W.B. Yeats wrote:
THE woods of Arcady are dead,
And over is their antique joy;
Of old the world on dreaming fed;
Grey Truth is now her painted toy;
Yet still she turns her restless head:
But O, sick children of the world,
Of all the many changing things
In dreary dancing past us whirled,
To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,
Words alone are certain good.
I first read those lines as a seventeen-year-old for whom poetry-- the reading of it, and the writing of it-- was the most important thing in the world, a religion rather than a hobby. I accepted their truth passionately and they became one of my mottoes. (I always had a ton of mottoes at any one time.)
Now, they seem ridiculous to me on a rational level. Words alone are certain good? What about sunlight, laughter, sea-spray, a full moon, humility, the crinkle of silver paper, cinema? What kind of life-hating asceticism posits a medium of communication as the only good?
I've always had this leaning. I have to admit (to my shame) that when I first read about the church-wrecking thugs of the English Reformation, I found something to admire in them. Yes (something deep inside me said), whitewash over all the murals! Smash the stained glass! Break the statues! More glory to the Word of God, to the written word (even if I wasn't so sure it was the word of God at all). I thought it was a positive thing for a culture to draw away from those other ways of representation and concentrate upon writing. I was proud of Ireland for being a country so intensely devoted to the written word (and, before that, to the spoken word.)
Now I see the stupidity of this attitude. Now, I see the church-wrecking thugs of the English Reformation to have been nothing but the purest vandals and yahoos. And I see that the intensified focus upon the Bible which came in with the English Reformation-- which was, indeed, something real-- was ultimately transitory, since the Bible cannot be understood in a vacuum, and Bible study alone cannot replace the lived worship of sacrament and devotion. As St. Augustine said: "I would not believe in the Gospel, had not the authority of the Catholic Church already moved me".
My sympathy with the iconoclasts was rooted in a reaction that has caused people to reject some element of Catholicism's intricate mysteries and magisterial teaching again and again-- the craving (latent in every human breasts, and often overwhelming) for simplification. So much about Catholicism offends that puritanical attitude within us-- an attitude which is, I think, partly aesthetic-- which hankers for simple and elegant explanations, and simple theories, and simple ways of looking at the world.
I had an email debate, lasting more than a year, with a fellow Catholic who was also a proponent of the free market. He simply waved aside the Church's social teaching and insisted it was not binding upon the faithful. Now, I am always wary of describing my own part in a debate, since people always seem to portray themselves as having crushed every one of their opponent's arguments and left him grasping hopelessly for words. I won't claim that I won this debate (although I thought I did-- but then, I thought I was right in the first place, so I would think that, wouldn't I?)
But what was extraordinary was the sheer passion that my opponent had invested in his beliefs. He was really getting worked up about the matter and the debate descended into sharp exchanges on more than one occasion. (I am happy to say that we are on good terms again, now, though it only happened through letting the matter drop and resuming our correspondence later without either of us mentioning it.)
The other thing that struck me about his side of the debate was the frequency with which he returned to this argument-- "Capitalism is based upon the idea of contract, freely entered into. Nobody would enter into a contract unless it was to their advantage. Therefore, every act of capitalism is to the benefit of both parties, by definition. Everybody wins, nobody loses."
Now, I hope the flaws in that argument jump out at the reader. But that doesn't mean that I don't acknowledge its tremendous strength. Like all fallacies, it contains a big dollop of truth. I am not a cheerleader for capitalism, but that is the truly great thing about capitalism, for all its drawbacks-- that, all things being equal, you have to please the customer to survive.
But I only mention the debate at all as an illustration. I became convinced that my friend was under the sway of this idea-- that it had seized his imagination, with its sheer simplicity and apparent ability to explain all economic behaviour, its promise of simply cutting through so many Gordian knots like the proverbial knife through hot butter.
I need hardly go on to list all the other ideological monomanias that might be motivated by this urge for simplification. I often think that, though Occam's razor-- that is, the preference of a simple explanation over a complex one-- might be a valid principle when it comes to science and physics, the very opposite principle should apply when it comes to all-embracing theories of the human condition and of human society-- and still more, when it comes to sacred things.
But even that is something of a diversion. What I really meant to write about in this post was that, as I lay in bed this morning, I found Yeats's words coming to my mind and couldn't help seeing a nugget of truth in them-- at least, for me. Words alone are certain good. I felt the emphasis upon the "certain". I've been having a wonderful Christmas, but this morning I found myself suffering that strange dizziness I always feel when I haven't written or read much in a few days.
I have come to agree with Samuel Johnson when he wrote, "I am not yet so lost in lexicography as to forget that words are the daughters of men, and things are the sons of heaven". And yet, raw reality has this disadvantage over writing, and reading-- it is fuzzy, and blurry, and shimmering, and impossible to really seize hold of with both hands. Indeed, life would be a mean business if it was not so mercurial and overflowing and elusive. But a few days of all reality, and of little writing or reading, leaves me feeling cruelly disorientated, and craving the straightforwardness of words on a page.
And now that I have taken a deep pull on my inhaler, I can go back to my Christmas, which has (as I say) been wonderful. It has so far included midnight Mass in the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart in Richmond, a church which manages to be grand and compact at the same time. It included a strangely pleasant spell waiting at the boarding gate in JFK airport and watching the customers in a bar right beside it, and looking at the Christmas Eve Mass coverage on the bar television (subtitles handily included, as it was inaudible). Nobody was watching it, but it made me happy that it was on.
