I have been a very bad blogger again, I'm afraid. As my excuse I offer the fact that I shall be retiring near the end of next month, and the business of doing so is very time-consuming, to put it mildly. With the exception of my first year in England, I have never had to worry about housing myself - and even then I found a bedsit easily enough in Holland Park within a week of my arrival.
But selling one house (from my late father's estate) and buying another (with the proceeds) I found to be a somewhat daunting prospect. However, I had the wonderful experience of walking into a house in order simply to speak to the estate agent and realising immediately that this was The One. First seen on Sunday afternoon, and purchased by the following Thursday evening. But not paid for - not until the other house was sold. If you have ever been in this position (and I understand many have) you will know it has a certain anxiety associated with it!
However, the other house did sell (just in the nick of time) and now I can look forward to living in a wonderful wooden house (good in earthquakes, I think) with a proper galvinised iron roof (so you can hear the rain) and a splendid view over the city. It even has polished (and insulated) wooden floors throughout. What more could you want?
In such a satisfactory setting, I may even become a better and more reliable blogger as well. However, only time will tell, I fear.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Vive la difference
Yesterday English Roman Catholics observed the feast of Saints Cuthbert Mayne, John Houghton, Edmund Campion, Richard Gwynn and Thirty-Six Companions, aka the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. Now as it happens, I am very distantly related to the first of these, although I suspect that fact would have brought the blessed Cuthbert little joy had he known of it. He wasn't too keen on Anglican clergymen, even though he had been one himself for a brief period before he saw the light and took himself off to Flanders for the real thing. The unreal thing - his Anglican orders - he referred to at a later time as the Mark of the Beast. Not terribly ecumenical, as I am sure you will agree.
During my first week in Oxford, the principal of St Stephen's House thought it would be good for all of us if we spent a few days learning about the importance of community - a fashion which has taken off in no uncertain terms as you will be aware. To this end Fr Allen invited representatives from a number of particular communities to spend some time with us and tell us all about it. One of these was a remarkably handsome young man in jeans and a woollen sweater who turned out to be The Very Rev'd Fergus Kerr, Prior of Blackfriars, the Dominican House of Studies in Oxford, whom I remember from this time because the representative of the Prostitutes' Collective (yes, really) took him to task at lunch for being so attractive and so unavailable at the same time. And it wasn't even a question of the money.
I remember Fr Kerr for a rather more important reason, however, because we saw him again (this time in his dominican habit) at a service in the conventual church at Blackfriars during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity and at which I was greatly struck by his observation that we had no business taking our denominational differences lightly, since better men and women than we were had seen fit to endure torture and death for them.
I don't think I am much of a believer in ecumenism, at least not in the type which expects what Ronald Knox (his tongue firmly in his cheek) called Reunion all Round. Perfect unity seems to me as attainable in this world as perfect charity, or perfect kindness, or any other perfection. And a mere majority will most certainly not do. While one believer remains outside the fold, the Body of Christ is as divided as if it were a billion. Mob rule is not a part of the Gospel, not now, not ever.
Furthermore, it seems to me that the real goal is to accept those who do not belong to our group, and who do not share our opinions. Like a good Anglican, I want to have my cake and eat it. Of course apostolic succession is an expression of the divine will for the Church, along with the doctrine of the real presence, prayer for the departed, and so on. But that does not mean to say that those who do not share these beliefs are not part of the Church. (They are wrong, of course, but that is not quite the same thing.) However, don't expect them to change their views soon - such as any time before the rapture.
'All colours agree in the dark,' said the seventeenth century Calvinist Francis Bacon, and I can't help but agree.
During my first week in Oxford, the principal of St Stephen's House thought it would be good for all of us if we spent a few days learning about the importance of community - a fashion which has taken off in no uncertain terms as you will be aware. To this end Fr Allen invited representatives from a number of particular communities to spend some time with us and tell us all about it. One of these was a remarkably handsome young man in jeans and a woollen sweater who turned out to be The Very Rev'd Fergus Kerr, Prior of Blackfriars, the Dominican House of Studies in Oxford, whom I remember from this time because the representative of the Prostitutes' Collective (yes, really) took him to task at lunch for being so attractive and so unavailable at the same time. And it wasn't even a question of the money.
I remember Fr Kerr for a rather more important reason, however, because we saw him again (this time in his dominican habit) at a service in the conventual church at Blackfriars during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity and at which I was greatly struck by his observation that we had no business taking our denominational differences lightly, since better men and women than we were had seen fit to endure torture and death for them.
I don't think I am much of a believer in ecumenism, at least not in the type which expects what Ronald Knox (his tongue firmly in his cheek) called Reunion all Round. Perfect unity seems to me as attainable in this world as perfect charity, or perfect kindness, or any other perfection. And a mere majority will most certainly not do. While one believer remains outside the fold, the Body of Christ is as divided as if it were a billion. Mob rule is not a part of the Gospel, not now, not ever.
Furthermore, it seems to me that the real goal is to accept those who do not belong to our group, and who do not share our opinions. Like a good Anglican, I want to have my cake and eat it. Of course apostolic succession is an expression of the divine will for the Church, along with the doctrine of the real presence, prayer for the departed, and so on. But that does not mean to say that those who do not share these beliefs are not part of the Church. (They are wrong, of course, but that is not quite the same thing.) However, don't expect them to change their views soon - such as any time before the rapture.
'All colours agree in the dark,' said the seventeenth century Calvinist Francis Bacon, and I can't help but agree.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Ad Limina
I watched with some interest Pope Benedict's recent visit to the United Kingdom. And with some mystification as well. Just why did it have to be a state visit? While it is true that Vatican City and its outlying territories (the Lateran Basilica and its palace, the summer residence at Castel Gandolfo, etc) you could hardly say that the papal state is in any real sense a people or a nation, anymore than the similarly sovereign Knights of Malta are, who also have patch of Rome on which to raise a flag.
However, beyond the cost to the British taxpayer of His Holiness' ad limina visit to The Protestant Island, there was a detail which I found rather more important. Apart from praising (and indeed beatifying) Cardinal Newman for a miracle he probably didn't perform, and for views which he apparently didn't hold, the Holy Father's tone was generally very negative.
Now, there are lots of things to be negative about, and the pope has been duly negative about most of them. But is that enough? Can you lead people to Christ without showing them why it would be a good, joyful, and life-affirming thing that they should be so led? I rather doubt it.
If I remember rightly, St Francis de Sales had something to say about a spoonful of honey being rather more attractive than a barrelful of vinegar. But what is it that is attractive about Christ - and how can it be effectively conveyed to our contemporaries?
