There has been a fair amount of stir recently, in Catholic and conservative publications, about a new book called The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt. The latest issue of First Things magazine opens with a piece on it. With evident satisfaction, R.R. Reno writes:
"It wasn't a conclusion he thought he'd come to. When he was a young graduate student, Jonathan Haidt presumed that "liberal" was pretty much a synonym for "reasonable", if not for "obvious". Now as he writes in The Righteous Mind: Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, he has found that liberalls have limited moral vision. One that is, I'd say, therefore certainly less reasonable than conservatism's, and for the vast majority of people in the world far from obvious."
He goes on to describe Haidt's claims; that "our moral outlooks are largely intuitive rather than reasoned" (fairly obvious, I'd say), and that "people tend to be liberal or conservative because they have different emotional responses to the same social realities" (again, fairly obvious, though some people like to insist they have arrived at their views purely through a process of reason. I don't really believe anyone who makes this claim).
The meat of Haidt's sandwich is the claim that conservatives have more "receptors" for moral intutions than liberals do. Liberals only have "receptors" for "care, freedom and fairness" while conservatives also take "loyalty, authority and sanctity" into consideration.
It's true that, when arguing with a liberal or a progressive, I often feel scandalised that they don't even seem to perceive things that I do-- for instance, they don't seem to care about national identity, or the difference between the sexes, or a sense of rootedness.
But deriving some sort of pseudo-scientific theory from this fact is, I think, a leap too far. I am sure the liberal thinks I am sottishly insensible to concerns or hopes or aspirations that he cherishes. I do believe I inhabit a wider and freer mental world than he does, but I don't think there's anything obviously true about my claim. I think he could claim the same thing.
It is unwise of conservatives or religious people to take books like The Righteous Mind to their hearts. Believing in the freedom and dignity of the human soul as I do, I am not much interested in a social scientist's attempt to anatomise our minds, whether it is Haidt in this book or Theodor Adorno in The Authoritarian Personality, a famous and influential attempt to pathologize right-wingers.
It's true that I haven't read Haidt's book, only reviews of it (most of them short), and perhaps I am being unfair to it. But I am much more interested in arguments and philosophies themselves, rather than theories about why people hold those philosophies or make those arguments.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
The Nutty Professors
Having worked in a university library for a little over a decade, I have a front-row view of the radicalist crusade that is waged by a great many academics in the humanities and social sciences. Simply glancing at the books that pass over the loans desk is usually enough to demonstrate how utterly one-sided the "debate" within the academy really is. Sometimes the partisanship is actually comical. Canadian Studies: An Introductory Reader (it's hard to dream up an academic discipline that doesn't actually exist somewhere; we actually have Porn Studies now), a volume edited by one Donald Wright, has an introduction that opens thus:
"In his 1975 report, To Know Ourselves, Tom Symons argued that Canadian studies must not be understood as a patriotic project, one designed to preserve and promote a particular Canadian identity....He was right then and and he is right now. Patriotism has no place in the university and the unexamined life isn't worth living."
Impossible to imagine that the examined life might lead one to patriotism! But didn't Socrates himself perish because he refused to flee from his beloved Athens?
Today I have been transferring some books into the restricted collection. These are books that have to be kept permanently in the library, since somebody-- usually an academic-- has put them on a reading list.
One of the books is Coercive Control: How Men Entrap Women in Personal Life by Evan Stark. The blurb declares: "If the focus remains on acts of physical violence at the expense of a full assault on the patriarchy, he argues, the domestic violence movement is doomed."
Another is Community Development in Ireland, edited by Ashling Jackson and Colm O'Doherty, and published by Gill and MacMillan (a name with rather pleasant, nostalgic associations for many of us). The blurb promises that, through reading this book, we will "recognise and value community development as a powerful force for social change in Ireland". Because what sane person could doubt the crying need for radical social change in this backward nation of ours?
As is my wont, I looked up various keywords in the index, and the entry for "religion, and diversity"-- there was no entry simply for "religion"-- led me to this very amusing (but disconcerting) passage:
"Religion can be for many an important source of emotional support. Culturally competent practice is achieved, for example, when a community development worker takes the trouble to find out the significance of religious and cultural traditions to the client or client's family. Is there a need to accommodate, in some way, non-Christian religious holidays and prayer times? Does an agency show respect for non-Christian traditions, for example wearing the hijab, and specific dietary requirements?"
To be fair, I doubt that this passage represents anything more sinister than a belief that Christian holidays and traditions are so securely embedded in Irish society that they need no protection. Sadly, this is not true. But I would also guess that most "community development workers", and especially those training them, would probably not be very sympathetic to many Christian traditions and values anyway.
(Incidentally, I noticed that the index cited the feminist and leftist poet bell hooks, who eschews capital letters in her name. It didn't surprise me in the least.)
"In his 1975 report, To Know Ourselves, Tom Symons argued that Canadian studies must not be understood as a patriotic project, one designed to preserve and promote a particular Canadian identity....He was right then and and he is right now. Patriotism has no place in the university and the unexamined life isn't worth living."
Impossible to imagine that the examined life might lead one to patriotism! But didn't Socrates himself perish because he refused to flee from his beloved Athens?
Today I have been transferring some books into the restricted collection. These are books that have to be kept permanently in the library, since somebody-- usually an academic-- has put them on a reading list.
One of the books is Coercive Control: How Men Entrap Women in Personal Life by Evan Stark. The blurb declares: "If the focus remains on acts of physical violence at the expense of a full assault on the patriarchy, he argues, the domestic violence movement is doomed."
