The local chapter of the Multiple Sclerosis Society asked me to speak this week on the spiritual and psychological impact of chronic pain to both sufferers and their families. I’m not interested in chronic pain at all. Perhaps because I don’t suffer from it, but mostly because I don’t understand it. I’m not now and have never been interested in things medical. That kind of stuff bores me.
I can salivate to satisfy Pavlov over a 16th century manuscript (I’ve done it), but anything that hints of stethoscopes or angiograms, even when my own health is concerned, induces in me a catatonic stupor.
But I am interested in people. I even love some of them. Over the past forty years I’ve had chronic pain and disease rob me of people I love. I’ve watched bodies slowly deteriorate as souls inside crumble, their lives stolen. So I’ve read about chronic pain, studied textbooks and manuals and read the well-intentioned but largely unhelpful advice written by those who are supposed to be able to do something but don’t know what.
Chronic pain is neurological in its beginning, but the real havoc it wrecks is spiritual. It steals hope from the mind. It enthrones fear in the hearts of its victims. And its victims aren’t only those who suffer the physical pain of chronic illness, but in more subtle and oft-times more insidious ways, it attacks the family and friends of the sufferer with equal vehemence. I’ve seen it rob the best friend of my youth of his mother—sending her first to her bed where she lay helpless for years until it sent her on—to an early and rightly-hated grave.
So Thursday night I spoke to a group of multiple sclerosis sufferers—families and patients, victims all. I spoke about hope and courage in the face of adversity; I talked about not giving up and finding ways to squeeze what they could from life.
They want me to speak again.
I don’t know why. I’m pretty certain I didn’t say anything that they haven’t heard before—in spades, no doubt. But I’ll go back and say words to them they don’t need to hear. I’ll go, not for their sake, but for mine. Because as I talked to their group, it wasn’t they who learned, but me. On their faces was a fixed determination, made gentle by years of struggle, not to be overcome. These were people who may very well die of their diseases, but won’t be conquered by them.
I went to teach and stayed to learn. Not for the first time since God set me on my labyrinthine path.
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FROM MY BOOKSHELF this week I pulled a small but delightful volume titled Is Shakespeare Dead? Penned by Mark Twain during the last years of his life, it explores the hackneyed question of “who” actually wrote the works commonly attributed to William Shakespeare.
Twain comes down, more or less, on the Baconian side of the question, but not so as it would matter. As with so many of his literary meanderings, the ostensible topic is just an excuse for Twain to expostulate on the foibles of the “damned human race.” It’s a longish essay (my copy runs about 100 pages or so), published with some of his others: “Concerning Tobacco,” “How to Make Dates Stick,” and “Taming the Bicycle.”
Occasionally, Twain does address the question of the authorship of the Shakespearean Canon, but mostly the essay provides a cover so he can do what he does best: poke fun at the sacred and venerable cows of his America-religion, the Congress, and academia.
As with all he wrote, it’s easy and fun reading, and it becomes obvious Twain doesn’t care what you think of the topic ‘cause he doesn’t care too much either. Reading this essay (which I’ve yet to finish) is like going for a leisurely walk with a good friend; you may often disagree, but his company and wit makes that just part of the conversation. Twain’s thoughts on the passing issues of his day make for fun historical reading, but his rapier-pointed observations on the ongoing—and unchanging—nature of the human race still puncture today.
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Saturday, May 28, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Father Sanchez' Challenge
“To everything there is a season,” wrote the grim-toned author of Ecclesiastes. Lent has passed, Easter has come, the time to sing Alleluias.
This past Lent I spent in the desert—and a good many friends accompanied me. I followed the abbas and ammas into to fiery furnace of desert piety, even if from a distance. I lived with them through their words. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers was my companion for the season; I spent three hours a day or more reading the old texts, being challenged by their wisdom and shamed by their courage. I read their sayings to discover gems for meditation—yours and mine.
In doing so, I faced a daily dilemma. Some of what they had to say was too much for me—so blunt the words stung, so insightful they sometimes burned because their words were too profound and I didn’t (still don’t) have the courage to follow where they lead. “What does the world have to offer you in place of God?” one of the desert fathers asked his disciples. “To see the answer go and look at a corpse.” Despite its truth, it’s not the sort of thing I wanted to share as a Lenten meditation with friends who, like me, have to live in the world.
My great and good friend, Fr Robert Sanchez, wrote me a week or so after Easter saying, “I was hoping you’d continue your Lenten meditations with a series for Eastertide.” Father knows me very well, and I’m sure he was pricking at my conscience, figuring I’d already thought of it—and was too lazy. He’s too polite to say so, but I know what he was thinking.
He was right, I’d thought of it and even drawn up a little plan. But as I considered it, I felt daunted by the project, though unsure as to why.
It wasn’t until a few days later I realized my reluctance.
C S Lewis, author of the justly-praised Screwtape Letters, was asked by an admirer if he ever considered writing a sequel. You may remember Screwtape took the form of a series of letters written by an old, experienced devil to a newly-appointed tempter, whose job it was to ensure the damnation of his human “client.” Screwtape is a delightfully fun book to read, but it holds a mirror before each reader, giving devastating insights into the weaknesses each of us carry in our souls like cancer in our bodies.
Lewis’ admirer asked him about a sequel from the other side: a series of letters from an experienced angel to a neophyte “guardian.” “But even if a man—and it would have to be a far better man than I—could scale the spiritual heights required,” Lewis answered, “how does one do it? Every sentence would have to smell of Heaven.”
My answer to Father Sanchez is not much different. I can write easily about temptation and sin; that’s a daily part of my life. Heaven is something for which I long, but of it I have only the most fleeting and imperfect glimpses. Lent is the season my natural habitat—not of inclination (that would be Christmas)—but of spiritual need.