However, beyond the cost to the British taxpayer of His Holiness' ad limina visit to The Protestant Island, there was a detail which I found rather more important. Apart from praising (and indeed beatifying) Cardinal Newman for a miracle he probably didn't perform, and for views which he apparently didn't hold, the Holy Father's tone was generally very negative.
Now, there are lots of things to be negative about, and the pope has been duly negative about most of them. But is that enough? Can you lead people to Christ without showing them why it would be a good, joyful, and life-affirming thing that they should be so led? I rather doubt it.
If I remember rightly, St Francis de Sales had something to say about a spoonful of honey being rather more attractive than a barrelful of vinegar. But what is it that is attractive about Christ - and how can it be effectively conveyed to our contemporaries?
Monday, September 13, 2010
A small doubt
Austrian religion had a very considerable effect on me, as must be fairly obvious from previous postings. But after thinking long and hard about it, I can't help wondering if it was all to the good. The problem is that everything I experienced seemed so successful. Much of it seemed like a Christian version of This is your Day with Benny Hinn. Or at least it did to me. I'm not used to such successful piety. Nor, for that matter, to such beautiful, elegant, and prosperous piety. No doubt my responses are due, at least in part, to an upbringing in a very distant and different society from that of the heirs to the Holy Roman Empire. But it still gives me pause. In this case, was the good the enemy of the best?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Holy to the Lord
Well, I have moaned and groaned about Austrian Masses (or at least the manner thereof) for long enough, so now for something just a little bit different. Last Sunday we went to the Stift Heiligenkreuz, otherwise the Cistercian Abbey of Our Lady of the Holy Cross in the Vienna Woods.
Heiligenkreuz was founded in 1133 by the Margrave of Austria, later canonised as St Leopold, and alone among Cistercian monasteries has been in continuous existence from that day to this. It is also the largest religious community in Austria, and is stuffed full of healthy-looking young monks, something which you wouldn't naturally expect these days, I do believe.
The Abbey Church itself is one of the wonders of the German-speaking world, and is acknowledged as such. After a high and narrow romanesque nave with its transept, comes a most magnificent gothic Hallenchor, as wide as the transept itself, and filled with the most beautiful thirteenth-century stained glass.
On our way into the Church one of the afore-mentioned healthy-looking young monks, nicely turned out in the full white cistercian choir habit gave each of us a bilingual service booklet (Latin and German) together with a "Gruess Gott" and a beaming smile. With Tim and Pip, and Tim's mother Elaine, I tottered rather precariously (helped however by my new walking stick) to our pew near the front of the nave, and just in front of the baroque choir stalls inhabited (no pun intended) by the monks. Beyond them was the altar in the beautiful Hallenchor.
The priest in his green chasuble, assisted by two minsters in albs, arrived and stood before three low seats in front of (but not too close to) the altar which itself sits under a rather magnificent neo-gothic baldachino raised on a couple of shallow steps above the level of the sanctuary floor and the seats of the sacred ministers.
The readings, sermon, and intercessions were (quite properly) in German, but the rest of the mass was in Latin - I'm delighted to tell you. Most of the liturgy was chanted very beautifully indeed - the monks of Heiligenkreuz have made a best-selling CD, which I was actually given last Christmas. Their singing sounds even better in situ.
The service was celebrated quite simply. At the offertory the sacred ministers stood behind the altar, facing the people. This was the only time at which incense was used. The celebrant chanted the canon (in German they call it the Hochgebet - the Great Prayer) as he did the introductory rite (which included the the asperges) the collect, the prayer over the gifts, the post communion prayer, the blessing and the dismissal.
Everything was done with great gravity and serenity. There were no cheery welcomes, the monks themselves read the lessons and the intercessions, and the only music was the unaccompanied singing of the celebrant and the monks - assisted in the responses by the people in the pews.
There was however, something of an exception to the gravity and serenity of it all, and that was the celebrant's sermon. It lasted for about fifteen minutes and was based on the gospel of the day, which featured (if that is the right word) the giving of the Lord's Prayer to the disciples. I was tremendously impressed. My German is not good enough to follow most of what was said, but it was clearly a very able, and at times quite passionate exposition of the meaning and significance of the Our Father, preached without notes.
The Church was almost full, including, of course, the usual young people, one young couple with their baby, the latter mercifully mute.
Even now, some four days later, a sense of the holiness of the occasion and of the place itself remains quite vividly with me. It doesn't happen often enough.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Introibo
As you may have noted (how could you not?) I have complained somewhat about the goings-on of the clergy at Austrian altars. In my defence, I would have to say that this is partly because in other respects, the way masses are celebrated here is so much better than I am used to elsewhere, and the participation of the people, their singing of the music, and the music itself, it seems to me, deserve better. But this is not because the clergy are in any way careless or off-hand in what they do - quite the contrary. It has to do with the way in which they do it - with their style of celebration, if I can call it that.
Firstly, there is the matter of concelebration. I realise haw splendidly authentic and primitive this practice is, but the way it is now done in the west seems remarkably elitist. In the Byzantine Rite the priests gather about the altar, where for much of the time they are virtually invisible to the congregation. They are clearly concentrating on the altar, and that somehow reinforces the impression that they are thereby concentrating on God.
A few years ago the Coptic Pope, Shenouda III, came to Dunedin to consecrate the altar in the Coptic church which they had acquired from a pentecostal congregation - the church, that is, not the altar. The service was something of an oriental shambles, but it made no difference. The pope and his bishops were clearly away with the Lord and despite the outward awfulness of it all, it was a most inspiring service. God was present because he was the absolute centre of the concelebrants' attention, and thus of the congregation's attention as well. I call this real spiritual leadership.
But in the Stephansdom, the messages are very mixed. The clergy speak and act as though the service were about the people, and that they (the clergy) were there to welcome them to their - the clergy's - house, rather than God's. I'm sure that this is not what they intend, but that is what it looks like. Even the way the principal celebrant conducts himself gives the same impression. The little welcomes, introductions, explanations and the like, make you feel you are the new kid at school. The teachers are very nice, of course, but they are very much the ones up front.
Then there is the body language of the principal celebrant. During the collect, the prayer over the gifts, the High Prayer (as they call the Canon or Great Thanksgiving here) the principal celebrant's arms are spread really wide, embracing us all, it seems. But it's the Everlasting Arms we need, not Herr Pfarrer's. And when he is saying (or singing) the words he often seems to be looking at us as though we were the ones being addressed. The good intentions are without reproach, but in their desire to make us all feel at home, they have in some ways made the new mass more clerical than the old.