Another is Community Development in Ireland, edited by Ashling Jackson and Colm O'Doherty, and published by Gill and MacMillan (a name with rather pleasant, nostalgic associations for many of us). The blurb promises that, through reading this book, we will "recognise and value community development as a powerful force for social change in Ireland". Because what sane person could doubt the crying need for radical social change in this backward nation of ours?
As is my wont, I looked up various keywords in the index, and the entry for "religion, and diversity"-- there was no entry simply for "religion"-- led me to this very amusing (but disconcerting) passage:
"Religion can be for many an important source of emotional support. Culturally competent practice is achieved, for example, when a community development worker takes the trouble to find out the significance of religious and cultural traditions to the client or client's family. Is there a need to accommodate, in some way, non-Christian religious holidays and prayer times? Does an agency show respect for non-Christian traditions, for example wearing the hijab, and specific dietary requirements?"
To be fair, I doubt that this passage represents anything more sinister than a belief that Christian holidays and traditions are so securely embedded in Irish society that they need no protection. Sadly, this is not true. But I would also guess that most "community development workers", and especially those training them, would probably not be very sympathetic to many Christian traditions and values anyway.
(Incidentally, I noticed that the index cited the feminist and leftist poet bell hooks, who eschews capital letters in her name. It didn't surprise me in the least.)
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Lovely Article by Breda O'Brien in the Irish Catholic this week...
...although I think the headline, "The Church I go on Loving Despite it All", is rather inappropriate and doesn't reflect the text. Maybe it reflects the editorial outlook of The Irish Catholic.
I liked it for its frankness and even its vulnerability. I think Catholic writers certainly have to be able to mix it with anti-Catholic and anti-religious bruisers and there is a crying need for the bullish apologist. But I think that it is the still, small voice that often reaches where the bombardment of heavy-duty philosophical and historical arguments can't.
She begins: "Recently, I was asked to give a talk on being a Catholic in Ireland today. The request got me thinking about what Catholicism means to me, and why it would be extremely difficult to imagine my life without my Catholic faith."
She then goes on to make what I think is a refreshing and disarming admission: "If I had been raised as a Muslim, there is a high probability that I would have been a devout Muslim. I think some people are more inclined to a spiritual or religious outlook on life."
Sceptics so often present this argument as if it was devastating. "If you were born in Pakistan, you'd be just as confident that Islam was true as you are that Christianity is true! If you'd been raised a Mormon, you'd find excuses for all the anachronisms in the Book of Mormon and all the hypocrisies of Joseph Smith, just like you explain away all the dark parts of Catholic history now!"
Of course, counter-factual claims can never be tested, so the sceptic is taking rather a cheap shot. But I do in fact acknowledge the basic truth of the claim. I'd like to think that, whatever religion I had been born to, or even if I had been born into a secular family, I would have found my way to the Catholic faith. But I am not entirely confident of this. It seems to me it would take an enormous independence of thought to reach Catholicism from a devoutly Hindu or Sikh or Muslim background. It's impossible to know.
Is this simply admitting, tacitly if not explicitly, that all religions are basically the same and they are all-- at best-- clumsy but poignant attempts to express the mystery at the heart of life?
No, absolutely not. I believe unreservedly that Catholicism is the true faith, for all that other faiths contain glimmers of the truth. It is perfectly logical to believe that what you believe is true, while accepting that you might have believed differently if your circumstances had been difficult. A twenty-first century liberal could whole-heartedly believe that slavery is wrong while accepting that he would have thought differently if he had been a fifth-century BC Athenian.
But it goes further than this, for me. I never had sympathy with the sceptic's argument that a just Deity would have revealed himself to all mankind at once, and have given each human an equal chance to come to the Truth. How boringly rationalistic that would be! How great a loss it would be to miss out on all those thrilling tales of missionaries and revivals and Road to Damascus moments! I prefer the drama of the Acts of the Apostles to some kind of divine Public Service Broadcast screened all over the world at the same time.
Breda O'Brien goes on to write: "People who incline to intellectual atheism are often unable to identify with the mystical aspects of religion...attemps to talk about a relationship with God evoke a baffled response, akin to embarrassment, as if an adult still sucked her thumb. It's as if I were talking a different language. Perhaps I am."
How familiar a situation this is to most religious believers today! Outside the ranks of New Atheist boors, most non-believers are polite and respectful and recognize that a person's religious faith is of supreme importance to them. They tend to humour us rather than challenge us. There often even seems to be a kind of admiration or benign envy at play.
In a way, this reaction is more of a challenge to the religious believer than the zealotry of the New Atheist. The pathological Church-basher and antagonist of religion seems so obviously to be repressing a spiritual hunger that he is almost making our case for us. Encountering anti-Catholicism tends to buoy up my own faith. Encountering good-humoured unbelief is rather more disarming.
And yet, it usually seems to me that those who seem indifferent to religion feel the religious impulse in another form. Very often they are enraptured by music or art or perhaps devotion to some cause. I sincerely believe that, if they really thought about these insights into the sublime, they would realise that they are actually calls to worship. Nothing human, nothing historical or conditional, can take the weight of human yearning, or the human tendency to complete devotion. I think even a collector of vintage cars is ultimately seeking the sacred.
Futher in the article, Ms O'Brien makes another excellent point: "More importantly, I love churches for their sense of presence. It is not only the combined energy of all the human beings who have come to pray there, but a sense of a greater presence. Presence is a vital concept in our world, where so many people are scattered and distracted. People who are really present are rare, and precious. Naturally, a place with a sense of the presence of God is even more treasured."
