the harm that is done when sex is used contrary to that telos. This is heartbreaking stuff: one of the truths that gay activists acknowledge amongst themselves but decided the public should not know, is how harmful the gay lifestyle - as lived by many gay men - really is.

It should be noted that Reilly applies his Natural Law and Justice arguments equally to divorce and contraception, which he rightly sees as both wrong and as opening the door to the legitimisation of sodomy. Once you divorce sex from its innate meaning of procreation, you open the door to... well, anything, really.

He concludes this section with a chapter called Inventing Morality, which charts the series of legal cases in the US that gradually overturned the traditional moral prohibition on sodomy, and continued until same-sex marriages were declared to be equal to real marriages.

The second half of the book is called Marching Through the Institutions. This documents the relentless way in which the gay lobby, having won in the courts, proceeded to overturn the way we view homosexuality in psychiatry, and with regards to parenting; how they conquered the schools and the military, and are gradually overcoming the resistance of the Boy Scout movement, and have completely infiltrated US Foreign Policy.  This is all fascinating, if depressing reading. 

But perhaps the most important part is the first chapter in this section, which documents how militant activists got homosexuality removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association. That is important because it provided the leverage for so much else. The declaration that homosexual behaviour was not a disorder, was a huge weapon in their armoury: and it flew in the face of the facts. Even sympathetic liberal psychiatrists were shocked at what had been done and how: 'the first time in the history of healthcare that a diagnosis or lack of diagnosis was decided by popular vote rather than scientific evidence.'

I should, perhaps, have mentioned earlier that one of the many strengths of the book is the research that has gone into it. The quotations are voluminous and referenced, and taken from many publications on both sides of the debate.

This is an important book on an important topic.  For anyone who thinks that legalising Gay Marriage is unimportant, it should serve as a wake-up call. SSM is not a neutral concept, still less is it about any meaningful equality. Rather it is a direct assault on traditional morality and the family, and therefore on society itself. 

The saddest part of the book is the wealth of statistics and quotations - from gay sources in many cases - detailing the depravity of those in the grip of the gay lifestyle at its worst. That is the other reason we must oppose this: it is doing those with homosexual tendencies terrible harm - and the gay lobby clearly wants to recruit more and more people, at younger and younger ages (when they are most likely to be confused about their sexuality), to the 'lifestyle' and convince them (against the evidence) that it is immutable.

Figures of Advent

I thought this worth re-posting from last year, too...

On the advice of The Dumb Ox on Twitter, I recently bought Fr Alfred Delp's Advent of the Heart. I had not previously known of this heroic young Jesuit priest, who was arrested and ultimately executed by the Nazis.

This book contains both sermons he preached before his imprisonment, and also meditations which he wrote (while handcuffed and under watchful guard) and had smuggled out of prison.  It also has the texts of the Mass (EF) in Latin (and translated into English) for the four Sundays of Advent, as his sermons drew heavily on them.

I have read a few of these and found them profoundly moving.  I wish to write about the first: Figures of Advent, which was written in Tegel Prison, Berlin, in December 1944, some 9 months before he was killed: clearly knowledge of his approaching death lends a particular resonance to the theme of Advent.

He starts with the startling phrase (which is a recapitulation of sermons he has preached previously): Advent is a time of being deeply shaken, so that man will wake up to himself. He proceeds to draw to our attention three types calling out and touching mankind: the Voice Calling in the Wilderness, the Angel of the Annunciation, and the Blessed Mother.

His meditation on the Wilderness is clearly referring to Nazi Germany; but equally clearly to any time and place in this vale of tears, and he concludes: 'They call man to the potential of averting the spreading wilderness, which is about to fall on him and crush him, by means of the greater strength of a converted heart.'

He then moves on to the figure of the Angel; and conjures up the image of the quiet angels of the annunciation who 'speak their message of blessing into the distress, and scatter their seeds of blessing that will begin to grow in the middle of the night'. Again, this is no empty piety: this is written by somebody acutely aware of 'the terror of this time.' So he continues: 'to believe in the golden seeds of God that the angels have scattered and continue to offer an open heart are the first things we must do with our lives. And the next is to go through these gray days as announcing messengers ourselves.'

Finally, he turns to the figure of our Blessed Mother, 'the most comforting figure of Advent.' He reflects on the mythic prefigurement of the divine motherhood, and the wonder of its reality. 'The gray horizons must light up. Only the foreground is screaming so loudly and penetratingly. Farther back, where it has to do with things that really count, the situation is already changing. The woman had conceived the Child, sheltered Him under her heart, and has given birth to her Son. The world has come under a different law.'

I hope that this gives some flavour of the rich and moving quality of his reflections: really the whole thing cries out for quotation, and my comments cannot do it justice.

But I strongly recommend this as Advent reading, if you want, as he proposes, a true Advent of the Heart.

Trojan Horse in the City of God

I have just finished reading Dietrich von Hildebrand's Trojan Horse in the City of God. I have managed to resist the (frequent) temptation to post various paragraphs on my blog as I read it. But it really was a struggle. Time and again, von Hildebrand hits the nail squarely on the head.

His project is quite simply to expose, dissect and dispose of the false understanding of the Faith which has grown up in recent decades. As he puts it:

'it would be difficult to conceive a greater contrast than that between the official documents of Vatican ll and the superficial, insipid pronouncements of various theologians and laymen that have broken out like an infectious disease.'

He starts by analysing the false alternatives, with which we are repeatedly presented, labeled conservative and progressive. Instead, he puts before us the third choice, 'based on unshakeable faith in Christ and in the infallible magisterium of His Holy Church…. This attitude holds that the Christian morality of holiness… remains for ever the same.  It holds that being transformed in Christ, becoming a new creature in Him, is the goal of our existence.'