It included all the joys of my first married Christmas with Michelle, which seem too manifold and too private to chronicle in detail. But I can't help sharing my excitement about a couple of the Christmas gifts that my dear wife generously gave me. (Yeah, I know Christmas is not about gifts, but these were amazing gifts.)
One is an unbreakable set of metal rosary beads, as supplied to US soldiers by Catholic chaplains (and based on a design by the US Army in World War Two). I have gone through so many rosary beads it's ridiculous, and I find its next to impossible to get a good strong set. You can get a big set, but it's no more likely to be strong. I hope to have these beads to the day I die.
As I hope to have the second gift I can't help mentioning-- a Nativity scene snow globe that captured my heart the moment I saw it. I love snowglobes, and this is the greatest snowglobe I've ever seen. It's nice and big-- my palm would not fit around the globe itself. It's glass rather than plastic. It's set upon a serious-looking pedestal. And the figures are very artistically rendered. (How often have you shuddered at a bad representation of Our Lady?) It shows the manger, Our Lady, St. Joseph, Our infant Lord, a rather happy-looking cow, and a boyish shepherd on his knees.
Its absolutely wonderful, and when Michelle was buying it, a few people in the shop said: "If you decide you don't want it, we'll have it." Sure they would have!
Well, that's me for now. I hope you are all having a wonderful Christmas. Let's keep the twelve days alive!
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
The Ongoing Scandal of Altar Girls
I just came across this posting on a Catholic forum I sometimes visit:
***The pope called a Synod of Bishops in 1985 to re-assess Vatican II. As I recall they gave a significant thumbs up for the Council. And to my thinking the Pope took more seriously HIS DUTY TO IMPLEMENT VATICAN II.***
And so he yielded to the new teaching (contrary to tradition) of collegiality. Thus he yielded to the bishops when they requested ALTAR GIRLS BE PERMITTED. This was followed within the Church by the abuse (it was not permitted then) of Communion in the Hand. Then when the bishops asked the Holy Father to give approval for Communion in the Hand, he again yielded, while stating "I PERSONALLY AM OPPOSED TO COMMUNION IN THE HAND".
And so, to my thinking, canonization of Pope John XXIII and of Pope John Paul II would be a canonization of Vatican II, and so help significantly to keep the liberals and modernists greatly influential in ruling the Church.
Am I a bad Catholic, that I can't get worked up about this, and that I find such agitation deeply amusing? I receive on the tongue myself but I don't get worked up into a tizzy about people receiving in the hand. As for altar girls, I honestly don't see the harm. If someone makes a compelling argument against them, I would nod my head and say "OK".
I'm not saying liturgy is not important. It is massively important. But this kind of obsessiveness, with all its screaming capital letters, just seems ridiculous to me.
***The pope called a Synod of Bishops in 1985 to re-assess Vatican II. As I recall they gave a significant thumbs up for the Council. And to my thinking the Pope took more seriously HIS DUTY TO IMPLEMENT VATICAN II.***
And so he yielded to the new teaching (contrary to tradition) of collegiality. Thus he yielded to the bishops when they requested ALTAR GIRLS BE PERMITTED. This was followed within the Church by the abuse (it was not permitted then) of Communion in the Hand. Then when the bishops asked the Holy Father to give approval for Communion in the Hand, he again yielded, while stating "I PERSONALLY AM OPPOSED TO COMMUNION IN THE HAND".
And so, to my thinking, canonization of Pope John XXIII and of Pope John Paul II would be a canonization of Vatican II, and so help significantly to keep the liberals and modernists greatly influential in ruling the Church.
Am I a bad Catholic, that I can't get worked up about this, and that I find such agitation deeply amusing? I receive on the tongue myself but I don't get worked up into a tizzy about people receiving in the hand. As for altar girls, I honestly don't see the harm. If someone makes a compelling argument against them, I would nod my head and say "OK".
I'm not saying liturgy is not important. It is massively important. But this kind of obsessiveness, with all its screaming capital letters, just seems ridiculous to me.
Monday, December 23, 2013
And One More Thing....The Spooky Seasonal Stocking-Filler I Promised
Nightmare Fifty: To Santa or Not To Santa
“Oh, not Santa Claus again” groaned Roger, covering his face with his hands. “Every year. Every single year.”
“The kids are growing up now—“, started Elizabeth, but Susan interrupted her.
“They’re at the critical phase now, Elizabeth”, said Susan, with a weak smile. She found Elizabeth very trying. How did Mark find himself lumbered with such a goose? He deserved better. “Do you want to let religion and superstition in the back door? If you plant Santa Claus in their heads, that’s what’s going to happen.”
“It’s only a tradition”, said Elizabeth, in a small voice. She was intimidated by Susan. She was so smart; an engineering professor. They were all so smart. Elizabeth felt out of her depth. “I don’t want to take the magic out of their childhood.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”, asked Terry, with his patient smile. “Magic. Are we really going to cripple their imaginations by making them think that the only source of wonder, the only source of awe, is magic? That reality itself can’t be full of marvel?”
“Is there in truth no beauty?”, murmured Susan, in a singsong voice that told Elizabeth it was a quotation.