But as cooling breezes soften a hot summer’s day, Easter comes. It’s not just a reminder of a past Sacred Day but a promise of Good Things to Come. And here’s the real problem. It’s not so hard to regret our sins—even those of us who don’t believe in such a thing as sin know how to regret our past—but how do we rejoice? We know how to fast, but how do we feast? We’ve kept the forty days of Lent, how do we celebrate the fifty days of Paschaltide?
I have some ideas—but I’ll let them percolate a bit. Perhaps something will have brewed by next Easter and I’ll be up to Fr Sanchez’ challenge. For now, I wish each of you Joy—such as this naughty world cannot give.
This past Lent I spent in the desert—and a good many friends accompanied me. I followed the abbas and ammas into to fiery furnace of desert piety, even if from a distance. I lived with them through their words. The Sayings of the Desert Fathers was my companion for the season; I spent three hours a day or more reading the old texts, being challenged by their wisdom and shamed by their courage. I read their sayings to discover gems for meditation—yours and mine.
In doing so, I faced a daily dilemma. Some of what they had to say was too much for me—so blunt the words stung, so insightful they sometimes burned because their words were too profound and I didn’t (still don’t) have the courage to follow where they lead. “What does the world have to offer you in place of God?” one of the desert fathers asked his disciples. “To see the answer go and look at a corpse.” Despite its truth, it’s not the sort of thing I wanted to share as a Lenten meditation with friends who, like me, have to live in the world.
My great and good friend, Fr Robert Sanchez, wrote me a week or so after Easter saying, “I was hoping you’d continue your Lenten meditations with a series for Eastertide.” Father knows me very well, and I’m sure he was pricking at my conscience, figuring I’d already thought of it—and was too lazy. He’s too polite to say so, but I know what he was thinking.
He was right, I’d thought of it and even drawn up a little plan. But as I considered it, I felt daunted by the project, though unsure as to why.
It wasn’t until a few days later I realized my reluctance.
C S Lewis, author of the justly-praised Screwtape Letters, was asked by an admirer if he ever considered writing a sequel. You may remember Screwtape took the form of a series of letters written by an old, experienced devil to a newly-appointed tempter, whose job it was to ensure the damnation of his human “client.” Screwtape is a delightfully fun book to read, but it holds a mirror before each reader, giving devastating insights into the weaknesses each of us carry in our souls like cancer in our bodies.
Lewis’ admirer asked him about a sequel from the other side: a series of letters from an experienced angel to a neophyte “guardian.” “But even if a man—and it would have to be a far better man than I—could scale the spiritual heights required,” Lewis answered, “how does one do it? Every sentence would have to smell of Heaven.”
My answer to Father Sanchez is not much different. I can write easily about temptation and sin; that’s a daily part of my life. Heaven is something for which I long, but of it I have only the most fleeting and imperfect glimpses. Lent is the season my natural habitat—not of inclination (that would be Christmas)—but of spiritual need.
But as cooling breezes soften a hot summer’s day, Easter comes. It’s not just a reminder of a past Sacred Day but a promise of Good Things to Come. And here’s the real problem. It’s not so hard to regret our sins—even those of us who don’t believe in such a thing as sin know how to regret our past—but how do we rejoice? We know how to fast, but how do we feast? We’ve kept the forty days of Lent, how do we celebrate the fifty days of Paschaltide?
I have some ideas—but I’ll let them percolate a bit. Perhaps something will have brewed by next Easter and I’ll be up to Fr Sanchez’ challenge. For now, I wish each of you Joy—such as this naughty world cannot give.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
SPENDING LENT ELSEWHERE
Dear friends,
For the duration of the Lent (March 9 through April 24, 2011) I will not be posting here; instead, I'm posting daily at "The Lenten Desert. A link may be found at the bottom of the dark blue bar to the right.
Come the Resurrection, I'll put fingers to keyboard here at Labyrinthus once again.
Wishing you a strenuous and challenging Fast,
Pax,
Gregory Lee Wilcox+
For the duration of the Lent (March 9 through April 24, 2011) I will not be posting here; instead, I'm posting daily at "The Lenten Desert. A link may be found at the bottom of the dark blue bar to the right.
Come the Resurrection, I'll put fingers to keyboard here at Labyrinthus once again.
Wishing you a strenuous and challenging Fast,
Pax,
Gregory Lee Wilcox+
Friday, December 24, 2010
The World Turned Upside Down
The Babe lying in a manger, the lowing cattle and wooly sheep, the rustic shepherds, the radiant Mother and the protective father—it’s the Christmas scene of countless cards and nativity displays—the stock icon of the season.
We know the story behind the Christmas card—the journey of the Holy Family to Bethlehem, the Virgin “great with child” and the inn with no vacancies. Over the centuries, that story has been so embellished it’s sometimes hard to tell fact from fancy.
The common elements of the familiar story, though, have something more to tell us. The quaint manger, the huddled livestock and awestruck shepherds point beyond themselves to something we don’t think much about if we can avoid it, because it’s scary. The Christmas story is set, not just in Bethlehem, but in the midst of poverty. It’s a story of the poor, told to the poor and with special meaning for the poor. Scripture testifies that our Lord lived a life of poverty but St Paul is explicit about it: “…for your sake He became poor.” The Creator of the stars of night chose to be poor and if we overlook the meaning of that choice, we overlook much of why we celebrate this feast.
Nowadays, words like “poverty” and “the poor” have mostly a political and sociological meaning. They roll easily off the tongues of politicians, who use them to garner votes or media attention. But when the Lord Christ chose to be born in a cave rather than a palace, it wasn’t to make a political point: His message and the “meaning” of the cave in Bethlehem was—is—an eternal one.