Ironically, the writer who probably best expressed my own feelings about churches was the atheist, Philip Larkin, in his poem Church-Going. He hit the bull's-eye with the line: "A serious house on serious earth it is." Churches are serious places-- and how our souls cry out for seriousness! How much of the fun and hilarity and irony and pleasure-seeking in our society is, in reality, an expression of despair! There is certainly a place for mirth in this world, but joy-- true, deep and overwhelming joy-- is a serious, even a solemn thing.
Somehow, I feel that my joy in everything is centred in the tabernacle of a Catholic church. I quite often get bored during Mass and my mind regularly wanders during the liturgy. But, at the same time, I feel that this holy place is the hearth of all human life, that it spreads warmth and light and comfort through every other element of existence. (I eat my post-Mass breakfast with more relish than any other breakfast.) Somehow, the magic of the darkened cinema and the exciting gloom of early mornings in winter and the carnival atmosphere of a crowded, sun-spangled street in summer all seem to depend upon the existence of churches. My joy in a deserted beach or a cluttered second-hand bookshop or a cosy pub rests on the knowledge that, at that very moment, all over the world, the Lord's Supper is being celebrated. Knowing that raises all the fun and frivolity and feverishness to a higher level. It's a very difficult feeling to express.
Another excellent point that Breda O'Brien makes is that "human nature is such that unless it has something powerfully attractive drawing it beyond itself, it declines into hedonism, boredom and cruelty." Absolutely. There is no equilibrium. Those who attack Christianity think they are dealing it a crushing blow when they point out how pitifully short Christians fall of their own ideals. But should we really lower our moral standards to make it easier for ourselves? It is our nature to strive. If we are not striving to love God and our neighbour (and doubtless failing miserably) we are soon striving to outdo our neighbour and become God.
This paragraph is quite brilliant: "When I am gazing at my own navel, nothing makes sense, and the world is dull and painful. When I am gazing at the beauty of stars, nothing makes sense, either, but things do not make sense in a mysterious, reassuring, and fascinating way."
Religious people are often criticized for needing a cut-and-dried philosophy of life, for taking refuge from uncertainty in dogma. It seems to me that religion opens up the world more than any non-religious philosophy. It exposes us even more nakedly to mystery. Scientific materialism, liberalism, Marxism, anarchism, nationalism-- all those merely human outlooks seem so settled and tidy. But the voice of religion is like the voice of God in the Book of Job, or the apparently evasive answers that our Lord so often makes in the Gospels. It seems to explain the enigma of life by deepening it. And something deep within us responds; yes, this makes sense. This corresponds to the strangeness of life.
Breda O'Brien concludes: "It [the Church] is my still point in a turning world, and it is incredibly precious to me."
All too often, "spiritual" articles in Catholic publications are composed of little more than platitudes and "the warm fuzzies". That has its place, but it is too prevalent. It is so much more effective and powerful when a writer really examines his or her faith with an effort at objectivity. I also think articles like this might be better placed in the secular press, where I really think they might catch the attention of those who do not consider themselves religious, or who have drifted out of practicing their faith. In any case, hats off to Breda O'Brien!
And may the Holy Spirit shower graces on all of us this Pentecost!
P.S.: Holy cow! I just did an internet search on Breda O'Brien and was knocked over by all the vitriolic posts from left-feminist, secularist and otherwise embittered bloggers. Even the hatred heaped on David Quinn pales in comparison. I hope this post balances the ledger even a little bit-- in fact, that is one of the reasons I set up this blog. Far too many Irish bloggers seem to be consumed by hatred towards the Church. I'm hoping to provide some counterbalance.
I liked it for its frankness and even its vulnerability. I think Catholic writers certainly have to be able to mix it with anti-Catholic and anti-religious bruisers and there is a crying need for the bullish apologist. But I think that it is the still, small voice that often reaches where the bombardment of heavy-duty philosophical and historical arguments can't.
She begins: "Recently, I was asked to give a talk on being a Catholic in Ireland today. The request got me thinking about what Catholicism means to me, and why it would be extremely difficult to imagine my life without my Catholic faith."
She then goes on to make what I think is a refreshing and disarming admission: "If I had been raised as a Muslim, there is a high probability that I would have been a devout Muslim. I think some people are more inclined to a spiritual or religious outlook on life."
Sceptics so often present this argument as if it was devastating. "If you were born in Pakistan, you'd be just as confident that Islam was true as you are that Christianity is true! If you'd been raised a Mormon, you'd find excuses for all the anachronisms in the Book of Mormon and all the hypocrisies of Joseph Smith, just like you explain away all the dark parts of Catholic history now!"
Of course, counter-factual claims can never be tested, so the sceptic is taking rather a cheap shot. But I do in fact acknowledge the basic truth of the claim. I'd like to think that, whatever religion I had been born to, or even if I had been born into a secular family, I would have found my way to the Catholic faith. But I am not entirely confident of this. It seems to me it would take an enormous independence of thought to reach Catholicism from a devoutly Hindu or Sikh or Muslim background. It's impossible to know.
Is this simply admitting, tacitly if not explicitly, that all religions are basically the same and they are all-- at best-- clumsy but poignant attempts to express the mystery at the heart of life?
No, absolutely not. I believe unreservedly that Catholicism is the true faith, for all that other faiths contain glimmers of the truth. It is perfectly logical to believe that what you believe is true, while accepting that you might have believed differently if your circumstances had been difficult. A twenty-first century liberal could whole-heartedly believe that slavery is wrong while accepting that he would have thought differently if he had been a fifth-century BC Athenian.