“George Herbert”, said Roger, with a self-satisfied grin.
God, they were all so smart. They were all professors and research scientists and senior civil servants. She was the only trustee of the Huxley School who didn’t have a degree. Probably the only one who didn’t have a PhD.
She tackled Mark about it when they got home.
“Let the school do what it wants”, she said, pouring a coffee for each of them. “We don’t have to follow, do we? I mean, they’re the ones who are always talking about free thought, and the independence of the mind. Honey, let’s have Santa Claus. Isobel is five years old. It didn’t matter so much until now…”
“It’s more than just a school, dear heart”, said Mark, running his fingers along her cheek, and staring into her eyes. “It’s an experiment.”
“An experiment with your daughter?”, asked Elizabeth.
“Don’t put it like that”, said Mark, with a reproachful look. “Lizzie, do you want us to take Isobel out of the Huxley School?”
“No”, said Elizabeth, quickly, looking down. “No, I want her to stay. We’d never get her into another school like that. And she’s made friends. But…”
“But”, said Mark, gently, “if we keep her in it, we have to keep to the spirit of the school. How would it work if Isobel were to tell her friends what she was getting from Santa Claus”—he couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice as he spoke the name—“and all the other kids went home and asked their parents why Santa didn’t visit them?”
“Oh, it just seems so wrong, though”, said Elizabeth, struggling to keep from sobbing. “I mean, not letting them have normal books, and not letting them watch cartoons or kids’ programmes, not even letting them mix with ordinary kids. You all talk about how people are tricked and deluded. But who’s deluding who? Who’s keeping who in the dark?”
There was silence for a few moments, and Elizabeth looked away from her husband. She had never gone so far before.
“I’m sorry you feel like that, Lizzie”, said Mark, his voice colder now. “There’s a certain validity to what you say. We are censoring them. But what parent doesn’t censor what their kids are exposed to? Would you let Isobel watch a Rambo film, or a dirty movie? Of, course not. But religion and superstition are just as poisonous. Worse. The real pity is that society is so rotten with it, so that we’re forced to take these drastic steps. Let them grow up free of all that junk. They’ll meet it soon enough.”
“It’s just Santa Claus”, said Elizabeth, almost whispering. “It’s just a story.” She put her coffee down on the sideboard and walked towards the kitchen door.
“Lizzie—“ began Mark, in an exasperated voice.
“Don’t worry”, said Elizabeth. “I’m not going to corrupt your daughter.”
* * * * *
Isobel was sitting up in bed, reading her picture book, The Life of a Tree. It was one of the “good” books Mark had bought for her.
“How is the greatest little girl in the world?”, asked Elizabeth, ruffling her black curls.
Isobel looked up anxiously. “I don’t have to go to sleep yet, do I?”, she asked.
“No, butterfly”, said Elizabeth, perching herself on the side of the bed. “Not yet. How was school today? Tell Mommy.”
“It was OK”, said Isobel. “Mommy, who is the red man? The one we’re not supposed to know about?”
“What red man?”, asked Elizabeth, alarmed and hopeful at once.
“The red man that walks around the school”, said Isobel. “He says we’re not to tell anybody about him. He says it’s his school.”
“What does he look like?”, asked Elizabeth, entirely alarmed now.
“Horrible”, said Isobel, in a soft voice. “He has horns.”
........
Nightmare Fifty-One: Christmas Morning
Arnold had done his best to keep awake, but by three o’ clock he was breathing softly, one leg jutting out from his Perry the Pirate duvet. Above him, on the wall, a Christmas Countdown chart that he had made himself had crosses in red marker through all the boxes up to December the Twenty-Fourth.
Arnold was dreaming about a Makemate model of Victoria train station. He had been dreaming about it, waking and sleeping, for six weeks now.
Then there was a tapping on the window.
Arnold was a light sleeper. It didn’t take long for his eyes to open. When they did, his heart began to pound
Santa Claus was outside his window, crouched on the ledge.
Arnold was eight years old. He was a bright boy, the top of his class in school, the sort of kid who’d rather construct a model airplane than play with action figures or watch cartoons. But it had never occurred to him to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. He believed everything his parents told him.
He pulled the duvet back, slide from the bed, and hurried towards the window.
Santa Claus was raising a finger to his lips.
Gently, Arnold slid back the hasp of the window, pulled it open, and drew back the thick wine-coloured curtains.
Santa climbed through, slowly. He was dressed just as Arnold had always imagined him, in a bright scarlet suit lined with snowy white fur. His boots were a gleaming back, his beard was as long and as white as any child could demand, and he slung a big green sack over his shoulder.
But he wasn’t as fat as he was in pictures. He had a bulging stomach, but he didn’t have a fat face. Arnold could see that, in spite of the enormous beard.
And he didn’t seem jolly, like Arnold had imagined him, although he was smiling. He seemed nervous. He tiptoed forward and sat on the bed, so gently that the springs barely creaked.
“Happy Christmas, Arnold”, he whispered.
“Happy Christmas…Santa Claus”, said Arnold, also whispering. He was staring at the green sack.
“Arnold”, said Santa Claus, leaning closer towards him. “You’re going to a Christmas Party tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yeah”, said Arnold. He could smell Santa Claus’s sweat. “Uncle Oliver’s Christmas party.”