I like the old mass very much, and I am very glad the present pope has made it possible again. But I have no doubt that the so-called new mass promulgated by Paul VI is (if you will forgive me) the way to go - at least for the greater part of western Christendom. And that includes celebration 'versus populum', the vernacular, the new calendar and lectionary and so on. But it is still the Most Holy Mystery of our religion, and we always need to remind ourselves of the fact. It's not just a case of doing things well (as the clergy of the Stephansdom most certainly do) it's about our understanding of what exactly it is that we are doing well. If I recall correctly, the 39 Articles tell us that "The Supper of the Lord is not only a sign of the love that Christians ought to have among themselves one to another; but rather is a Sacrament of our Redemption by Christ's death."
Please note the "but rather."
Firstly, there is the matter of concelebration. I realise haw splendidly authentic and primitive this practice is, but the way it is now done in the west seems remarkably elitist. In the Byzantine Rite the priests gather about the altar, where for much of the time they are virtually invisible to the congregation. They are clearly concentrating on the altar, and that somehow reinforces the impression that they are thereby concentrating on God.
A few years ago the Coptic Pope, Shenouda III, came to Dunedin to consecrate the altar in the Coptic church which they had acquired from a pentecostal congregation - the church, that is, not the altar. The service was something of an oriental shambles, but it made no difference. The pope and his bishops were clearly away with the Lord and despite the outward awfulness of it all, it was a most inspiring service. God was present because he was the absolute centre of the concelebrants' attention, and thus of the congregation's attention as well. I call this real spiritual leadership.
But in the Stephansdom, the messages are very mixed. The clergy speak and act as though the service were about the people, and that they (the clergy) were there to welcome them to their - the clergy's - house, rather than God's. I'm sure that this is not what they intend, but that is what it looks like. Even the way the principal celebrant conducts himself gives the same impression. The little welcomes, introductions, explanations and the like, make you feel you are the new kid at school. The teachers are very nice, of course, but they are very much the ones up front.
Then there is the body language of the principal celebrant. During the collect, the prayer over the gifts, the High Prayer (as they call the Canon or Great Thanksgiving here) the principal celebrant's arms are spread really wide, embracing us all, it seems. But it's the Everlasting Arms we need, not Herr Pfarrer's. And when he is saying (or singing) the words he often seems to be looking at us as though we were the ones being addressed. The good intentions are without reproach, but in their desire to make us all feel at home, they have in some ways made the new mass more clerical than the old.
I like the old mass very much, and I am very glad the present pope has made it possible again. But I have no doubt that the so-called new mass promulgated by Paul VI is (if you will forgive me) the way to go - at least for the greater part of western Christendom. And that includes celebration 'versus populum', the vernacular, the new calendar and lectionary and so on. But it is still the Most Holy Mystery of our religion, and we always need to remind ourselves of the fact. It's not just a case of doing things well (as the clergy of the Stephansdom most certainly do) it's about our understanding of what exactly it is that we are doing well. If I recall correctly, the 39 Articles tell us that "The Supper of the Lord is not only a sign of the love that Christians ought to have among themselves one to another; but rather is a Sacrament of our Redemption by Christ's death."
Please note the "but rather."
Ups and a Down
Since my last post I have not just been sitting around. Tim and Pip Snell have a very attractive apartment only some 20-25 minutes by tram from the centre of Vienna. So just about every day I have taken the No.43 from Dornbacherstrasse to the Schottentor which is on the Ring, the main road which circles the inner city and on which many of its main buildings can be found, such as the opera, the parliament, the Votivkirche, the Kunsthistorisches (art history) Museum, and the Burgtheater.
I arrive at the Schottentor (opposite the Votivkirche) at about 11.30am and walk past the Schottenstift (abbey of the Scots, founded in the middle ages by Irish monks - which sounds a bit Irish!), through Am Hof, the courtyard in which the imperial heralds used to proclaim the emperors, and where, in August 1806, to their everlasting shame, they announced the dissolution of the the Holy Roman Empire (otherwise the first Reich).
Then I walk through the Graben, a large square (actually oblong) filled with posh shops and rather expensive restaurants and outdoor cafes, until I reach the Stephansplatz and enter St Stephen's Cathedral (the most beautiful in the world, as Johannes Giesen, pupil of Walter Gieseking, once told me at Otago Boys' High School. He was probably right.) The wonderful Rieger organ is always played even at said masses, and we sing our way through beautiful chorales and mass settings while (I, at least) do my best to ignore the clergy giving us their much amplified best at the altar. You know the sort of thing - warm welcomes and fuzzy sermonettes.
Then it's time for a spot of lunch, and heavens do the Viennese like unhealthy food! You never saw so much whipped cream in all your life. However, it would seem that some of the latest research has revealed that green vegetables are only of questionable value in the human diet, coming a good way behind chocolate in that regard.
I had the great pleasure of lunching with Matthew Smith (son of my friends Merv and Barbara) who lives in Vienna when work does not take him elsewhere. I was delighted to see him again, and he took me to a restaurant run by a most charming woman in a lovely little square. However, I must confess that although I admire Matthew's principles with respect to our animal brethren, I don't believe I will ever make a truly trustworthy vegan. Vegetarian would be good, but vegan - I need cow's milk in my coffee and tea, and I'm grateful to say that the most charming woman running the show kindly took pity on me and gave me cafe au lait - and the right sort of lait at that!
After lunch it's off to the sights. So far I have seen the wonderful treasury of the Deutschorden (the Teutonic knights), and the fascinating (and moving) Jewish museum where I bought a large black yarmulka (skullcap) because the Canon Law of the Church of England of 1603 says that priests of the Established Church may wear black skullcaps in church when it is cold. I believe it looks very fetching. Even the mirror thinks so.
I have also 'done' (the right word, I think) the imperial apartments in the Hofburg. These are uniformly depressing, because they have been left as reminders of Kaiser Franz Joseph and his wife, Kaiserin Elisabeth, otherwise known as Sisi. Sisi was the Austro-Hungarian predecessor of Princess Di. Indeed, she was much worse, extraordinarily self-centred and vain, which was not true of Diana, I think, but like Diana she has (even now) a continuing cult whose devotees see her as the Tragic Beauty imprisoned in Castle Gloom. Or something. Who cares - not me I assure you, except when I have to trudge through the son et lumiere of the Sisi Museum in order to get to more interesting things. One of which just has to be the Schatzkammer, the imperial treasury with the wonderful and very ancient Reichskrone of the Holy Empire, (which those wicked Heralds so carelessly tossed aside in 1806) along with the Holy Lance. It also has the beautiful seventeenth century House Crown of the Habsburgs (from 1806 the Austrian Imperial Crown) made for the mildly mad Kaiser Rudolf II in Prague.