But it goes further than this, for me. I never had sympathy with the sceptic's argument that a just Deity would have revealed himself to all mankind at once, and have given each human an equal chance to come to the Truth. How boringly rationalistic that would be! How great a loss it would be to miss out on all those thrilling tales of missionaries and revivals and Road to Damascus moments! I prefer the drama of the Acts of the Apostles to some kind of divine Public Service Broadcast screened all over the world at the same time.
Breda O'Brien goes on to write: "People who incline to intellectual atheism are often unable to identify with the mystical aspects of religion...attemps to talk about a relationship with God evoke a baffled response, akin to embarrassment, as if an adult still sucked her thumb. It's as if I were talking a different language. Perhaps I am."
How familiar a situation this is to most religious believers today! Outside the ranks of New Atheist boors, most non-believers are polite and respectful and recognize that a person's religious faith is of supreme importance to them. They tend to humour us rather than challenge us. There often even seems to be a kind of admiration or benign envy at play.
In a way, this reaction is more of a challenge to the religious believer than the zealotry of the New Atheist. The pathological Church-basher and antagonist of religion seems so obviously to be repressing a spiritual hunger that he is almost making our case for us. Encountering anti-Catholicism tends to buoy up my own faith. Encountering good-humoured unbelief is rather more disarming.
And yet, it usually seems to me that those who seem indifferent to religion feel the religious impulse in another form. Very often they are enraptured by music or art or perhaps devotion to some cause. I sincerely believe that, if they really thought about these insights into the sublime, they would realise that they are actually calls to worship. Nothing human, nothing historical or conditional, can take the weight of human yearning, or the human tendency to complete devotion. I think even a collector of vintage cars is ultimately seeking the sacred.
Futher in the article, Ms O'Brien makes another excellent point: "More importantly, I love churches for their sense of presence. It is not only the combined energy of all the human beings who have come to pray there, but a sense of a greater presence. Presence is a vital concept in our world, where so many people are scattered and distracted. People who are really present are rare, and precious. Naturally, a place with a sense of the presence of God is even more treasured."
Ironically, the writer who probably best expressed my own feelings about churches was the atheist, Philip Larkin, in his poem Church-Going. He hit the bull's-eye with the line: "A serious house on serious earth it is." Churches are serious places-- and how our souls cry out for seriousness! How much of the fun and hilarity and irony and pleasure-seeking in our society is, in reality, an expression of despair! There is certainly a place for mirth in this world, but joy-- true, deep and overwhelming joy-- is a serious, even a solemn thing.
Somehow, I feel that my joy in everything is centred in the tabernacle of a Catholic church. I quite often get bored during Mass and my mind regularly wanders during the liturgy. But, at the same time, I feel that this holy place is the hearth of all human life, that it spreads warmth and light and comfort through every other element of existence. (I eat my post-Mass breakfast with more relish than any other breakfast.) Somehow, the magic of the darkened cinema and the exciting gloom of early mornings in winter and the carnival atmosphere of a crowded, sun-spangled street in summer all seem to depend upon the existence of churches. My joy in a deserted beach or a cluttered second-hand bookshop or a cosy pub rests on the knowledge that, at that very moment, all over the world, the Lord's Supper is being celebrated. Knowing that raises all the fun and frivolity and feverishness to a higher level. It's a very difficult feeling to express.
Another excellent point that Breda O'Brien makes is that "human nature is such that unless it has something powerfully attractive drawing it beyond itself, it declines into hedonism, boredom and cruelty." Absolutely. There is no equilibrium. Those who attack Christianity think they are dealing it a crushing blow when they point out how pitifully short Christians fall of their own ideals. But should we really lower our moral standards to make it easier for ourselves? It is our nature to strive. If we are not striving to love God and our neighbour (and doubtless failing miserably) we are soon striving to outdo our neighbour and become God.
This paragraph is quite brilliant: "When I am gazing at my own navel, nothing makes sense, and the world is dull and painful. When I am gazing at the beauty of stars, nothing makes sense, either, but things do not make sense in a mysterious, reassuring, and fascinating way."
Religious people are often criticized for needing a cut-and-dried philosophy of life, for taking refuge from uncertainty in dogma. It seems to me that religion opens up the world more than any non-religious philosophy. It exposes us even more nakedly to mystery. Scientific materialism, liberalism, Marxism, anarchism, nationalism-- all those merely human outlooks seem so settled and tidy. But the voice of religion is like the voice of God in the Book of Job, or the apparently evasive answers that our Lord so often makes in the Gospels. It seems to explain the enigma of life by deepening it. And something deep within us responds; yes, this makes sense. This corresponds to the strangeness of life.
Breda O'Brien concludes: "It [the Church] is my still point in a turning world, and it is incredibly precious to me."
All too often, "spiritual" articles in Catholic publications are composed of little more than platitudes and "the warm fuzzies". That has its place, but it is too prevalent. It is so much more effective and powerful when a writer really examines his or her faith with an effort at objectivity. I also think articles like this might be better placed in the secular press, where I really think they might catch the attention of those who do not consider themselves religious, or who have drifted out of practicing their faith. In any case, hats off to Breda O'Brien!
And may the Holy Spirit shower graces on all of us this Pentecost!