In Jesus, God reveals Who He is. What does a phrase like that mean? We can’t know God, and to imagine we can is to make more of ourselves than we are. To compare ourselves to God, even using the old analogy of God as the ocean and ourselves as a drop of water in it is to make far too much of the drop. The Gospel story in a nutshell is, in the words of St Cyril of Alexandria, “the Creator of Heaven and earth wore diapers for our sakes.” God became one of us, a human being. In doing so, He showed us Who God is, something we otherwise could never have known. What the Christmas story tells us is that, in the most fundamental ways, we’ve got it all backwards. The world is hard at work, chugging along, but in the wrong direction and with the wrong purpose. St Thomas Aquinas says, left to ourselves, four things drive you and me: an unquenchable desire for power, money, pleasure or fame (the “or” isn’t meant to be exclusive).
Gospel poverty isn’t romantic but realistic. Jesus was poor—that means, in the eyes of the powerful, the rich, the famous, the wise, in the eyes of all who “matter,” He was weak and unimportant, not worth noticing. The poor are invisible—and I speak as one who overlooks them. In choosing to be weak and unimportant, the Lord was telling us something very basic about God. The powerful, the wealthy, the famous—these are accustomed to attention, to getting their own way. Whenever you and I get a taste of power or wealth or attention, we relish it. Our fallen souls sing. The Lord Jesus wants to free us from the delusion that those snares are worth singing about. God comes in quietness, in humility, in poverty, because that’s Who He is. He isn’t the Great and Powerful Oz, but the One Who takes up a human life, lives it perfectly, and lays it down willingly so that all other human beings—every man and woman, boy and girl—can follow Him. “Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me,” He says, “for I am meek and lowly of Heart—any you shall find rest for your souls.”
This is the message of peace the angels sang to the shepherds that first Christmas night. It’s the promise of peace—a scary promise to be sure, because we’ve all been convinced of something different—but it’s a promise that I hope finds an echo in our lives—and it will, if we’re willing to embrace the poverty of God and make it our own.
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We know the story behind the Christmas card—the journey of the Holy Family to Bethlehem, the Virgin “great with child” and the inn with no vacancies. Over the centuries, that story has been so embellished it’s sometimes hard to tell fact from fancy.
The common elements of the familiar story, though, have something more to tell us. The quaint manger, the huddled livestock and awestruck shepherds point beyond themselves to something we don’t think much about if we can avoid it, because it’s scary. The Christmas story is set, not just in Bethlehem, but in the midst of poverty. It’s a story of the poor, told to the poor and with special meaning for the poor. Scripture testifies that our Lord lived a life of poverty but St Paul is explicit about it: “…for your sake He became poor.” The Creator of the stars of night chose to be poor and if we overlook the meaning of that choice, we overlook much of why we celebrate this feast.
Nowadays, words like “poverty” and “the poor” have mostly a political and sociological meaning. They roll easily off the tongues of politicians, who use them to garner votes or media attention. But when the Lord Christ chose to be born in a cave rather than a palace, it wasn’t to make a political point: His message and the “meaning” of the cave in Bethlehem was—is—an eternal one.
In Jesus, God reveals Who He is. What does a phrase like that mean? We can’t know God, and to imagine we can is to make more of ourselves than we are. To compare ourselves to God, even using the old analogy of God as the ocean and ourselves as a drop of water in it is to make far too much of the drop. The Gospel story in a nutshell is, in the words of St Cyril of Alexandria, “the Creator of Heaven and earth wore diapers for our sakes.” God became one of us, a human being. In doing so, He showed us Who God is, something we otherwise could never have known. What the Christmas story tells us is that, in the most fundamental ways, we’ve got it all backwards. The world is hard at work, chugging along, but in the wrong direction and with the wrong purpose. St Thomas Aquinas says, left to ourselves, four things drive you and me: an unquenchable desire for power, money, pleasure or fame (the “or” isn’t meant to be exclusive).
Gospel poverty isn’t romantic but realistic. Jesus was poor—that means, in the eyes of the powerful, the rich, the famous, the wise, in the eyes of all who “matter,” He was weak and unimportant, not worth noticing. The poor are invisible—and I speak as one who overlooks them. In choosing to be weak and unimportant, the Lord was telling us something very basic about God. The powerful, the wealthy, the famous—these are accustomed to attention, to getting their own way. Whenever you and I get a taste of power or wealth or attention, we relish it. Our fallen souls sing. The Lord Jesus wants to free us from the delusion that those snares are worth singing about. God comes in quietness, in humility, in poverty, because that’s Who He is. He isn’t the Great and Powerful Oz, but the One Who takes up a human life, lives it perfectly, and lays it down willingly so that all other human beings—every man and woman, boy and girl—can follow Him. “Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me,” He says, “for I am meek and lowly of Heart—any you shall find rest for your souls.”
This is the message of peace the angels sang to the shepherds that first Christmas night. It’s the promise of peace—a scary promise to be sure, because we’ve all been convinced of something different—but it’s a promise that I hope finds an echo in our lives—and it will, if we’re willing to embrace the poverty of God and make it our own.
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Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Compromising the Gospel
Some of the things Jesus said to His disciples, if taken literally, would so upset the way the world works we wouldn’t recognize it. They would overthrow the way we've set up everything. So we have to find a way to acknowledge what He says while allowing ourselves not to take His words too seriously.
“If someone says bad things about you, say only good of them. Don’t return evil for evil.”
“If someone slaps you, let them slap you again without slapping back.”
“If someone steals from you, give them even more of what you own.”
“Don’t look on one another with lust or see each other as objects of self-gratification. Treat everyone as you would like them to treat you.”
“Forgive those who do you wrong, not once, but over and over again; forgive them so many times you lose count. This is how our Father in Heaven forgives you. As you are forgiven, forgive.”