“Uncle Oliver”, said Santa Claus. A broad smile spread across his face, but it wasn't a happy or a friendly smile. “Yes, good old Uncle Oliver. What a wonderful man! A famous man! Arnold, I have a present for you to give to dear Uncle Oliver.”
Santa Claus turned around and reached into his green sack. Arnold wondered if it was a magic sack, because he didn’t have to rummage around at all before he drew out a small parcel wrapped with silver and red striped wrapping paper.
Arnold reached out to take it, but Santa Claus drew it back and raised a warning finger.
“This is a very special present, Arnold”, he said. “It’s extremely important. You must promise me three things, three very important things. You must promise me you won’t open it yourself. It’s only for Uncle Oliver to open.”
“I promise”, said Arnold, peering at the present. The words Uncel Oliver were written on a label on the side, in wobbly writing. Why would Santa Claus spell uncle wrong?
“And you mustn’t mention it to your parents. It’s a surprise, Arnold. Put it in your pocket before you go. Surprises are fun, aren’t they?”
Arnold nodded. Surprises were fun.
“And you have to pretend it’s from you. Grown-ups aren’t meant to get presents from Santa Claus. They get embarrassed. Can you promise me all those things?”
“Yes”, said Arnold, eagerly. “I promise.”
Santa Claus smiled at him, pleased, but a moment later his expression changed to one of horror. And he wasn't looking at Arnold any more. He was staring over Arnold’s shoulder.
Arnold turned around, and cried out in surprise at what he saw.
Another Santa Claus was standing in the middle of the room. But this one looked much more like the Santa Claus in pictures. He was the fattest man Arnold had ever seen; he seemed to fill the whole room. His face was flushed red, his silvery beard reached almost to the ground, and his pink skin seemed to glow.
And this Santa Claus didn't look nervous, or unhappy. Arnold had never seen anyone who looked as merry and as full of joy. It made him want to laugh out loud for sheer happiness.
He turned back to look at the first Santa Claus, and was surprised to see that he didn't look at all pleased to see the newcomer. He had dropped the present on the bed, and was stepping back towards the far wall, his eyes fixed on the fatter Santa. He looked terrified.
But somehow-- and he could never have explained this feeling-- Arnold felt that, if he was the first Santa, he would be scared too.
“Ho, ho, ho!”, cried the second Santa Claus. “Ho, ho, ho!”
“Oh, not Santa Claus again” groaned Roger, covering his face with his hands. “Every year. Every single year.”
“The kids are growing up now—“, started Elizabeth, but Susan interrupted her.
“They’re at the critical phase now, Elizabeth”, said Susan, with a weak smile. She found Elizabeth very trying. How did Mark find himself lumbered with such a goose? He deserved better. “Do you want to let religion and superstition in the back door? If you plant Santa Claus in their heads, that’s what’s going to happen.”
“It’s only a tradition”, said Elizabeth, in a small voice. She was intimidated by Susan. She was so smart; an engineering professor. They were all so smart. Elizabeth felt out of her depth. “I don’t want to take the magic out of their childhood.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”, asked Terry, with his patient smile. “Magic. Are we really going to cripple their imaginations by making them think that the only source of wonder, the only source of awe, is magic? That reality itself can’t be full of marvel?”
“Is there in truth no beauty?”, murmured Susan, in a singsong voice that told Elizabeth it was a quotation.
“George Herbert”, said Roger, with a self-satisfied grin.
God, they were all so smart. They were all professors and research scientists and senior civil servants. She was the only trustee of the Huxley School who didn’t have a degree. Probably the only one who didn’t have a PhD.
She tackled Mark about it when they got home.
“Let the school do what it wants”, she said, pouring a coffee for each of them. “We don’t have to follow, do we? I mean, they’re the ones who are always talking about free thought, and the independence of the mind. Honey, let’s have Santa Claus. Isobel is five years old. It didn’t matter so much until now…”
“It’s more than just a school, dear heart”, said Mark, running his fingers along her cheek, and staring into her eyes. “It’s an experiment.”
“An experiment with your daughter?”, asked Elizabeth.
“Don’t put it like that”, said Mark, with a reproachful look. “Lizzie, do you want us to take Isobel out of the Huxley School?”
“No”, said Elizabeth, quickly, looking down. “No, I want her to stay. We’d never get her into another school like that. And she’s made friends. But…”
“But”, said Mark, gently, “if we keep her in it, we have to keep to the spirit of the school. How would it work if Isobel were to tell her friends what she was getting from Santa Claus”—he couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice as he spoke the name—“and all the other kids went home and asked their parents why Santa didn’t visit them?”
“Oh, it just seems so wrong, though”, said Elizabeth, struggling to keep from sobbing. “I mean, not letting them have normal books, and not letting them watch cartoons or kids’ programmes, not even letting them mix with ordinary kids. You all talk about how people are tricked and deluded. But who’s deluding who? Who’s keeping who in the dark?”
There was silence for a few moments, and Elizabeth looked away from her husband. She had never gone so far before.
“I’m sorry you feel like that, Lizzie”, said Mark, his voice colder now. “There’s a certain validity to what you say. We are censoring them. But what parent doesn’t censor what their kids are exposed to? Would you let Isobel watch a Rambo film, or a dirty movie? Of, course not. But religion and superstition are just as poisonous. Worse. The real pity is that society is so rotten with it, so that we’re forced to take these drastic steps. Let them grow up free of all that junk. They’ll meet it soon enough.”