Thus he launches into his analysis of True and False Renewal, which forms the first section of the book.  He examines the meaning of the Council, false reactions to it, and the role of the Christian philosopher today. His analysis is clear and compelling, and one can only wish that many Catholic philosophers and theologians had as clear an understanding.

Part Two addresses the specific dangers of our time.  The names of a few of the Chapters gives you a clue: Historical relativism, Evolutionism, progressivism and progress, Science fetishism, Sham honesty…  He doesn't pull his punches:

'We have previously referred to the dilettante chatter that passes for thought in the ranks of many lay Catholic theologians who have been irresponsibly appointed to various Catholic colleges.  Their insipid discussions about God and the world, about whether God still fits our society, whether we still 'need' Him, are proof not only of the low level of their intelligence, but also of their dishonesty.

When they treat, in the most trivial way and from points of view that are totally unsuitable, questions of ultimate importance which have preoccupied men throughout history, they reveal an adolescent exhibitionism and pride.'

Part III is called The Secularization of Christianity.  So you know what that is about. (One of the lesser delights of the book is how well it is sign-posted: every chapter does what it says in its title, and within each chapter, each set of ideas is clearly labelled.)  

He starts this section by addressing the fallacy of 'the modern period' and moves on to address the fear of the sacred and immanentist corruptions, explaining how modernism saps the Faith of any truth, and leads to amoralism. But perhaps the most powerful points he makes are in the final chapter, False irenicism, in which he explains precisely why declaring anathemas is an act of charity. He concludes this chapter: 'False irenicism is motivated by a misconceived charity at the service of a meaningless unity.  It places unity above truth.'

The final section is called Sacred and Secular, and presents some principles for moving forward, given the crisis currently engulfing the Church. He discusses the purpose and the limitations (and indeed dangers) of dialogue with people outside the Church, and the dangers that secularism poses to genuine ecumenism. He points out the difference between religious vitality - the deepening of Faith - and change, which may pose as progress, but more often is not. 

He then goes on (and this may be my favourite chapter) to discuss the role of beauty in religion. Firstly, he disposes of aestheticism as a 'perverse approach to beauty' and then traces the relationship between reverence and the love o f beauty.  He also  analyses the grave error some fall into, when they suggest that beauty is opposed to evangelical poverty. He then discusses the need for beauty in the Liturgy, explaining how sacred beauty promotes our sanctification. He ends by pointing out the fallacy of those who would make the liturgy 'relevant' by conforming it to 'the style of life of our desacrilised age.'

In a similar way, he treats of the word of the Lord and the problems with modern approaches both to exegesis and translation of the Gospels. Chapters on Tradition and The Saints are in the same inspiring vein.

The final chapter, Epilogue, summarises the argument of the whole book in three sections: the need for transformation in Christ, the teachings of the false prophets, and the profound reasons for hope.

My edition (Sophia Institute Press) then has a biographical note, which is also fascinating. I had not known that he was so quick to see the problems of National Socialism when it arose, and so brave in denouncing them; at great personal risk, he managed to stay just one step ahead of the pursing Nazis. His anti-Nazi newspaper infuriated Himmler and Hitler, and orders were given to have him assassinated. He eventually made it to the USA where he lived and taught for the rest of his life.

There is also an Appendix: Teilhard de Chardin: a false prophet. If you encounter a Teilhard fan, this is essential reading.

So I have enjoyed this enormously, and thoroughly recommend it to anyone wishing to understand the state of the Church.  In particular, it offers a robust analysis of the flawed thinking of the liberal modernisers, along with an equally robust and inspirational presentation of the true Catholic counter-argument.

Absolute and Abitofhell

In case you hadn't noticed, I am a fan of the late Monsignor Ronald Knox (there's a man who deserved an honorary title!).

His books of sermons (whether for adults or children) are all excellent, his introduction to the Faith likewise.  I haven't read his detective stories, but want to do so. He was, I think the last individual to do a complete translation of the Bible, and he had a fantastic sense of humour.

He it was who posted this advertisement in a religious periodical: Evangelical vicar, in want of a portable, second-hand font, would dispose, for the same, of a portrait, in frame, of the Bishop, elect, of Vermont.

Which should, perhaps, be better presented thus (though not for the sake of the joke in the paper):

Evangelical vicar, in want
Of a portable, second-hand font,
Would dispose, for the same,
Of a portrait, in frame,
Of the Bishop, elect, of Vermont.

He also wrote an excellent satire, Absolute and Abitofhell 'in the manner of John Dryden' on the new approach to religious belief that was leaking into the Anglican Church around the turn of the century.  It is worth reading in full (not least to remind us that there is little new under the sun - this was published in 1915) but some of my favourite lines include:

First, Adam fell; then Noah's Ark was drowned,
And Samson under close inspection bound;
For Daniel's Blood the Critick Lions roar'd, 
And trembling Hands threw Jonah overboard.

Lux Mundi came, and here we found indeed 
A Maximum and Minimum of Creed:
But still the Criticks, bent on Matthew's Fall, 
And setting Peter by the Ears with Paul, 
Brought unaccustom'd Doctrines oversea 
Suggesting rather, Caeli Tenebrae. 

You get the idea; and so it goes on, questioning the wisdom of those who:


Eschewing Luke, John, Matthew, and the rest
Read Mark, but could not inwardly digest. 

But my absolute favourite couplet is: 


When suave Politeness, tempering bigot Zeal, 
Corrected, "I believe," to "One does feel." 

As I say, a man of genius and wit: we could do with a few like him now.

Requiescat in pace.