We all know better than this. A life lived according to these principles would be unstable; nothing you owned would be secure, people would take advantage of you all the time, you’d probably end up getting killed. That’s what happened to the One Who said these and other impossible-to-follow things.
So we compromise His words and teachings. We learn to be Selective Christians. “We” here is inclusive—I’m not sitting on a throne, speaking down, but on a stool, talking to my friends. I’m a picture perfect example of a Gospel compromiser. Because I am, the world of selfishness and sorrow lives around me. Because I water down the Gospel in my everyday life—in everyday ways—the Gospel doesn’t have the power it is meant to have for me and those around me. The world around us, even in its fallen state where the Law of the Survival of the Fittest is ever at work, is a world of resplendent beauty. Even death and decay can’t hide the glory of its Creator. You and I, though, can hide some of its remaining goodness. The more you and I live by the Laws of the Fallen World, the more those Laws hold us in their power.
But you and I have a chance, every day, dozens of times a day, to overturn the Laws of the Fall. We can, every now and then, share in the New Life, by saying a gentle word to those who speak unkindly to us or harshly of us. When we forgive wrongs which really hurt us, with a Gospel forgiveness that seeks nothing for itself and wants to hold no advantage over another, the Gospel is set free and grace abounds—not just for the forgiver and the forgiven, but for all those around. The Russian St Seraphim said, “Save your own soul, live the Gospel words, and ten thousand souls around you will be saved.” That grand old Christian curmudgeon, G K Chesterton, said the same in ways we can relate to best: “Christianity has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.”
The next time you get a chance (you won’t have to wait long!), do Jesus a favor. Don’t compromise His words. And let me know what happens.
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“If someone says bad things about you, say only good of them. Don’t return evil for evil.”
“If someone slaps you, let them slap you again without slapping back.”
“If someone steals from you, give them even more of what you own.”
“Don’t look on one another with lust or see each other as objects of self-gratification. Treat everyone as you would like them to treat you.”
“Forgive those who do you wrong, not once, but over and over again; forgive them so many times you lose count. This is how our Father in Heaven forgives you. As you are forgiven, forgive.”
We all know better than this. A life lived according to these principles would be unstable; nothing you owned would be secure, people would take advantage of you all the time, you’d probably end up getting killed. That’s what happened to the One Who said these and other impossible-to-follow things.
So we compromise His words and teachings. We learn to be Selective Christians. “We” here is inclusive—I’m not sitting on a throne, speaking down, but on a stool, talking to my friends. I’m a picture perfect example of a Gospel compromiser. Because I am, the world of selfishness and sorrow lives around me. Because I water down the Gospel in my everyday life—in everyday ways—the Gospel doesn’t have the power it is meant to have for me and those around me. The world around us, even in its fallen state where the Law of the Survival of the Fittest is ever at work, is a world of resplendent beauty. Even death and decay can’t hide the glory of its Creator. You and I, though, can hide some of its remaining goodness. The more you and I live by the Laws of the Fallen World, the more those Laws hold us in their power.
But you and I have a chance, every day, dozens of times a day, to overturn the Laws of the Fall. We can, every now and then, share in the New Life, by saying a gentle word to those who speak unkindly to us or harshly of us. When we forgive wrongs which really hurt us, with a Gospel forgiveness that seeks nothing for itself and wants to hold no advantage over another, the Gospel is set free and grace abounds—not just for the forgiver and the forgiven, but for all those around. The Russian St Seraphim said, “Save your own soul, live the Gospel words, and ten thousand souls around you will be saved.” That grand old Christian curmudgeon, G K Chesterton, said the same in ways we can relate to best: “Christianity has not been tried and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried.”
The next time you get a chance (you won’t have to wait long!), do Jesus a favor. Don’t compromise His words. And let me know what happens.
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Saturday, October 16, 2010
A Divine Bioluminescence
Fireflies are an unmingled delight. I know their crepuscular bioluminescence is intended to attract both mates and prey, but I still find them utterly delightful. When I was a young boy, I would sit with my grandfather on the family homestead and we’d spend the hour or so before summer suppertimes watching the fireflies blink on and off in the evening shade. I remember wanting to catch some in a jar and the old man telling me they’d “lose their light and die” if I did. Now I sit on the porch of my little homestead and watch the fireflies again and discover my delight in them is still as fresh. Now I know they won’t die in the jar from sorrow because they “lose their light” but because they suffocate; now I know they don’t sprinkle the dusk with their illuminations for sheer joy but as a survival mechanism, but every time I see the stab of light in the evening’s darkness, something in me lights up, too. The little beetle is indeed bioluminescent by nature, but his brief night-time flash says more than he knows.
The firefly shines so he can be seen. He’s invisible, otherwise—I certainly wouldn’t know he was there if he didn’t make a show out of himself. My delight in him is the unexpected flash of light he gives in the midst of darkness. It’s not enough to see him for more than a second, just enough to say he’s there; a light shining in the darkness.
It’s probably scandalous, or at least a bit unwise, to write this, but the firefly shines with something of a Divine Light.
Not merely because he recalls the Scriptural statement that the Light shined in darkness (which failed to understand What it was seeing), but even more compelling, the firefly is invisible for those many, many seconds when he’s not shining his light. So too with God. The wondrous moments of illumination which periodically dot our lives with signs of God’s presence are separated by long periods when God seems invisible, inaccessible, hid from our eyes. It’s easy to understand why people so often lay aside belief. This isn’t a “modern” crisis; it’s been the case with all of us since the beginning. That’s why the little glow, that instantaneous flash of light—here, then gone!—delights. Between flashes, life can seem a drudgery, one problem or disappointment after another, but then, for those who know to look, there’s a flash, and then, there, another! Faith enables us to see there is meaning in the light that shines in our darkness. When we realize the darkness can’t overcome it, that the flashes of light persist, then, as the old Quaker hymn says, “How can I keep from singing?”