The imperial collections, artistic and otherwise, are largely to be found in the so-called imperial precinct which Franz Joseph and his successor, (the Blessed) Kaiser Karl, never quite completed. It includes the two great court museums of art history and natural history, which face one another across the Maria Theresien Platz, along with the so-called New Hofburg beside them. I had not expected to like these enormous buildings at all - late nineteenth century architectural pomposity is not quite my thing - but all three of them are simply magnificent, particularly on the inside, which surprised and delighted me a good deal. So much better than the rather shabby looking baroque apartments elsewhere in the Hofburg - let alone the perfectly abominable chapel in which the Vienna Boys' Choir do their Sunday stuff. Not only is it small and cramped, it has been so 'restored' and 'improved' over the years that Kaikorai Presbyterian Church would be preferable. Likewise the Augustinerkirche (the Court Church) which was a magnificent and very beautiful Gothic Hallenkirche, is now but a shadow of its former self, the interior largely covered in grey paint, if you please.
Speaking of paint, I’m afraid I do not quite come up the highest standards where great canvases are concerned – or rather the originals thereof. For years I have thought Vermeer’s canvas of the artist painting the girl with the wreath on her head (The Artist in His Studio, I think) just wonderful. But to me its reproduction in an elegantly produced book looks a lot better than the real thing behind glass (in the frame itself!) in a rather pokey corner of a museum. Sorry. However, you should see the exhibition of Historical Musical Instruments and the exhibition of Armour and Arms in the Neue Burg - especially the armour. Absolutely wonderful. And I touched a piano which Brahms himself used to play!
Ten days ago or so, we went to Mariazell, the main place of pilgrimage in Austria, perhaps in Central Europe itself, since (rather extraordinarily to my mind) Our Lady of Mariazell is probably the principal shrine of the Hungarians as well. It is in a very attractive town in the hills and the Church itself is most interesting and beautiful. The Image of the Virgin and Child, originally mediaeval, is dressed and crowned as is usual in such shrines, and sits above an altar, surrounded by the most incredible silver screen originally given by Maria Theresia and her husband the Holy Roman Emperor Franz Stephan. Lo, and behold, as we entered the Basilica, a mass was just beginning, and the splendid eighteenth century organ accompanied our singing. I was impressed by the fact that both at Mariazell and in the Stephansdom in Vienna, everybody seemed to know whatever mass setting was being used, none of which were the sort of would-be up-to-date trash to which we are usually accustomed in our own dear Anglican Church. These Austrian settings are actually musical.
Then, just a few days ago, on Saturday, we decided to go to Salzburg and stop off at the most picturesque town of Steyr on the way. As usual, it was very hot (about 35 degrees) and we found an outdoor restaurant in the main street for lunch. The restaurant was on a kind of wooden platform from which you descended by a couple of shallow steps to the footpath. But I didn't. I have always been rather unsteady on my feet due to my carelessness in catching polio when I was two years old, and the situation has not improved with the years, especially the last few years. I fell really rather badly, broke my left wrist, damaged my left foot, and sprained and bruised quite enough of the rest of me as well. But I am truly grateful to God in that my back was not affected.
I few years ago now, I fell over in St Peter's while trying to change the aumbry light, and was surprised to find that it was a most unpleasant experience, even on a nice new carpet. I was badly shaken. It was not at all as such falls had been when I was young, and the after-effects were all too like those described by many of the elderly people whom I have visited for years in rest homes.
The fall in Steyr was a good deal worse than the fall in St Peter's. Not only was it painful, but I was also in some kind of shock. Everybody was most kind and helpful, and eventually Tim and Pip decided it might be a good idea if I sat for a while in the church very nearby. Here, however, things seemed to get much worse. I was hyperventilating, I couldn’t move my fingers, and I felt sure I would either throw-up or faint or both.
The ambulance arrived and I was taken to the local hospital. Eventually the state of shock wore off, and I could move my fingers again and I felt a good deal better. Various tests were done and the doctors expressed the opinion that it would probably be better if I stayed in overnight. The ambulance men, the doctors and nurses at Steyr were just wonderful, and in a way, the most memorable part of our experience there. However, we decided to return to Vienna. All seemed OK for a while, but I could hardly walk at all without the risk of another fall, and after Tim had got me to my room, the shock and so on returned and another ambulance was called to take me to what I am told is the university hospital in Vienna, where x-rays showed up the broken wrist and the damaged foot. My left arm was put in plaster and my left foot bandaged up, and after all the tests, an ambulance finally took me home at 1.30am.
But I should like my dear parishioners to know that when the clock in the hospital showed half-past midnight, I joined in prayer with them as they celebrated the Solemn Eucharist at 10.30am on the other side of the world. Naturally, I shall be putting my prices up in consequence.
The upshot of all this is that I have had to stay on in Vienna, and cancel my intended ten days or so in England. I am of course sorry about that, but I am grateful to be here with Tim and Pip at a time when I really could not travel, let alone on my own two feet.
Well, that is clearly more than enough for now. I won't be able to read your comments until I return to Dunedin halfway through August, but there may well be another post just as soon as I have thrown myself down an elevator shaft.
Or not, as the case may be.
I arrive at the Schottentor (opposite the Votivkirche) at about 11.30am and walk past the Schottenstift (abbey of the Scots, founded in the middle ages by Irish monks - which sounds a bit Irish!), through Am Hof, the courtyard in which the imperial heralds used to proclaim the emperors, and where, in August 1806, to their everlasting shame, they announced the dissolution of the the Holy Roman Empire (otherwise the first Reich).
Then I walk through the Graben, a large square (actually oblong) filled with posh shops and rather expensive restaurants and outdoor cafes, until I reach the Stephansplatz and enter St Stephen's Cathedral (the most beautiful in the world, as Johannes Giesen, pupil of Walter Gieseking, once told me at Otago Boys' High School. He was probably right.) The wonderful Rieger organ is always played even at said masses, and we sing our way through beautiful chorales and mass settings while (I, at least) do my best to ignore the clergy giving us their much amplified best at the altar. You know the sort of thing - warm welcomes and fuzzy sermonettes.
Then it's time for a spot of lunch, and heavens do the Viennese like unhealthy food! You never saw so much whipped cream in all your life. However, it would seem that some of the latest research has revealed that green vegetables are only of questionable value in the human diet, coming a good way behind chocolate in that regard.