“It’s just Santa Claus”, said Elizabeth, almost whispering. “It’s just a story.” She put her coffee down on the sideboard and walked towards the kitchen door.
“Lizzie—“ began Mark, in an exasperated voice.
“Don’t worry”, said Elizabeth. “I’m not going to corrupt your daughter.”
* * * * *
Isobel was sitting up in bed, reading her picture book, The Life of a Tree. It was one of the “good” books Mark had bought for her.
“How is the greatest little girl in the world?”, asked Elizabeth, ruffling her black curls.
Isobel looked up anxiously. “I don’t have to go to sleep yet, do I?”, she asked.
“No, butterfly”, said Elizabeth, perching herself on the side of the bed. “Not yet. How was school today? Tell Mommy.”
“It was OK”, said Isobel. “Mommy, who is the red man? The one we’re not supposed to know about?”
“What red man?”, asked Elizabeth, alarmed and hopeful at once.
“The red man that walks around the school”, said Isobel. “He says we’re not to tell anybody about him. He says it’s his school.”
“What does he look like?”, asked Elizabeth, entirely alarmed now.
“Horrible”, said Isobel, in a soft voice. “He has horns.”
........
Nightmare Fifty-One: Christmas Morning
Arnold had done his best to keep awake, but by three o’ clock he was breathing softly, one leg jutting out from his Perry the Pirate duvet. Above him, on the wall, a Christmas Countdown chart that he had made himself had crosses in red marker through all the boxes up to December the Twenty-Fourth.
Arnold was dreaming about a Makemate model of Victoria train station. He had been dreaming about it, waking and sleeping, for six weeks now.
Then there was a tapping on the window.
Arnold was a light sleeper. It didn’t take long for his eyes to open. When they did, his heart began to pound
Santa Claus was outside his window, crouched on the ledge.
Arnold was eight years old. He was a bright boy, the top of his class in school, the sort of kid who’d rather construct a model airplane than play with action figures or watch cartoons. But it had never occurred to him to doubt the existence of Santa Claus. He believed everything his parents told him.
He pulled the duvet back, slide from the bed, and hurried towards the window.
Santa Claus was raising a finger to his lips.
Gently, Arnold slid back the hasp of the window, pulled it open, and drew back the thick wine-coloured curtains.
Santa climbed through, slowly. He was dressed just as Arnold had always imagined him, in a bright scarlet suit lined with snowy white fur. His boots were a gleaming back, his beard was as long and as white as any child could demand, and he slung a big green sack over his shoulder.
But he wasn’t as fat as he was in pictures. He had a bulging stomach, but he didn’t have a fat face. Arnold could see that, in spite of the enormous beard.
And he didn’t seem jolly, like Arnold had imagined him, although he was smiling. He seemed nervous. He tiptoed forward and sat on the bed, so gently that the springs barely creaked.
“Happy Christmas, Arnold”, he whispered.
“Happy Christmas…Santa Claus”, said Arnold, also whispering. He was staring at the green sack.
“Arnold”, said Santa Claus, leaning closer towards him. “You’re going to a Christmas Party tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yeah”, said Arnold. He could smell Santa Claus’s sweat. “Uncle Oliver’s Christmas party.”
“Uncle Oliver”, said Santa Claus. A broad smile spread across his face, but it wasn't a happy or a friendly smile. “Yes, good old Uncle Oliver. What a wonderful man! A famous man! Arnold, I have a present for you to give to dear Uncle Oliver.”
Santa Claus turned around and reached into his green sack. Arnold wondered if it was a magic sack, because he didn’t have to rummage around at all before he drew out a small parcel wrapped with silver and red striped wrapping paper.
Arnold reached out to take it, but Santa Claus drew it back and raised a warning finger.
“This is a very special present, Arnold”, he said. “It’s extremely important. You must promise me three things, three very important things. You must promise me you won’t open it yourself. It’s only for Uncle Oliver to open.”
“I promise”, said Arnold, peering at the present. The words Uncel Oliver were written on a label on the side, in wobbly writing. Why would Santa Claus spell uncle wrong?
“And you mustn’t mention it to your parents. It’s a surprise, Arnold. Put it in your pocket before you go. Surprises are fun, aren’t they?”
Arnold nodded. Surprises were fun.
“And you have to pretend it’s from you. Grown-ups aren’t meant to get presents from Santa Claus. They get embarrassed. Can you promise me all those things?”
“Yes”, said Arnold, eagerly. “I promise.”
Santa Claus smiled at him, pleased, but a moment later his expression changed to one of horror. And he wasn't looking at Arnold any more. He was staring over Arnold’s shoulder.
Arnold turned around, and cried out in surprise at what he saw.
Another Santa Claus was standing in the middle of the room. But this one looked much more like the Santa Claus in pictures. He was the fattest man Arnold had ever seen; he seemed to fill the whole room. His face was flushed red, his silvery beard reached almost to the ground, and his pink skin seemed to glow.
And this Santa Claus didn't look nervous, or unhappy. Arnold had never seen anyone who looked as merry and as full of joy. It made him want to laugh out loud for sheer happiness.