Perhaps, from time to time, as we delight in the Light, you and I can flash too, and briefly illumine the darkness for others.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Don't keep yourself from singing.
The firefly shines so he can be seen. He’s invisible, otherwise—I certainly wouldn’t know he was there if he didn’t make a show out of himself. My delight in him is the unexpected flash of light he gives in the midst of darkness. It’s not enough to see him for more than a second, just enough to say he’s there; a light shining in the darkness.
It’s probably scandalous, or at least a bit unwise, to write this, but the firefly shines with something of a Divine Light.
Not merely because he recalls the Scriptural statement that the Light shined in darkness (which failed to understand What it was seeing), but even more compelling, the firefly is invisible for those many, many seconds when he’s not shining his light. So too with God. The wondrous moments of illumination which periodically dot our lives with signs of God’s presence are separated by long periods when God seems invisible, inaccessible, hid from our eyes. It’s easy to understand why people so often lay aside belief. This isn’t a “modern” crisis; it’s been the case with all of us since the beginning. That’s why the little glow, that instantaneous flash of light—here, then gone!—delights. Between flashes, life can seem a drudgery, one problem or disappointment after another, but then, for those who know to look, there’s a flash, and then, there, another! Faith enables us to see there is meaning in the light that shines in our darkness. When we realize the darkness can’t overcome it, that the flashes of light persist, then, as the old Quaker hymn says, “How can I keep from singing?”
Perhaps, from time to time, as we delight in the Light, you and I can flash too, and briefly illumine the darkness for others.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Don't keep yourself from singing.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Imperfect Freedom
Today is Friday, September 17th, the 260th day of the year. There are 105 days remaining in 2010, and, as the street sign in front of the Pawn Shop on Highway 46 outside New Braunfels warns “Only 98 Days Left To Get Your Christmas Loan!” The German abbess, hymnographer and later canonized saint, Hildegard of Bingen, died in her convent at Rupertsberg on this day in 1179. The “Sybil of the Rhine” wrote over a hundred Sequence Hymns for Mass, honoring the Blessed Virgin and saints, and composed antiphonal chants for the daily office. The presidio of San Francisco was founded on September 17, 1776. The comandante of the presidio made a speech, a Mass was sung, a salute of musketry fired, and canon fire from the Spanish ship the San Carlos anchored nearby echoed around the bay. The new colony of San Francisco was made up of 170 colonists (only 29 were women), 20 soldiers, 3 vaqueros, 3 slaves, some Indian interpreters, 695 horses and mules and 355 cattle. When the San Carlos sailed from the bay to return to Mexico, the comandante wrote in his diary: “This is a sorry lot of colonists. I doubt a sign of our presence here will remain in twenty years time.” After four months of wrangling, the delegates to the Constitutional Convention in Philadelphia put their names to our present Constitution on September 17, 1789. Of the 55 delegates who attended, 39 signed the document. Four angrily left prior to the signing so they wouldn’t have to, three present refused to sign (one, George Mason, refused because there was no Bill of Rights, something later amended), and nine men who approved the Constitution had to return to their homes early (they lived in other States—it wasn’t because their wives told them to be home by a certain time). You may remember Benjamin Franklin’s remarks that day as the last men in the room waited to sign. Watching the scene, he spoke to those around him. He nodded towards the president’s chair (George Washington presided at the Convention) and noted the depiction of the sun carved into it. “During the past four months of this convention," he said, “I have often looked at that carving. I was never able to tell if showed a sunrise or sunset. Now, at last, I know. I am happy to say it is a rising sun, the beginning of a new day." Let us hope so. The jury may still be out…On the old Roman calendar, today is ante diem VI Ides Septembri; it’s the 9th of Tishrei, 5771 on the Hebrew calendar; and the date on the Coptic calendar today is Tout 7, 1727, the feast of St Dioscouros. September is also National Check for Headlice Month. I've never done that before so I'll have to ask for help...
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This weekend, at the Getty Villa in Malibu, California, the most elegantly written of Sophocles’ plays, Electra, is being performed. As much as I am becoming acclimatized to the sweltering summer heat of the Great State of Texas, I wish I was there to watch it, coastal breezes, marble colonnades and all. Tickets are $48; seniors and students get in for $38. I’d pay the combined price to be there…Melissa, surely you won’t miss this! Go for me!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis de Condorcet, was born in Ribemont-sur-Ancre, Picardy, about 100 miles north of Paris, on September 17, 1743. Though of an old aristocratic family, he was initially an enthusiastic supporter of the French revolution. Eventually he fell afoul of it, and ended up in prison, awaiting his rendezvous with Madame Guillotine. He was the Aristocrat Betrayed by an Omelet.