I had the great pleasure of lunching with Matthew Smith (son of my friends Merv and Barbara) who lives in Vienna when work does not take him elsewhere. I was delighted to see him again, and he took me to a restaurant run by a most charming woman in a lovely little square. However, I must confess that although I admire Matthew's principles with respect to our animal brethren, I don't believe I will ever make a truly trustworthy vegan. Vegetarian would be good, but vegan - I need cow's milk in my coffee and tea, and I'm grateful to say that the most charming woman running the show kindly took pity on me and gave me cafe au lait - and the right sort of lait at that!
After lunch it's off to the sights. So far I have seen the wonderful treasury of the Deutschorden (the Teutonic knights), and the fascinating (and moving) Jewish museum where I bought a large black yarmulka (skullcap) because the Canon Law of the Church of England of 1603 says that priests of the Established Church may wear black skullcaps in church when it is cold. I believe it looks very fetching. Even the mirror thinks so.
I have also 'done' (the right word, I think) the imperial apartments in the Hofburg. These are uniformly depressing, because they have been left as reminders of Kaiser Franz Joseph and his wife, Kaiserin Elisabeth, otherwise known as Sisi. Sisi was the Austro-Hungarian predecessor of Princess Di. Indeed, she was much worse, extraordinarily self-centred and vain, which was not true of Diana, I think, but like Diana she has (even now) a continuing cult whose devotees see her as the Tragic Beauty imprisoned in Castle Gloom. Or something. Who cares - not me I assure you, except when I have to trudge through the son et lumiere of the Sisi Museum in order to get to more interesting things. One of which just has to be the Schatzkammer, the imperial treasury with the wonderful and very ancient Reichskrone of the Holy Empire, (which those wicked Heralds so carelessly tossed aside in 1806) along with the Holy Lance. It also has the beautiful seventeenth century House Crown of the Habsburgs (from 1806 the Austrian Imperial Crown) made for the mildly mad Kaiser Rudolf II in Prague.
The imperial collections, artistic and otherwise, are largely to be found in the so-called imperial precinct which Franz Joseph and his successor, (the Blessed) Kaiser Karl, never quite completed. It includes the two great court museums of art history and natural history, which face one another across the Maria Theresien Platz, along with the so-called New Hofburg beside them. I had not expected to like these enormous buildings at all - late nineteenth century architectural pomposity is not quite my thing - but all three of them are simply magnificent, particularly on the inside, which surprised and delighted me a good deal. So much better than the rather shabby looking baroque apartments elsewhere in the Hofburg - let alone the perfectly abominable chapel in which the Vienna Boys' Choir do their Sunday stuff. Not only is it small and cramped, it has been so 'restored' and 'improved' over the years that Kaikorai Presbyterian Church would be preferable. Likewise the Augustinerkirche (the Court Church) which was a magnificent and very beautiful Gothic Hallenkirche, is now but a shadow of its former self, the interior largely covered in grey paint, if you please.
Speaking of paint, I’m afraid I do not quite come up the highest standards where great canvases are concerned – or rather the originals thereof. For years I have thought Vermeer’s canvas of the artist painting the girl with the wreath on her head (The Artist in His Studio, I think) just wonderful. But to me its reproduction in an elegantly produced book looks a lot better than the real thing behind glass (in the frame itself!) in a rather pokey corner of a museum. Sorry. However, you should see the exhibition of Historical Musical Instruments and the exhibition of Armour and Arms in the Neue Burg - especially the armour. Absolutely wonderful. And I touched a piano which Brahms himself used to play!
Ten days ago or so, we went to Mariazell, the main place of pilgrimage in Austria, perhaps in Central Europe itself, since (rather extraordinarily to my mind) Our Lady of Mariazell is probably the principal shrine of the Hungarians as well. It is in a very attractive town in the hills and the Church itself is most interesting and beautiful. The Image of the Virgin and Child, originally mediaeval, is dressed and crowned as is usual in such shrines, and sits above an altar, surrounded by the most incredible silver screen originally given by Maria Theresia and her husband the Holy Roman Emperor Franz Stephan. Lo, and behold, as we entered the Basilica, a mass was just beginning, and the splendid eighteenth century organ accompanied our singing. I was impressed by the fact that both at Mariazell and in the Stephansdom in Vienna, everybody seemed to know whatever mass setting was being used, none of which were the sort of would-be up-to-date trash to which we are usually accustomed in our own dear Anglican Church. These Austrian settings are actually musical.
Then, just a few days ago, on Saturday, we decided to go to Salzburg and stop off at the most picturesque town of Steyr on the way. As usual, it was very hot (about 35 degrees) and we found an outdoor restaurant in the main street for lunch. The restaurant was on a kind of wooden platform from which you descended by a couple of shallow steps to the footpath. But I didn't. I have always been rather unsteady on my feet due to my carelessness in catching polio when I was two years old, and the situation has not improved with the years, especially the last few years. I fell really rather badly, broke my left wrist, damaged my left foot, and sprained and bruised quite enough of the rest of me as well. But I am truly grateful to God in that my back was not affected.
I few years ago now, I fell over in St Peter's while trying to change the aumbry light, and was surprised to find that it was a most unpleasant experience, even on a nice new carpet. I was badly shaken. It was not at all as such falls had been when I was young, and the after-effects were all too like those described by many of the elderly people whom I have visited for years in rest homes.
The fall in Steyr was a good deal worse than the fall in St Peter's. Not only was it painful, but I was also in some kind of shock. Everybody was most kind and helpful, and eventually Tim and Pip decided it might be a good idea if I sat for a while in the church very nearby. Here, however, things seemed to get much worse. I was hyperventilating, I couldn’t move my fingers, and I felt sure I would either throw-up or faint or both.
The ambulance arrived and I was taken to the local hospital. Eventually the state of shock wore off, and I could move my fingers again and I felt a good deal better. Various tests were done and the doctors expressed the opinion that it would probably be better if I stayed in overnight. The ambulance men, the doctors and nurses at Steyr were just wonderful, and in a way, the most memorable part of our experience there. However, we decided to return to Vienna. All seemed OK for a while, but I could hardly walk at all without the risk of another fall, and after Tim had got me to my room, the shock and so on returned and another ambulance was called to take me to what I am told is the university hospital in Vienna, where x-rays showed up the broken wrist and the damaged foot. My left arm was put in plaster and my left foot bandaged up, and after all the tests, an ambulance finally took me home at 1.30am.