He turned back to look at the first Santa Claus, and was surprised to see that he didn't look at all pleased to see the newcomer. He had dropped the present on the bed, and was stepping back towards the far wall, his eyes fixed on the fatter Santa. He looked terrified.
But somehow-- and he could never have explained this feeling-- Arnold felt that, if he was the first Santa, he would be scared too.
“Ho, ho, ho!”, cried the second Santa Claus. “Ho, ho, ho!”
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Happy Christmas
I would like to wish all my readers, who I also consider my friends, a happy Christmas full of sweet memories. I probably won't be posting again until after Christmas Day at least (except that remaining festive horror story, which I promise won't be contrary to the good cheer suited to the season).
I also want to thank you for reading. I am never happier than when I am writing and the fact that people read this blog means a lot to me. Nothing in my life requires less motivation than writing this blog. I'm always getting ideas for articles and sketching them out in my head before I even sit down at the computer.
Thanks particularly to everyone who comments, and to those who have responded to my requests for prayer. I often pray for the readers of this blog, both in general and in particular.
Nollaig shona daoibh!
I also want to thank you for reading. I am never happier than when I am writing and the fact that people read this blog means a lot to me. Nothing in my life requires less motivation than writing this blog. I'm always getting ideas for articles and sketching them out in my head before I even sit down at the computer.
Thanks particularly to everyone who comments, and to those who have responded to my requests for prayer. I often pray for the readers of this blog, both in general and in particular.
Nollaig shona daoibh!
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Not Sure What I Think About This
From The Post-Christian Mind by Harry Blamires:
We are always hearing that someone has found himself or herself, got to know himself or herself, learned to live with himself or herself. On all sides people are prating about someone discovering their 'identity', as though one could help having one. A figure famous in the eyes of the media's public will explain how, after some remarkable experience and as a result of some mighty effort, 'I found out who I really am'. Most of us acquire this knowledge before nursery school age. Incidentally, the Christian call to lose oneself stands at the very opposite pole of experience to these truly meaningless slogans.
Of course, Blamire is right to insist upon the death to self, which is a central tenet of Christianity. "He must increase, but I must decrease". "And I live, now not I, but Christ liveth in me." "Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit."
And yet, I must admit I'd be rather sad if I thought that the whole business of "finding yourself" or "discovering yourself" was nonsensical and anti-Christian. The least you can say for it is that it implies that the meaning of life is something that's not obvious, that requires some exploration and effort to find. In other words, that life has depths, and isn't simply what we see, hear, touch, taste and smell-- not simply what can be stated as a matter of physical or economic or social fact. That the spiritual is real.
I like what Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity:
...Suppose a person who knew nothing about salt. You give him a pinch to taste and he experiences a particular strong, sharp taste. You then tell him that in your country people use salt in all their cookery. Might he not reply ‘In that case I suppose all your dishes taste exactly the same: because the taste of that stuff you have just given me is so strong that it will kill the taste of everything else.’ But you and I know that the real effect of salt is exactly the opposite. So far from killing the taste of the egg and the tripe and the cabbage, it actually brings it out. They do not show their real taste till you have added the salt. (Of course, as I warned you, this is not really a very good illustration, because you can, after all, kill the other tastes by putting in too much salt, whereas you cannot kill the taste of a human personality by putting in too much Christ. I am doing the best I can.)
It is something like that with Christ and us. The more we get what we now call ‘ourselves’ out of the way and let Him take us over, the more truly ourselves we become. There is so much of Him that millions and millions of ‘little Christs’, all different, will still be too few to express Him fully.
(Conversely, I remember noticing in college that "free thinkers" always seemed to think in exactly the same way. And isn't it notorious how all abstract art and experimental literature-- obsessed as it is by rejecting the stultifying weight of the past, and tradition, and convention-- is drearily samey?)
I delight in films like Regarding Henry or The Vow that are about a quest of self-discovery. I adore stories about people seeking meaning in their lives, or reconnecting with their past. I like characters like Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation or Seven of Nine of Star Trek: Voyager who are seeking to find an identity. As drama, it is both inexpressibly poignant and endlessly compelling.
I think also of Pope Benedict's electrifying words:
Are we not perhaps all afraid in some way? If we let Christ enter fully into our lives, if we open ourselves totally to him, are we not afraid that He might take something away from us? Are we not perhaps afraid to give up something significant, something unique, something that makes life so beautiful? Do we not then risk ending up diminished and deprived of our freedom? . . . No! If we let Christ into our lives, we lose nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of what makes life free, beautiful and great. No! Only in this friendship are the doors of life opened wide. Only in this friendship is the great potential of human existence truly revealed. Only in this friendship do we experience beauty and liberation. And so, today, with great strength and great conviction, on the basis of long personal experience of life, I say to you, dear young people: Do not be afraid of Christ! He takes nothing away, and he gives you everything. When we give ourselves to him, we receive a hundredfold in return. Yes, open, open wide the doors to Christ – and you will find true life. Amen.
Don't all of us, as Catholics, feel the frustration of trying to explain that the Faith is not a strait-jacket, a dead end, a mental prison, but rather the very opposite of all these things? That "thinking with the Church" is exactly what stops us from nose-diving into all the boring and futile pits-- cynicism, nihilism, Pollyanna-ish optimism, hippydom, Epicureanism, existentalism, careerism, libertarianism, and so on ad infinitum-- where we lose any hope of wholeness or sanity or freshness? (Admittedly, this point probably won't make any sense to someone who hasn't felt this already.)