The marquis, before the heady (pardon me, I couldn’t help it) days of the French Revolution, was a famous mathematician and a member of the Parisian intellectual elite, a friend of Voltaire and Benjamin Franklin. When the revolution he had so long predicted finally broke out, he was one who railed for the end of the Ancien Regime and demanded the head of Louis XVI. But when they cut off the king’s head, the marquis began to have second thoughts—among them, if they’ll kill the king, who won’t these peasants kill? He criticized the king’s execution to friends, but in the days of the Terror, few friends proved true and when his words reached the Tuileries Palace, Citizen Robespierre issued a warrant for the marquis’ arrest. He went into hiding, and lived in the garret of a friend’s house in a part of Paris far from political excitements. For eight months he never left the attic. Finally, deciding he was “old news,” he ventured forth one afternoon for a walk in a nearby park. Passing a restaurant, he went in to have lunch and ordered an omelet. When the proprietor asked how many eggs he wanted, the famished marquis replied “A dozen, at least!” That was about ten more eggs than most of his customers usually requested, and the restaurateur decided he must have a bona-fide aristocrat in his tavern. While the marquis fell on his omelet, agents of the revolution arrived, having been summoned by the suspicious proprietor. They hauled the marquis away; Robespierre signed his death warrant, and the marquis cheated Madame Guillotine only by draining a vial of poison the night before the tumbrels came. So the next time you order an omelet, remember Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, the Aristocrat Betrayed by an Omelet, and ask yourself how many eggs do you really want in it?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This week saw continuing violence in Islamic countries focusing on a Pentecostal minister’s plans to burn 200 copies of the Koran. In Kashmir, a Church of England sponsored school was one of three Christian centers attacked by over 6,500 Muslims this past Tuesday. The Tyndale-Briscoe School has educated both Christian and Muslim students since its founding in 1880, but at present the school has only Muslim students, though the faculty and staff are made up of both Christians and Muslims. This being the case, Mr Ma Kaul, the school principal, told a reporter from Asia News that all religion classes at the Tyndale School currently center on Islam. He also told him that boxes of newly-printed Korans, intended for the more than 500 students presently enrolled at the school, had been stored in the school warehouse. All were destroyed during the attack. Since the library also was vandalized, all the copies of the Koran in the library were burned as well. Oops!
On the same day, St Francis School in Mendhar was attacked and vandalized and some of its ancillary buildings were burned by a crowd of more than 3,000 angrier-than-usual Muslims. Ironically, the St Francis School is owned and operated by Muslims, for Muslims. When the school was founded it chose the name St Francis because Christian schools in the region usually attract more and better students. As with the case of the Tyndale School, one of the buildings burned in the attack on St Francis was the library. In an interview with the Asia News, the librarian said the stacks contained “several dozen” copies of the Koran which were burned along with all the other books in the building. Uh-oh.
Several Christian churches in the region were also attacked this week; an Anglican church, two Catholic churches and a Lutheran church, which had a grenade tossed into the sanctuary as police pushed away the crowd. Father Amir Yaqub, the pastor of Holy Name Catholic Church in Nowshera, Pakistan, said: “Christians in the vicinity have fled the area.”
In response to the violence, Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei said “these incidents had nothing to do with the Church or Christianity. We Muslims never act this same way towards other religions." Curiouser and curiouser. Only Lewis Carroll could do justice to all this…“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/ Did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” Hmmm, suddenly those lines make sense!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Of course, the big ecclesiastical news this week is the visit of the Pontifex Maximus to England, where he and the Archbishop of Canterbury (looking more than a bit like one of the always-slightly-distracted professors at Hogwarts Academy) “exchanged fraternal greetings,” according to the spokesman of Lambeth Palace. Less visible but more interesting was an article in the Church Times by the Rev. Ms. Rachel Mann, “priest-in-charge” of St Nicholas Church in Burnage, a neighborhood of Manchester. The Rev Ms Mann is concerned that Christians often misjudge, and hence, miss the opportunity to benefit from “a much-maligned form of music,” heavy metal. This music “demonstrates the liberative ‘theology of darkness,’ allowing its fans to be more relaxed and fun by acknowledging the worst in human nature.” Christians “are too serious” about these subjects, she insists: “many churchgoers may be concerned about metal lyrics praising Satan and mocking Christianity,” but they’re missing the point. If Christians dismiss Heavy Metal, as “crass and satanic, hardly fit for intelligent debate,” they miss the opportunity for “theological reflection” on its content. The Rev Ms Mann says heavy metal songs, “characterized by distorted guitar sounds, intense beats and muscular vocals, are unafraid to deal with death, violence and destruction. Metal’s refusal to repress the bleak and violent truths of human nature liberates its fans to be more relaxed and fun people. They put many Christians to shame.” The Church Times didn’t say whether the Rev Ms Mann was scheduled to share her insights with the Pope.
One of the delights of life is the unexpected juxtaposition of events or ideas somehow related and yet unsimilar. When I came across the article by the Rev Ms Mann, I was just finishing a small book by Dom Jacques Hourlier, a monk of Solesmes Abbey, titled Reflections on the Spirituality of Gregorian Chant. It’s worthwhile if not great reading, offering thoughts on the spirituality of music in general and the chant in particular. When I read the article in the Church Times, though, it was the related yet contrasting truths of these two pieces that struck me.
Ms Mann is quite correct to point out that there is a “theology” to her avowed music. It’s true not just of Heavy Metal. Gregorian chant is infused with theology, as is Country Western music, the cantatas of Bach, the sitar music of India and the rhythmic pounding of Polynesian drums. All breathe their own “theologies,” world-views, and spiritualities. Music impacts the soul, sometimes in obvious, sometimes in subtle ways. Dom Hourlier observes, “A military march will not affect the soul the same as a lullaby.” He goes on, “Music involves a message. Its spiritual value, therefore, depends on the kind of message it carries.”
I admit I haven’t ever willingly listened to a piece of heavy metal music—or country western music for that matter. Neither have I nailed my hand to a counter to see whether I’d like it or not. I know the answer without having the experience.
Both Dom Hourlier and the Rev Ms Mann agree that music influences our souls. Ms Mann is right to believe there is a spirituality, a theology, of Heavy Metal. She is wrong to believe that dark theology is “liberative,” at least in the sense people of faith believe in “liberation.” For the heavy metalist, and for most other people regardless of their musical proclivities, freedom means “I can do whatever I want.” The liberation Ms Mann speaks of is the freedom to experience and “celebrate” all aspects of life, including the dark, cobwebby recesses of the psyche. This is the place we stuff our demons, fears, angers and hatreds. The worldling, the sensualist, the carnal man in each of us wants to join in the celebration: “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we”…well, you know. Ms Mann is telling us “come on in, the water’s fine!”