P.S.: Holy cow! I just did an internet search on Breda O'Brien and was knocked over by all the vitriolic posts from left-feminist, secularist and otherwise embittered bloggers. Even the hatred heaped on David Quinn pales in comparison. I hope this post balances the ledger even a little bit-- in fact, that is one of the reasons I set up this blog. Far too many Irish bloggers seem to be consumed by hatred towards the Church. I'm hoping to provide some counterbalance.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Why I am a Traditionalist Conservative
I'm tired of invoking Edmund Burke
And tired of the shuttlecock of debate.
I really don't care if the new ways work,
I'll always root for the out-of-date.
I'll always root for the long-in-the-tooth
Though the new be better a thousandfold.
No more shall I hide the terrible truth;
I like old things because they are old.
I like old things because they are slower
And cruder and leave us a chance to laugh.
Give me a scythe, not a new lawn-mower;
A daguerreotype, not a photograph.
I like old ways because they wander
I like them because they don't make sense.
I can't add seven and six, but I'm fonder
Of shillings and farthings than pounds and pence.
I like old things because the dust
Of custom and habit have fallen on them.
I like them because they've been blessed and cussed
And joked about since the time of Shem.
I'm all for cooked-up and fake traditions;
There's not a quaint fiction I won't uphold.
Let Christmas be laden with new additions;
I like new things that pretend to be old.
I thirst for cobwebs and rust and dog-ears
By ivy and lichen I take my stand.
I am not pleased when nostalgia's fog clears
And leaves us standing in no-man's-land.
I like a verse more the more it's recited;
I like a tale more the more it's told.
So call me backwards, blockish, benighted;
I like old things because they are old.
You tell me my sort have been moaning and mourning
Since someone rubbed sticks and discovered fire;
That mankind lives in an endless dawning
From tin to typeface to telephone wire.
You say that the past is doomed, you sages,
And tramp on its deathbed to prove you're bold;
By God, I don't think you so very courageous;
I like old things because they are old.
And tired of the shuttlecock of debate.
I really don't care if the new ways work,
I'll always root for the out-of-date.
I'll always root for the long-in-the-tooth
Though the new be better a thousandfold.
No more shall I hide the terrible truth;
I like old things because they are old.
I like old things because they are slower
And cruder and leave us a chance to laugh.
Give me a scythe, not a new lawn-mower;
A daguerreotype, not a photograph.
I like old ways because they wander
I like them because they don't make sense.
I can't add seven and six, but I'm fonder
Of shillings and farthings than pounds and pence.
I like old things because the dust
Of custom and habit have fallen on them.
I like them because they've been blessed and cussed
And joked about since the time of Shem.
I'm all for cooked-up and fake traditions;
There's not a quaint fiction I won't uphold.
Let Christmas be laden with new additions;
I like new things that pretend to be old.
I thirst for cobwebs and rust and dog-ears
By ivy and lichen I take my stand.
I am not pleased when nostalgia's fog clears
And leaves us standing in no-man's-land.
I like a verse more the more it's recited;
I like a tale more the more it's told.
So call me backwards, blockish, benighted;
I like old things because they are old.
You tell me my sort have been moaning and mourning
Since someone rubbed sticks and discovered fire;
That mankind lives in an endless dawning
From tin to typeface to telephone wire.
You say that the past is doomed, you sages,
And tramp on its deathbed to prove you're bold;
By God, I don't think you so very courageous;
I like old things because they are old.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
I Loved This Post so Much...
...I just had to link to it
I actually discovered it by searching "Athanasius" and "badass" on the internet. I'm not really a fan of contemporary lingo, but I'm reading a history of the Church right now and, after reading about St. Athanasius of Alexandria's no-compromise, no-prisoners, gung-ho defence of Catholic orthodoxy when both the Church and the Roman Empire seemed to have been utterly conquered by the Arian heresy, I realized that "badass" is the perfect adjective to describe him. He was the John Shaft of the saints.
If I ever have a son, I think I might give him "Athanasisus" as a middle name. He is now officially my favourite saint (after Our Lady, who is the greatest of all saints). Athanasius contra mundum indeed!
"If anyone can be singled out as a saint for our times", says the author, "surely it is Saint Athanasius". I entirely agree.
And the blog is pretty badass, too, though I only read one post. It's written by a twenty-year old American Catholic who was ten years ahead of me in realizing that all the powers of this world have one mortal enemy, and that enemy is the Catholic Church.
It looks like there is a whole generation of young Catholics growing up who are fully clued in to the utter banality of secularism, the dead end of liberal religion, and the galloping romance of full-blooded orthodoxy. God be praised!
I actually discovered it by searching "Athanasius" and "badass" on the internet. I'm not really a fan of contemporary lingo, but I'm reading a history of the Church right now and, after reading about St. Athanasius of Alexandria's no-compromise, no-prisoners, gung-ho defence of Catholic orthodoxy when both the Church and the Roman Empire seemed to have been utterly conquered by the Arian heresy, I realized that "badass" is the perfect adjective to describe him. He was the John Shaft of the saints.
If I ever have a son, I think I might give him "Athanasisus" as a middle name. He is now officially my favourite saint (after Our Lady, who is the greatest of all saints). Athanasius contra mundum indeed!
"If anyone can be singled out as a saint for our times", says the author, "surely it is Saint Athanasius". I entirely agree.
And the blog is pretty badass, too, though I only read one post. It's written by a twenty-year old American Catholic who was ten years ahead of me in realizing that all the powers of this world have one mortal enemy, and that enemy is the Catholic Church.