But I should like my dear parishioners to know that when the clock in the hospital showed half-past midnight, I joined in prayer with them as they celebrated the Solemn Eucharist at 10.30am on the other side of the world. Naturally, I shall be putting my prices up in consequence.
The upshot of all this is that I have had to stay on in Vienna, and cancel my intended ten days or so in England. I am of course sorry about that, but I am grateful to be here with Tim and Pip at a time when I really could not travel, let alone on my own two feet.
Well, that is clearly more than enough for now. I won't be able to read your comments until I return to Dunedin halfway through August, but there may well be another post just as soon as I have thrown myself down an elevator shaft.
Or not, as the case may be.
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Mit Schlagobers
So here I am in Vienna, having arrived in Austria on Saturday morning after a relatively painless flight (actually flights) from Dunedin. There the weather was cold, here it is quite remarkably hot, which is only right at this time of year.
Naturally, I dragged my poor hosts, Tim and Pip Snell, off to mass at the Stephansdom (the cathedral) the day after my arrival. But not until 6pm - I needed to catch up on my sleep! Ever since I first entered this wonderful building a good few years ago now, I have always thought the Stephansdom to be the most beautiful church I have ever seen, and it is always a joy to attend a service there. But not an unalloyed joy, I fear.
Calvin would have been most gratified at the emphasis now placed on edification in the modern Roman mass. In the Stephansdom the celebrant treats us to spontaneous exhortations before the confession, at the offertory, before the Pater Noster, and after the Communion - not to mention the sermon itself. And in my rather limited experience this practice is not at all uncommon. But it leaves me wanting to shout, "Get on with it, Father, for heaven's sake, just get on with it!" And one day I might well do it.
I realise that this is the age of information technology, but unfortunately the Still Small Voice becomes largely inaudible with electronic amplification.
However, Vienna in the summer is wonderful all the same, and I'm most grateful to be here.
Naturally, I dragged my poor hosts, Tim and Pip Snell, off to mass at the Stephansdom (the cathedral) the day after my arrival. But not until 6pm - I needed to catch up on my sleep! Ever since I first entered this wonderful building a good few years ago now, I have always thought the Stephansdom to be the most beautiful church I have ever seen, and it is always a joy to attend a service there. But not an unalloyed joy, I fear.
Calvin would have been most gratified at the emphasis now placed on edification in the modern Roman mass. In the Stephansdom the celebrant treats us to spontaneous exhortations before the confession, at the offertory, before the Pater Noster, and after the Communion - not to mention the sermon itself. And in my rather limited experience this practice is not at all uncommon. But it leaves me wanting to shout, "Get on with it, Father, for heaven's sake, just get on with it!" And one day I might well do it.
I realise that this is the age of information technology, but unfortunately the Still Small Voice becomes largely inaudible with electronic amplification.
However, Vienna in the summer is wonderful all the same, and I'm most grateful to be here.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sauce for the Goose
A few days ago I watched a documentary film called Constantine's Sword, featuring James Carroll, an American author and journalist who had been a Roman Catholic priest, but who had subsequently left the priesthood, married and had children. He himself was the son of a United States airforce general, who had not been at all pleased to hear his son and heir denounce the Vietnam war almost as soon as he got into the pulpit.
To my mind, Carroll's most striking statement in the whole film came when he observed that had the American airforce been dropping condoms on Vietnamese villages, all the Catholic bishops in America would have risen up to denounce such wickedness and to demand that it cease forthwith. But as the airforce was only dropping napalm on the Vietnamese themselves, the response from the hierarchy was restrained, to say the least.
We seem to see something similar whan it comes to homosexuality in Africa - just to take one example. Bishops north of the South African Republic appear to be enthusiasically endorsing the most draconian punishments for homosexuals, supporting the idea that the attempt to decriminalise their behaviour would be criminal in itself, and making no protest against government plans to punish those who fail to dob in their gay friends and relations. And all for Jesus.
When it comes to God's Word Written, I cannot help noticing a certain subjectivity shown by many bible readers. The matter of divorce is just one example. Luke and Mark refuse to consider it, and Matthew permits it in one situation only, as does St Paul - although he chooses a different situation. The apparent contradiction here should be enough to give us pause, but it seems not.
In the Anglican Church here in New Zealand we happily remarry devorcees virtually on demand, irrespective of whether their previous spouses have been unfaithful (Matthew) unbelievers (Paul) or neither. And despite the damage to the family and society which this rather relaxed attitude to divorce and remarriage can hardly be said to help, only the Roman Catholic Church tries to obey the clear words of scripture, and then only with the safety net of annulment for those with the time and money required.
But if we are going to be so particular about faithful and lifelong same-sex partnerships, shouldn't we be a bit more particular about the remarriage of the divorced too - or have I missed something here?
Perhaps you have already seen the following response to Dr Laura Schlesinger, an observant Orthodox Jew, who said in her radio show that homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The response came as an open letter to Dr Schlesinger which was posted on the Internet.
Dear Dr Laura,
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.
1. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Leviticus 1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Leviticus 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?
7. Leviticus 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?
8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 19:27. How should they die?
9. I know from Leviticus 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Leviticus 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws?
I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your adoring fan,
James M. Kauffman, Ed.D.
Professor Emeritus, Department of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education at the University of Virginia.
To my mind, Carroll's most striking statement in the whole film came when he observed that had the American airforce been dropping condoms on Vietnamese villages, all the Catholic bishops in America would have risen up to denounce such wickedness and to demand that it cease forthwith. But as the airforce was only dropping napalm on the Vietnamese themselves, the response from the hierarchy was restrained, to say the least.
We seem to see something similar whan it comes to homosexuality in Africa - just to take one example. Bishops north of the South African Republic appear to be enthusiasically endorsing the most draconian punishments for homosexuals, supporting the idea that the attempt to decriminalise their behaviour would be criminal in itself, and making no protest against government plans to punish those who fail to dob in their gay friends and relations. And all for Jesus.
When it comes to God's Word Written, I cannot help noticing a certain subjectivity shown by many bible readers. The matter of divorce is just one example. Luke and Mark refuse to consider it, and Matthew permits it in one situation only, as does St Paul - although he chooses a different situation. The apparent contradiction here should be enough to give us pause, but it seems not.
In the Anglican Church here in New Zealand we happily remarry devorcees virtually on demand, irrespective of whether their previous spouses have been unfaithful (Matthew) unbelievers (Paul) or neither. And despite the damage to the family and society which this rather relaxed attitude to divorce and remarriage can hardly be said to help, only the Roman Catholic Church tries to obey the clear words of scripture, and then only with the safety net of annulment for those with the time and money required.