It isn’t. It’s the same old, dirty stinking water we jump into every time. Adam and Eve jumped in first; every one of us (except One and probably His mother) has jumped in, too. We’ve laughed and played and convinced ourselves it is fine, we are free, there’s nothing to worry about. But when we “liberate” ourselves, and set the demons free, we discover too late they don’t go away. They want to hang around, and pretty soon, they’re playing the music we find ourselves dancing to. We find out the “liberation” we lust after isn’t free; it comes at a cost.
The old Book of Common Prayer has a most instructive phrase in one of its prayers; it’s almost an aside to God. In the “Collect for Peace” from the Office of Morning Prayer, it reads “O God, Who art the author of peace and lover of concord…whose service is perfect freedom…”
Perfect freedom. That means complete, unrestricted, absolute freedom. Not merely freedom from my boss or my tedious in-laws, but freedom from all fear, from every pain, from lingering sorrow, and from death—not just the fear of death, but death itself. This is the Gospel-promised freedom, the knowing of which “will set us free.” But it too, comes at a cost. The cost is giving up slavery to myself—my whims, my desires, my lusts, my self-centeredness. When nothing holds us, then we are truly free.
So we settle for Imperfect freedom. The illusion of freedom. Telling ourselves we’re free because being free would change things too much—because we don’t even know how to be free. The Lord says “If you would be perfect, pick up your cross every day and follow Me.” Those of us stumbling along the Labyrinth can’t always see very far ahead; we’re sometimes afraid—because we’re not yet fully free—but the longer we follow, even in darkness, the more sure our footing becomes. We understand in bits and pieces how imperfectly we follow and how much (and how desperately) we cling to our “imperfect freedom.” Don’t be concerned. Keep walking. Looking forward, you don’t see how increasingly firm is the footprint you leave behind.
And remember, some good music helps.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This weekend, at the Getty Villa in Malibu, California, the most elegantly written of Sophocles’ plays, Electra, is being performed. As much as I am becoming acclimatized to the sweltering summer heat of the Great State of Texas, I wish I was there to watch it, coastal breezes, marble colonnades and all. Tickets are $48; seniors and students get in for $38. I’d pay the combined price to be there…Melissa, surely you won’t miss this! Go for me!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, Marquis de Condorcet, was born in Ribemont-sur-Ancre, Picardy, about 100 miles north of Paris, on September 17, 1743. Though of an old aristocratic family, he was initially an enthusiastic supporter of the French revolution. Eventually he fell afoul of it, and ended up in prison, awaiting his rendezvous with Madame Guillotine. He was the Aristocrat Betrayed by an Omelet.
The marquis, before the heady (pardon me, I couldn’t help it) days of the French Revolution, was a famous mathematician and a member of the Parisian intellectual elite, a friend of Voltaire and Benjamin Franklin. When the revolution he had so long predicted finally broke out, he was one who railed for the end of the Ancien Regime and demanded the head of Louis XVI. But when they cut off the king’s head, the marquis began to have second thoughts—among them, if they’ll kill the king, who won’t these peasants kill? He criticized the king’s execution to friends, but in the days of the Terror, few friends proved true and when his words reached the Tuileries Palace, Citizen Robespierre issued a warrant for the marquis’ arrest. He went into hiding, and lived in the garret of a friend’s house in a part of Paris far from political excitements. For eight months he never left the attic. Finally, deciding he was “old news,” he ventured forth one afternoon for a walk in a nearby park. Passing a restaurant, he went in to have lunch and ordered an omelet. When the proprietor asked how many eggs he wanted, the famished marquis replied “A dozen, at least!” That was about ten more eggs than most of his customers usually requested, and the restaurateur decided he must have a bona-fide aristocrat in his tavern. While the marquis fell on his omelet, agents of the revolution arrived, having been summoned by the suspicious proprietor. They hauled the marquis away; Robespierre signed his death warrant, and the marquis cheated Madame Guillotine only by draining a vial of poison the night before the tumbrels came. So the next time you order an omelet, remember Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas de Caritat, the Aristocrat Betrayed by an Omelet, and ask yourself how many eggs do you really want in it?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
This week saw continuing violence in Islamic countries focusing on a Pentecostal minister’s plans to burn 200 copies of the Koran. In Kashmir, a Church of England sponsored school was one of three Christian centers attacked by over 6,500 Muslims this past Tuesday. The Tyndale-Briscoe School has educated both Christian and Muslim students since its founding in 1880, but at present the school has only Muslim students, though the faculty and staff are made up of both Christians and Muslims. This being the case, Mr Ma Kaul, the school principal, told a reporter from Asia News that all religion classes at the Tyndale School currently center on Islam. He also told him that boxes of newly-printed Korans, intended for the more than 500 students presently enrolled at the school, had been stored in the school warehouse. All were destroyed during the attack. Since the library also was vandalized, all the copies of the Koran in the library were burned as well. Oops!
On the same day, St Francis School in Mendhar was attacked and vandalized and some of its ancillary buildings were burned by a crowd of more than 3,000 angrier-than-usual Muslims. Ironically, the St Francis School is owned and operated by Muslims, for Muslims. When the school was founded it chose the name St Francis because Christian schools in the region usually attract more and better students. As with the case of the Tyndale School, one of the buildings burned in the attack on St Francis was the library. In an interview with the Asia News, the librarian said the stacks contained “several dozen” copies of the Koran which were burned along with all the other books in the building. Uh-oh.