I also feel that the whole notion of self-discovery makes little sense without certain religious concepts, such as the soul, free will, Providence and vocation (I don't understand how their can be a non-religious understanding of vocation).
I'm not saying Blamire is wrong. But I hope he's wrong. It would sadden me to think that the psychological drama of self-discovery-- our own, and those of other people, real and imaginary-- is something we must relinquish as Christians. Or that it has to be something narcissistic or turned in on itself.
We are always hearing that someone has found himself or herself, got to know himself or herself, learned to live with himself or herself. On all sides people are prating about someone discovering their 'identity', as though one could help having one. A figure famous in the eyes of the media's public will explain how, after some remarkable experience and as a result of some mighty effort, 'I found out who I really am'. Most of us acquire this knowledge before nursery school age. Incidentally, the Christian call to lose oneself stands at the very opposite pole of experience to these truly meaningless slogans.
Of course, Blamire is right to insist upon the death to self, which is a central tenet of Christianity. "He must increase, but I must decrease". "And I live, now not I, but Christ liveth in me." "Amen, amen, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit."
And yet, I must admit I'd be rather sad if I thought that the whole business of "finding yourself" or "discovering yourself" was nonsensical and anti-Christian. The least you can say for it is that it implies that the meaning of life is something that's not obvious, that requires some exploration and effort to find. In other words, that life has depths, and isn't simply what we see, hear, touch, taste and smell-- not simply what can be stated as a matter of physical or economic or social fact. That the spiritual is real.
I like what Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity:
...Suppose a person who knew nothing about salt. You give him a pinch to taste and he experiences a particular strong, sharp taste. You then tell him that in your country people use salt in all their cookery. Might he not reply ‘In that case I suppose all your dishes taste exactly the same: because the taste of that stuff you have just given me is so strong that it will kill the taste of everything else.’ But you and I know that the real effect of salt is exactly the opposite. So far from killing the taste of the egg and the tripe and the cabbage, it actually brings it out. They do not show their real taste till you have added the salt. (Of course, as I warned you, this is not really a very good illustration, because you can, after all, kill the other tastes by putting in too much salt, whereas you cannot kill the taste of a human personality by putting in too much Christ. I am doing the best I can.)
It is something like that with Christ and us. The more we get what we now call ‘ourselves’ out of the way and let Him take us over, the more truly ourselves we become. There is so much of Him that millions and millions of ‘little Christs’, all different, will still be too few to express Him fully.
(Conversely, I remember noticing in college that "free thinkers" always seemed to think in exactly the same way. And isn't it notorious how all abstract art and experimental literature-- obsessed as it is by rejecting the stultifying weight of the past, and tradition, and convention-- is drearily samey?)
I delight in films like Regarding Henry or The Vow that are about a quest of self-discovery. I adore stories about people seeking meaning in their lives, or reconnecting with their past. I like characters like Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation or Seven of Nine of Star Trek: Voyager who are seeking to find an identity. As drama, it is both inexpressibly poignant and endlessly compelling.
I think also of Pope Benedict's electrifying words:
Are we not perhaps all afraid in some way? If we let Christ enter fully into our lives, if we open ourselves totally to him, are we not afraid that He might take something away from us? Are we not perhaps afraid to give up something significant, something unique, something that makes life so beautiful? Do we not then risk ending up diminished and deprived of our freedom? . . . No! If we let Christ into our lives, we lose nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of what makes life free, beautiful and great. No! Only in this friendship are the doors of life opened wide. Only in this friendship is the great potential of human existence truly revealed. Only in this friendship do we experience beauty and liberation. And so, today, with great strength and great conviction, on the basis of long personal experience of life, I say to you, dear young people: Do not be afraid of Christ! He takes nothing away, and he gives you everything. When we give ourselves to him, we receive a hundredfold in return. Yes, open, open wide the doors to Christ – and you will find true life. Amen.
Don't all of us, as Catholics, feel the frustration of trying to explain that the Faith is not a strait-jacket, a dead end, a mental prison, but rather the very opposite of all these things? That "thinking with the Church" is exactly what stops us from nose-diving into all the boring and futile pits-- cynicism, nihilism, Pollyanna-ish optimism, hippydom, Epicureanism, existentalism, careerism, libertarianism, and so on ad infinitum-- where we lose any hope of wholeness or sanity or freshness? (Admittedly, this point probably won't make any sense to someone who hasn't felt this already.)
I also feel that the whole notion of self-discovery makes little sense without certain religious concepts, such as the soul, free will, Providence and vocation (I don't understand how their can be a non-religious understanding of vocation).
I'm not saying Blamire is wrong. But I hope he's wrong. It would sadden me to think that the psychological drama of self-discovery-- our own, and those of other people, real and imaginary-- is something we must relinquish as Christians. Or that it has to be something narcissistic or turned in on itself.
Ode to the Sun
I have two small metal file-boxes where I keep all my old writings-- from the handful of English exercises I preserved (how I loved English class!) to the few poems and articles I had published (many in obscure or college publications).
I also kept my poetry manuscripts, which I accumulated over years. I wrote poetry almost every day for years. When I was in my late teens, I worked on individual poems over periods of days. Later, I wrote a poem a day, which wasn't a good idea.