But if we are going to be so particular about faithful and lifelong same-sex partnerships, shouldn't we be a bit more particular about the remarriage of the divorced too - or have I missed something here?
Perhaps you have already seen the following response to Dr Laura Schlesinger, an observant Orthodox Jew, who said in her radio show that homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The response came as an open letter to Dr Schlesinger which was posted on the Internet.
Dear Dr Laura,
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.
1. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Leviticus 1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Leviticus 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?
7. Leviticus 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?
8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Leviticus 19:27. How should they die?
9. I know from Leviticus 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Leviticus 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws?
I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Your adoring fan,
James M. Kauffman, Ed.D.
Professor Emeritus, Department of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education at the University of Virginia.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tooth Fairies
Just a few days ago, travelling along Portsmouth Drive, I was startled to come across some $40,000 worth of petrified human dentition. Four very large molars, chiselled out of Oamaru stone, now hog what used to be a very attractive view down the harbour. And we paid for them.
Now why did we do that? Well, we did that because we believe in art, indeed we believe in public art. When I say we, I do not, of course, include myself, or anyone else that I know, for that matter. If a partial in Oamaru stone @ $10,000 per fake tooth is art, then, I'm afraid, this particular emperor has no teeth. And someone should bite those who thought otherwise - and did so at our expense.
Alas, this is not an isolated example - far from it. How about the thousands of dollars in prize money which went to the "artist" who simply told the judges to take a waste paper basket and throw its contents on to the floor of the art gallery. Not to mention other prize exhibits in the nation's collections such as the image at Te Papa of Our Blessed Lady inside a condom. As it happens, there is a cathedral city in France called Condom, which no doubt has its own vierge noire called Notre Dame de Condom, but that is hardly the same thing, as you will no doubt agree.
Some years ago the Australian critic and historian Robert Hughes fronted a television series on modern art. One of the more memorable scenes showed him climbing a long flight of stairs to a very large room at the top of a New York apartment block. In the room was a remarkable work of art - a very large amount of earth from somebody's back garden which had been lugged up all those stairs and deposited (fairly evenly) on the floor to a depth of some two or three feet. And that was it. That was the Work of Art.
Along with the famous (and very expensive) line of bricks on the floor of the Tate Modern in London, and Damian Hirst's pickled sheep and calves, it is all rather bewildering - or do I mean infuriating? What on earth do these "artists" think they are doing? Well let me tell you what they are doing. They are preaching. Art is about meaning, don't you know, it's about The Author's Message. It's supposed to tell you something, to disturb your complacency, to challenge and to provoke.
But if we look a little more deeply, I think we find that it's all smoke and mirrors. Many artists now strike these attitudes precisely because they have nothing worth saying. Throwing waste paper on the floor is just an empty gesture made no better by the portentious suggestion that it is expressing (a) the emptiness of life, or (b) the artist's brave freedom from conventional conceptions about art, or (c) the artist's well-founded suspicion that the luvvies of the art world will be silly enough to let him get away with highway robbery - and then thank him for it!
But perhaps he and his colleagues might not have invaded the pulpit if those already in it knew what to say and how to say it.
Now why did we do that? Well, we did that because we believe in art, indeed we believe in public art. When I say we, I do not, of course, include myself, or anyone else that I know, for that matter. If a partial in Oamaru stone @ $10,000 per fake tooth is art, then, I'm afraid, this particular emperor has no teeth. And someone should bite those who thought otherwise - and did so at our expense.
Alas, this is not an isolated example - far from it. How about the thousands of dollars in prize money which went to the "artist" who simply told the judges to take a waste paper basket and throw its contents on to the floor of the art gallery. Not to mention other prize exhibits in the nation's collections such as the image at Te Papa of Our Blessed Lady inside a condom. As it happens, there is a cathedral city in France called Condom, which no doubt has its own vierge noire called Notre Dame de Condom, but that is hardly the same thing, as you will no doubt agree.
Some years ago the Australian critic and historian Robert Hughes fronted a television series on modern art. One of the more memorable scenes showed him climbing a long flight of stairs to a very large room at the top of a New York apartment block. In the room was a remarkable work of art - a very large amount of earth from somebody's back garden which had been lugged up all those stairs and deposited (fairly evenly) on the floor to a depth of some two or three feet. And that was it. That was the Work of Art.
Along with the famous (and very expensive) line of bricks on the floor of the Tate Modern in London, and Damian Hirst's pickled sheep and calves, it is all rather bewildering - or do I mean infuriating? What on earth do these "artists" think they are doing? Well let me tell you what they are doing. They are preaching. Art is about meaning, don't you know, it's about The Author's Message. It's supposed to tell you something, to disturb your complacency, to challenge and to provoke.
But if we look a little more deeply, I think we find that it's all smoke and mirrors. Many artists now strike these attitudes precisely because they have nothing worth saying. Throwing waste paper on the floor is just an empty gesture made no better by the portentious suggestion that it is expressing (a) the emptiness of life, or (b) the artist's brave freedom from conventional conceptions about art, or (c) the artist's well-founded suspicion that the luvvies of the art world will be silly enough to let him get away with highway robbery - and then thank him for it!
But perhaps he and his colleagues might not have invaded the pulpit if those already in it knew what to say and how to say it.
Monday, May 24, 2010
God's First Love
God willing, in August I shall be in Bayreuth at a performance of Die Meistersinger. And it won't be the first time that I have graced the Festspielhaus with my presence. Some ten years ago I was there for The Ring, Tristan, and Parsifal, all due to the influence and kindness of my friend Martin who makes a living on the operatic stage, and will be doing so at Bayreuth again this year.
Bayreuth is a very attractive town, especially in summer, and Wagner's custom-built theatre is most impressive - despite the hard seats and the complete lack of air conditioning at what is after all the hottest time of the year. But I have to confess that there is something just a little bit unnerving about it all. And you know why, don't you? The Wagners - Wieland and Wolfgang and their mother Winifred (nee Williams) - had a dear friend and devoted supporter who did his very best to destroy the world. And they loved him for it, especially the former Miss Williams of Bognor Regis.
When I was last in Bayreuth walking about the place (including the Festspielhaus) with Martin, I couldn't help seeing little notices here and there signed by Wolfgang (now just off to Valhalla himself) and sitting in the theatre itself I was always aware of the ghosts of his late mother and her special friend hovering somewhere in the Circle behind me. And when the conductors named Barenboim and Levine were in the orchestral pit I couldn't help thinking of those millions of other ghosts who had had surnames not unlike theirs.