It looks like there is a whole generation of young Catholics growing up who are fully clued in to the utter banality of secularism, the dead end of liberal religion, and the galloping romance of full-blooded orthodoxy. God be praised!
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Why I am a Monarchist
As a fairly keen monarchist, I have sometimes found myself visiting monarchist blogs and the websites of monarchist groups. A lot of these sites, probably a majority, tend to have Roman Catholic authors. This isn't too surprising, I suppose. Monarchism and Catholicism both fit with a temper that could be described as "traditionalist" or "reactionary" (depending on who is speaking). The connection also harks back to the political philosophy of Joseph de Maistre, the philosopher of "Throne and Altar" conservatism, who wrote in the wake of the French Revolution.
Sometimes I worry that this link between monarchism and Catholicism might tempt non-Catholics to take the Faith less seriously. They might get the idea that Catholics are simply panting for ceremony and tradition, for croziers and mitres and crowns and birettas. Or that Catholicism is nothing but reaction, an allergic response to the disenchanted, utiltarian, egalitarian modern age.
I think there is some truth to the perception. Certainly, in my case, the ritual and ceremony and historical continuity of the Church appeals to me greatly. It's not that the whiff of incense lured me into the Church, but it seems fitting to me that God's presence on Earth would be heralded by such beauty and pageantry. It seems right. It makes sense.
But I'm not a monarchist because I'm a Catholic. And would I bet most Catholics aren't monarchists at all.
So why am I a monarchist?
First of all, I should clarify what kind of monarchist I am-- that is, a constitutional monarchist. I like the idea of a monarch as the ceremonial head of State. I don't care much about what powers the monarch holds, although I think it is generally a good idea to have a separation of constitutional powers, and the monarch-- being both an ordinary person and (hopefully) one brought up to feel a strong sense of duty-- might have a valid role as a brake on the legislative power. I think the powers and privileges of the English monarch are about right, although it would be better if the Queen actually used those powers more extensively-- for instance, in writing her own Christmas Speech (it has to better than the annual servings of pabulum written by her Government), and to call conferences of political leaders in times of crisis-- similar to the role King George V played in engineering the Irish Truce of 1921.
There are a fair few Catholics, at least ones I've encountered in cyberspace, who are bona fide royal absolutists. I respect their beliefs but they do rather baffle me. Would they like to live in the reigns of Henry VIII or Elizabeth I? Dictatorship opens up great possibilities, if you happen to get a Philosopher King or benevolent despot, but the risks are infinitely greater.
To me, the real importance of monarchy is the tone that it sets. A nation that styles itself The Kingdom of Such-and-Such seems to be on a much healthier footing than a nation that styles itself The Republic of Such-and-Such.The Kingdom is, from the very start (to use two evocative phrases from Edmund Burke) declaring that is not the "fly of a summer's day" but "a contract between the living, the dead and the unborn."
The Kingdom looks to the past and the future, since it has at least one old tradition-- monarchy-- which it has taken to its heart and sought to hand on to its posterity.
The Kingdom has a poetic, particular image in its very title-- it may evoke in your mind a crown, or a throne, or a man on a throne wearing a crown, or perhaps a coat of arms. A Republic is simply an abstraction, and who can love an abstraction? Even the flags of Republics tend to be ugly, like our own lacklustre and uninspired tricolour. (Yes, seeing the tricolour billowing in the breeze above the GPO makes my heart leap-- but not for the sake of the design.)
A Kingdom measures its epochs in a poetical and human way-- aren't the Elizabethan and Victorian and Edwardian eras of British history more "user-friendly" and appealing than the ante-bellum, post-bellum, Depression, inter-war and New Deal eras of American history?
The keynote of a Kingdom is reverence, while they keynote of a Republic is resentment. The guiding idea of a Kingdom is that, for all our ideological and social and philosophical differences, we express our aspiration to harmony by honouring the Queen or King, by setting one institution above the affray. I can't but believe that this simple act of graciousness ripples outwards through the national life. The guiding idea of a Republic is "nobody is better than me; nobody is to be privileged over me; nobody is to look down on me". And I know from experience where that mentality takes us-- a drive towards equality as sameness, towards stripping the public square naked of any vestige of history or heritage or the sacred.
A Kingdom is a family. A Republic is a hotel. And even the worst family is better than the most opulent hotel, after a while.
But, for me, the ultimate argument is the argument of the sauce bottle label. A humble bottle of Worcester Sauce attains a sort of grandeur by having the Royal coat of arms and the words, "By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen" printed on it. The dingiest pub gains in dignity by having the name The King's Head emblazoned over its door.
I think C.S. Lewis put it extremely well, when he tried to point out the folly of judging monarchy by a utiltarian calculus: "It would be much more rational to abolish the English monarchy. But how if, by doing so, you leave out the one element in our state which matters most? How if the Monarchy is the channel through which all the vital elements of citizenship – loyalty, the consecration of secular life, the hierarchical principal, splendour, ceremony, continuity – still trickle down to irrigate the dustbowl of modern economic Statecraft?”
So, having written all of this, I must be a pretty ardent monarchist, right?
Well, not really. I don't have a portrait of King Charles the First hanging over my bed. I know less about the English Royals than does the average reader of Hello! magazine. I stood outside Buckingham Palace not so long ago and found the whole thing a little bit garish, to be honest. I doubt it would even be worth a single human life to preserve a monarchy from destruction. As a Christian, I view all worldly things as ephemeral and even trivial, against the backdrop of Eternity.