Oh, the effort I put in! And the heartbreak! Labouring (and failing) to have my poetry published in little magazines that had no interest in traditional verse, and that nobody bought or read anyway! All the patronizing rejection letters from snooty modernist editors! I remember I submitted one poem about the death of an old man who is the last veteran of a war. The point of the poem is that this is the day the war finally ends. It wasn't that good a poem, but I was working up to the last line, which I still remember and I think isn't bad:
Disappeared like an echo in silence, or smoke in the air.
The editor rejecting it wrote something like: "It's quite good apart from the last line." Of course. What could be more vulgar than striving for an effect?
To be fair, I have also had my poetry rejected by magazines that are more hospitable to traditional verse (like About Larkin, the Philip Larkin Society magazine, and the conservative First Things magazine), and even by one (The Literary Review) that had a monthly competition explicitly dedicated to verse that rhymes, scans and makes sense. Oh well. Who knows?
Anyway, I was going through some of my old poems and thinking they weren't bad. Here is one-- originally entitled Prayer to the Sun, but then, I wrote it as an agnostic/atheist. It also shows a Larkin-esque dislike for children, which I no longer suffer from.
Ode to the Sun
Oh father of flies and sweat
Creator of loud, litter-making crowds.
God knows I'm in your debt
And love you just as most men love a debtor.
Preserve a decent covering of clouds--
The less you show, the better.
But there are times
I love you more than any pale sunbather
Or screaming child, or ice-cream-filled parader.
A cold white sky
That makes the crowds disperse, and insects die,
And sends the rowdy off to warmer climes--
Oh, then I see your beauty, veiled and shy
As all true beauty is; high and aloof,
Its warmest smile a look of soft reproof.
Come cloaked in cloud, and I will come beneath your roof.
I also kept my poetry manuscripts, which I accumulated over years. I wrote poetry almost every day for years. When I was in my late teens, I worked on individual poems over periods of days. Later, I wrote a poem a day, which wasn't a good idea.
Oh, the effort I put in! And the heartbreak! Labouring (and failing) to have my poetry published in little magazines that had no interest in traditional verse, and that nobody bought or read anyway! All the patronizing rejection letters from snooty modernist editors! I remember I submitted one poem about the death of an old man who is the last veteran of a war. The point of the poem is that this is the day the war finally ends. It wasn't that good a poem, but I was working up to the last line, which I still remember and I think isn't bad:
Disappeared like an echo in silence, or smoke in the air.
The editor rejecting it wrote something like: "It's quite good apart from the last line." Of course. What could be more vulgar than striving for an effect?
To be fair, I have also had my poetry rejected by magazines that are more hospitable to traditional verse (like About Larkin, the Philip Larkin Society magazine, and the conservative First Things magazine), and even by one (The Literary Review) that had a monthly competition explicitly dedicated to verse that rhymes, scans and makes sense. Oh well. Who knows?
Anyway, I was going through some of my old poems and thinking they weren't bad. Here is one-- originally entitled Prayer to the Sun, but then, I wrote it as an agnostic/atheist. It also shows a Larkin-esque dislike for children, which I no longer suffer from.
Ode to the Sun
Oh father of flies and sweat
Creator of loud, litter-making crowds.
God knows I'm in your debt
And love you just as most men love a debtor.
Preserve a decent covering of clouds--
The less you show, the better.
But there are times
I love you more than any pale sunbather
Or screaming child, or ice-cream-filled parader.
A cold white sky
That makes the crowds disperse, and insects die,
And sends the rowdy off to warmer climes--
Oh, then I see your beauty, veiled and shy
As all true beauty is; high and aloof,
Its warmest smile a look of soft reproof.
Come cloaked in cloud, and I will come beneath your roof.
This is Amazing
Newgrange, the five-thousand-year-old passage tomb built so that light floods into the chamber on only one day of the year-- today, the winter solstice. It's one of the things that makes me most proud to be Irish.
I've been to Newgrange twice-- once alone, once with Michelle. It was a very moving experience both times. Even though I recently posted a horror story where Newgrange was the setting for the return of demonic old gods, that was the opposite of the atmosphere I felt there. In truth, felt a strong sense of man's immemorial and primordial orientation towards the transcendent and the divine. It's no surprise, when you stand on a site like Newgrange, to learn that Ireland was converted to Christianity without the need for any martyrdoms.
It also made me feel that it's our age of space-shuttles and television that is the truly barbaric age, since we have lost our awareness of the most important reality of all, one that was so overwhelming to our ancient forebears that it moved them to build a monument which still has us scratching our heads over how on earth they managed it.
I've been to Newgrange twice-- once alone, once with Michelle. It was a very moving experience both times. Even though I recently posted a horror story where Newgrange was the setting for the return of demonic old gods, that was the opposite of the atmosphere I felt there. In truth, felt a strong sense of man's immemorial and primordial orientation towards the transcendent and the divine. It's no surprise, when you stand on a site like Newgrange, to learn that Ireland was converted to Christianity without the need for any martyrdoms.
It also made me feel that it's our age of space-shuttles and television that is the truly barbaric age, since we have lost our awareness of the most important reality of all, one that was so overwhelming to our ancient forebears that it moved them to build a monument which still has us scratching our heads over how on earth they managed it.
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