Several Christian churches in the region were also attacked this week; an Anglican church, two Catholic churches and a Lutheran church, which had a grenade tossed into the sanctuary as police pushed away the crowd. Father Amir Yaqub, the pastor of Holy Name Catholic Church in Nowshera, Pakistan, said: “Christians in the vicinity have fled the area.”
In response to the violence, Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei said “these incidents had nothing to do with the Church or Christianity. We Muslims never act this same way towards other religions." Curiouser and curiouser. Only Lewis Carroll could do justice to all this…“Twas brillig, and the slithy toves/ Did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” Hmmm, suddenly those lines make sense!
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Of course, the big ecclesiastical news this week is the visit of the Pontifex Maximus to England, where he and the Archbishop of Canterbury (looking more than a bit like one of the always-slightly-distracted professors at Hogwarts Academy) “exchanged fraternal greetings,” according to the spokesman of Lambeth Palace. Less visible but more interesting was an article in the Church Times by the Rev. Ms. Rachel Mann, “priest-in-charge” of St Nicholas Church in Burnage, a neighborhood of Manchester. The Rev Ms Mann is concerned that Christians often misjudge, and hence, miss the opportunity to benefit from “a much-maligned form of music,” heavy metal. This music “demonstrates the liberative ‘theology of darkness,’ allowing its fans to be more relaxed and fun by acknowledging the worst in human nature.” Christians “are too serious” about these subjects, she insists: “many churchgoers may be concerned about metal lyrics praising Satan and mocking Christianity,” but they’re missing the point. If Christians dismiss Heavy Metal, as “crass and satanic, hardly fit for intelligent debate,” they miss the opportunity for “theological reflection” on its content. The Rev Ms Mann says heavy metal songs, “characterized by distorted guitar sounds, intense beats and muscular vocals, are unafraid to deal with death, violence and destruction. Metal’s refusal to repress the bleak and violent truths of human nature liberates its fans to be more relaxed and fun people. They put many Christians to shame.” The Church Times didn’t say whether the Rev Ms Mann was scheduled to share her insights with the Pope.
One of the delights of life is the unexpected juxtaposition of events or ideas somehow related and yet unsimilar. When I came across the article by the Rev Ms Mann, I was just finishing a small book by Dom Jacques Hourlier, a monk of Solesmes Abbey, titled Reflections on the Spirituality of Gregorian Chant. It’s worthwhile if not great reading, offering thoughts on the spirituality of music in general and the chant in particular. When I read the article in the Church Times, though, it was the related yet contrasting truths of these two pieces that struck me.
Ms Mann is quite correct to point out that there is a “theology” to her avowed music. It’s true not just of Heavy Metal. Gregorian chant is infused with theology, as is Country Western music, the cantatas of Bach, the sitar music of India and the rhythmic pounding of Polynesian drums. All breathe their own “theologies,” world-views, and spiritualities. Music impacts the soul, sometimes in obvious, sometimes in subtle ways. Dom Hourlier observes, “A military march will not affect the soul the same as a lullaby.” He goes on, “Music involves a message. Its spiritual value, therefore, depends on the kind of message it carries.”
I admit I haven’t ever willingly listened to a piece of heavy metal music—or country western music for that matter. Neither have I nailed my hand to a counter to see whether I’d like it or not. I know the answer without having the experience.
Both Dom Hourlier and the Rev Ms Mann agree that music influences our souls. Ms Mann is right to believe there is a spirituality, a theology, of Heavy Metal. She is wrong to believe that dark theology is “liberative,” at least in the sense people of faith believe in “liberation.” For the heavy metalist, and for most other people regardless of their musical proclivities, freedom means “I can do whatever I want.” The liberation Ms Mann speaks of is the freedom to experience and “celebrate” all aspects of life, including the dark, cobwebby recesses of the psyche. This is the place we stuff our demons, fears, angers and hatreds. The worldling, the sensualist, the carnal man in each of us wants to join in the celebration: “eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we”…well, you know. Ms Mann is telling us “come on in, the water’s fine!”
It isn’t. It’s the same old, dirty stinking water we jump into every time. Adam and Eve jumped in first; every one of us (except One and probably His mother) has jumped in, too. We’ve laughed and played and convinced ourselves it is fine, we are free, there’s nothing to worry about. But when we “liberate” ourselves, and set the demons free, we discover too late they don’t go away. They want to hang around, and pretty soon, they’re playing the music we find ourselves dancing to. We find out the “liberation” we lust after isn’t free; it comes at a cost.
The old Book of Common Prayer has a most instructive phrase in one of its prayers; it’s almost an aside to God. In the “Collect for Peace” from the Office of Morning Prayer, it reads “O God, Who art the author of peace and lover of concord…whose service is perfect freedom…”
Perfect freedom. That means complete, unrestricted, absolute freedom. Not merely freedom from my boss or my tedious in-laws, but freedom from all fear, from every pain, from lingering sorrow, and from death—not just the fear of death, but death itself. This is the Gospel-promised freedom, the knowing of which “will set us free.” But it too, comes at a cost. The cost is giving up slavery to myself—my whims, my desires, my lusts, my self-centeredness. When nothing holds us, then we are truly free.
So we settle for Imperfect freedom. The illusion of freedom. Telling ourselves we’re free because being free would change things too much—because we don’t even know how to be free. The Lord says “If you would be perfect, pick up your cross every day and follow Me.” Those of us stumbling along the Labyrinth can’t always see very far ahead; we’re sometimes afraid—because we’re not yet fully free—but the longer we follow, even in darkness, the more sure our footing becomes. We understand in bits and pieces how imperfectly we follow and how much (and how desperately) we cling to our “imperfect freedom.” Don’t be concerned. Keep walking. Looking forward, you don’t see how increasingly firm is the footprint you leave behind.
And remember, some good music helps.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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