But, for all that, I am a convinced monarchist. And if there is ever a cry to restore the line of Brian Boru to Tara, I will happily raise my voice along with it.
Sometimes I worry that this link between monarchism and Catholicism might tempt non-Catholics to take the Faith less seriously. They might get the idea that Catholics are simply panting for ceremony and tradition, for croziers and mitres and crowns and birettas. Or that Catholicism is nothing but reaction, an allergic response to the disenchanted, utiltarian, egalitarian modern age.
I think there is some truth to the perception. Certainly, in my case, the ritual and ceremony and historical continuity of the Church appeals to me greatly. It's not that the whiff of incense lured me into the Church, but it seems fitting to me that God's presence on Earth would be heralded by such beauty and pageantry. It seems right. It makes sense.
But I'm not a monarchist because I'm a Catholic. And would I bet most Catholics aren't monarchists at all.
So why am I a monarchist?
First of all, I should clarify what kind of monarchist I am-- that is, a constitutional monarchist. I like the idea of a monarch as the ceremonial head of State. I don't care much about what powers the monarch holds, although I think it is generally a good idea to have a separation of constitutional powers, and the monarch-- being both an ordinary person and (hopefully) one brought up to feel a strong sense of duty-- might have a valid role as a brake on the legislative power. I think the powers and privileges of the English monarch are about right, although it would be better if the Queen actually used those powers more extensively-- for instance, in writing her own Christmas Speech (it has to better than the annual servings of pabulum written by her Government), and to call conferences of political leaders in times of crisis-- similar to the role King George V played in engineering the Irish Truce of 1921.
There are a fair few Catholics, at least ones I've encountered in cyberspace, who are bona fide royal absolutists. I respect their beliefs but they do rather baffle me. Would they like to live in the reigns of Henry VIII or Elizabeth I? Dictatorship opens up great possibilities, if you happen to get a Philosopher King or benevolent despot, but the risks are infinitely greater.
To me, the real importance of monarchy is the tone that it sets. A nation that styles itself The Kingdom of Such-and-Such seems to be on a much healthier footing than a nation that styles itself The Republic of Such-and-Such.The Kingdom is, from the very start (to use two evocative phrases from Edmund Burke) declaring that is not the "fly of a summer's day" but "a contract between the living, the dead and the unborn."
The Kingdom looks to the past and the future, since it has at least one old tradition-- monarchy-- which it has taken to its heart and sought to hand on to its posterity.
The Kingdom has a poetic, particular image in its very title-- it may evoke in your mind a crown, or a throne, or a man on a throne wearing a crown, or perhaps a coat of arms. A Republic is simply an abstraction, and who can love an abstraction? Even the flags of Republics tend to be ugly, like our own lacklustre and uninspired tricolour. (Yes, seeing the tricolour billowing in the breeze above the GPO makes my heart leap-- but not for the sake of the design.)
A Kingdom measures its epochs in a poetical and human way-- aren't the Elizabethan and Victorian and Edwardian eras of British history more "user-friendly" and appealing than the ante-bellum, post-bellum, Depression, inter-war and New Deal eras of American history?
The keynote of a Kingdom is reverence, while they keynote of a Republic is resentment. The guiding idea of a Kingdom is that, for all our ideological and social and philosophical differences, we express our aspiration to harmony by honouring the Queen or King, by setting one institution above the affray. I can't but believe that this simple act of graciousness ripples outwards through the national life. The guiding idea of a Republic is "nobody is better than me; nobody is to be privileged over me; nobody is to look down on me". And I know from experience where that mentality takes us-- a drive towards equality as sameness, towards stripping the public square naked of any vestige of history or heritage or the sacred.
A Kingdom is a family. A Republic is a hotel. And even the worst family is better than the most opulent hotel, after a while.
But, for me, the ultimate argument is the argument of the sauce bottle label. A humble bottle of Worcester Sauce attains a sort of grandeur by having the Royal coat of arms and the words, "By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen" printed on it. The dingiest pub gains in dignity by having the name The King's Head emblazoned over its door.
I think C.S. Lewis put it extremely well, when he tried to point out the folly of judging monarchy by a utiltarian calculus: "It would be much more rational to abolish the English monarchy. But how if, by doing so, you leave out the one element in our state which matters most? How if the Monarchy is the channel through which all the vital elements of citizenship – loyalty, the consecration of secular life, the hierarchical principal, splendour, ceremony, continuity – still trickle down to irrigate the dustbowl of modern economic Statecraft?”
So, having written all of this, I must be a pretty ardent monarchist, right?
Well, not really. I don't have a portrait of King Charles the First hanging over my bed. I know less about the English Royals than does the average reader of Hello! magazine. I stood outside Buckingham Palace not so long ago and found the whole thing a little bit garish, to be honest. I doubt it would even be worth a single human life to preserve a monarchy from destruction. As a Christian, I view all worldly things as ephemeral and even trivial, against the backdrop of Eternity.
But, for all that, I am a convinced monarchist. And if there is ever a cry to restore the line of Brian Boru to Tara, I will happily raise my voice along with it.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Political Correctness and Courtesy-- Two Very Different Things
I am currently listening to Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years by Diarmaid MacCullough. (The only reason I would ever listen to an audiobook is because it is not always possible to be reading a proper book. But I swear I will never, ever, ever own a Kindle.)
MacCullough is a genial host. He is not a believer himself, but he seems intent on treating Christianity with respect and even affection. (I have only started listening to the book so I can't comment on how well he achieves this.) I've enjoyed the book so far, although the fact that it appears to be narrated by Lt. Commander Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation is a bit off-putting.
One thing I haven't appreciated is the book's politically-correct preamble, where MacCullough announces the conventions he will use, apologises in advance for not using gender-neutral language when quoting historical texts, and defends his use of terms such as "Common Era" and "Atlantic Isles". He anticipates the accusation of political correctness by arguing: "Some may sneer at this as 'political correctness'.When I was young my parents were insistent on the importance of being courteous and respectful of other people’s opinions and I am saddened that those undramatic virtues have now been relabeled in an unfriendly spirit."
Well, I bet your parents didn't go around saying "LGBT" and "Atlantic Isles", Professor MacCullough.Shouldn't that tell you something?
Peter Hitchens has made the excellent point that political correctness is not an extension of courtesy, or a form of courtesy, but a replacement for courtesy. It's the stabilisers on the bicycle of conversation, stabilisers that we need when politeness and restraint and decency-- much more subtle and delicate membranes than the brick walls of taboo that PC erects-- have disappeared.
Courtesy and respect do exactly what political correctness can't do, by definition. They discriminate. They judge each situation individually. We all know the joke of the butler who accidentally walks in on a woman taking a bath and, with lightning tact, says: "Excuse me, sir", before swiftly disappearing. That's a whole world away from the same butler in the same situation saying "Excuse me, sir" because he knows the woman in the bath is "transgendered" and considers herself to be a man called Derek.
Comedians like Ricky Gervais who mock the disabled and afflicted, and who defend this as a defiance of "political correctness", are also getting it wrong. Being mentally disabled is a misfortune and it is cruel to mock it for this very reason. But being a woman or Irish or Jewish or Catholic is not a misfortune. That is why jokes about those groups are fair game-- always subject to considerations of good humour and courtesy.
Our local priest and Ministers of the Word often "correct" Holy Scripture, inserting gender-sensitive language. Recently we had the pleasure of hearing our Lord's words rendered: "Greater love hath no man or woman than this, that they should lay down their life for their friends". I don't get my knickers in a twist about this, but it does seem rather a liberty to take with the Word of God. Also, it tends to replace the profundity of the words with bathos.
Political correctness usually protects the sensibilities of the politically correct, rather than the actual groups that are supposedly being enfranchised by it. One phenomenon I've noticed during my years working in UCD library-- and that has pleased me vastly-- is that the young female students, who are given the choice of registering as "Miss" or "Ms", tend to choose the cheerful traditional title rather than the awful, awkward, resentful "Mzzzzzz". (I wouldn't in the least mind styling myself "Master O'Ceallaigh", incidentally. But unfortunately, I can't remember the last time a form presented me with that option.)
MacCullough is a genial host. He is not a believer himself, but he seems intent on treating Christianity with respect and even affection. (I have only started listening to the book so I can't comment on how well he achieves this.) I've enjoyed the book so far, although the fact that it appears to be narrated by Lt. Commander Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation is a bit off-putting.
One thing I haven't appreciated is the book's politically-correct preamble, where MacCullough announces the conventions he will use, apologises in advance for not using gender-neutral language when quoting historical texts, and defends his use of terms such as "Common Era" and "Atlantic Isles". He anticipates the accusation of political correctness by arguing: "Some may sneer at this as 'political correctness'.When I was young my parents were insistent on the importance of being courteous and respectful of other people’s opinions and I am saddened that those undramatic virtues have now been relabeled in an unfriendly spirit."
Well, I bet your parents didn't go around saying "LGBT" and "Atlantic Isles", Professor MacCullough.Shouldn't that tell you something?
Peter Hitchens has made the excellent point that political correctness is not an extension of courtesy, or a form of courtesy, but a replacement for courtesy. It's the stabilisers on the bicycle of conversation, stabilisers that we need when politeness and restraint and decency-- much more subtle and delicate membranes than the brick walls of taboo that PC erects-- have disappeared.
Courtesy and respect do exactly what political correctness can't do, by definition. They discriminate. They judge each situation individually. We all know the joke of the butler who accidentally walks in on a woman taking a bath and, with lightning tact, says: "Excuse me, sir", before swiftly disappearing. That's a whole world away from the same butler in the same situation saying "Excuse me, sir" because he knows the woman in the bath is "transgendered" and considers herself to be a man called Derek.
Comedians like Ricky Gervais who mock the disabled and afflicted, and who defend this as a defiance of "political correctness", are also getting it wrong. Being mentally disabled is a misfortune and it is cruel to mock it for this very reason. But being a woman or Irish or Jewish or Catholic is not a misfortune. That is why jokes about those groups are fair game-- always subject to considerations of good humour and courtesy.
Our local priest and Ministers of the Word often "correct" Holy Scripture, inserting gender-sensitive language. Recently we had the pleasure of hearing our Lord's words rendered: "Greater love hath no man or woman than this, that they should lay down their life for their friends". I don't get my knickers in a twist about this, but it does seem rather a liberty to take with the Word of God. Also, it tends to replace the profundity of the words with bathos.
Political correctness usually protects the sensibilities of the politically correct, rather than the actual groups that are supposedly being enfranchised by it. One phenomenon I've noticed during my years working in UCD library-- and that has pleased me vastly-- is that the young female students, who are given the choice of registering as "Miss" or "Ms", tend to choose the cheerful traditional title rather than the awful, awkward, resentful "Mzzzzzz". (I wouldn't in the least mind styling myself "Master O'Ceallaigh", incidentally. But unfortunately, I can't remember the last time a form presented me with that option.)
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