All of which has not been helped by a television documentary which I saw a few days ago about the contribution of medical science to the war effort of the Third Reich. All those SS doctors were the frontline troops in the only war which really mattered - the protection and improvement of the breeding stock. Even Charles Darwin's son asserted that something should be done to make sure the gene pool was not polluted by the Untermenschen.
The special friend of the former Miss Williams (sometime of Bognor Regis) was just the one to deal with the problem. And deal with it he did. Even when the tide was going badly against Germany as the war drew to a close, the transports full of Untermenschen kept rolling towards the death camps, soaking up the men and resources which were desperately needed for the defence of the Reich itself. But it was the enemy within which really mattered most it seems, not the Allied armies advancing over the Rhine on one side and into East Prussia on the other.
How extraordinary that is, and yet somehow part of a terrible pattern, and one with which the Church is inextricably involved. Here is Luther in full cry about God's chosen people: "Venomous beasts, vipers, disgusting scum, canders, devils incarnate. Their private houses must be destroyed and devastated, they should be lodged in stables. Let the magistrates burn their synagogues and let whatever escapes be covered with sand and mud. Let them be forced to work, and if this avails nothing, we will be compelled to expel them like dogs in order not to expose ourselves to incurring divine wrath and eternal damnation from the Jews and their lies."
And Luther most certainly wasn't the only one. John Chrysostom was just as bad, and he was joined by Ephraim the Syrian, Augustine, Cyprian, and Cyril of Alexandria among many others, from the patristic period onwards. For a more up to date example you have only to consider the response of the Slovakian archbishop Karol Kmetko to a Jewish plea for assistance in March 1942: "You shall not merely be deported. You shall be killed. And this will be your punishment for killing our saviour."
There is a most remarkable film called God on Trial which stars (if that is the right word) Sir Anthony Sher. The film is based on what appears to be a true account of something which happened in Auschwitz: the Rabbis in residence decided to try God for the crime of breaking his covenant with his chosen people.
During the course of the trial all the expected charges were laid, but nevertheless (in the film at least) the judges were about to acquit The Accused when a very distinguished Rabbi, who had so far said nothing, began to speak. He pointed out how God had bereaved the innocent mothers of Egypt, commanded the Israelites to slaughter the helpless Amalekites, and generally shown himself to be anything but kind and just. And why, he asked, is this so? Because, he said, "God is not good, he is not good - he is just strong." And now he had chosen a new people, and entered into a new covenant - with the very Germans who were hell-bent on exterminating the members of the old one.
At this point in the proceedings, Dr Mengele arrives to choose some more victims for the crematoria. One of these is a young man who has had little or no time for the faith of his fathers. Weeping in desperation, he throws himself at the Rabbi's feet crying, "What do we do now?" "Now," the Rabbi says, "now we pray." Holding their hands over their heads in the absence of skullcaps and shawls, they begin chanting, "You have been our refuge from age to age."
Even stripped naked in the gas chamber, they still hold their hands over their heads as they sing to the God who has not saved them, but in whom (somehow) they still hope and believe.
I find it fascinating that the Jews, more perhaps than any other people, have been the ones to carry the cross of Christ for the last two thousand years or so. And Christianity itself has been the hard and cruel cross which they have carried. I must confess that I do not see the divine (let alone ethical) imperative of zionism, but it does seem to me that the history of God's chosen people in the last two millenia makes presents a most profound mystery to do with suffering and faith of which the adherents of Christianity are hardly aware.
Richard Wagner himself was an appalling antisemite, especially in print, which is one of the reasons that Hitler was so devoted to the family, which in turn helps to explain why, after the war, only Winifred Wagner (late of Bognor Regis) was one of the very few still prepared to sing his praises. I'm afraid I did a little bit of singing myself at Bayreuth. Only the music of Wagner himself is ever permitted to be heard in the Festspielhaus. But I showed them. When no-one was looking I sat in the conductor's seat in the orchestral pit and sang a few bars of Mozart. And the roof stayed where it was.
Bayreuth is a very attractive town, especially in summer, and Wagner's custom-built theatre is most impressive - despite the hard seats and the complete lack of air conditioning at what is after all the hottest time of the year. But I have to confess that there is something just a little bit unnerving about it all. And you know why, don't you? The Wagners - Wieland and Wolfgang and their mother Winifred (nee Williams) - had a dear friend and devoted supporter who did his very best to destroy the world. And they loved him for it, especially the former Miss Williams of Bognor Regis.
When I was last in Bayreuth walking about the place (including the Festspielhaus) with Martin, I couldn't help seeing little notices here and there signed by Wolfgang (now just off to Valhalla himself) and sitting in the theatre itself I was always aware of the ghosts of his late mother and her special friend hovering somewhere in the Circle behind me. And when the conductors named Barenboim and Levine were in the orchestral pit I couldn't help thinking of those millions of other ghosts who had had surnames not unlike theirs.
All of which has not been helped by a television documentary which I saw a few days ago about the contribution of medical science to the war effort of the Third Reich. All those SS doctors were the frontline troops in the only war which really mattered - the protection and improvement of the breeding stock. Even Charles Darwin's son asserted that something should be done to make sure the gene pool was not polluted by the Untermenschen.
The special friend of the former Miss Williams (sometime of Bognor Regis) was just the one to deal with the problem. And deal with it he did. Even when the tide was going badly against Germany as the war drew to a close, the transports full of Untermenschen kept rolling towards the death camps, soaking up the men and resources which were desperately needed for the defence of the Reich itself. But it was the enemy within which really mattered most it seems, not the Allied armies advancing over the Rhine on one side and into East Prussia on the other.
How extraordinary that is, and yet somehow part of a terrible pattern, and one with which the Church is inextricably involved. Here is Luther in full cry about God's chosen people: "Venomous beasts, vipers, disgusting scum, canders, devils incarnate. Their private houses must be destroyed and devastated, they should be lodged in stables. Let the magistrates burn their synagogues and let whatever escapes be covered with sand and mud. Let them be forced to work, and if this avails nothing, we will be compelled to expel them like dogs in order not to expose ourselves to incurring divine wrath and eternal damnation from the Jews and their lies."
And Luther most certainly wasn't the only one. John Chrysostom was just as bad, and he was joined by Ephraim the Syrian, Augustine, Cyprian, and Cyril of Alexandria among many others, from the patristic period onwards. For a more up to date example you have only to consider the response of the Slovakian archbishop Karol Kmetko to a Jewish plea for assistance in March 1942: "You shall not merely be deported. You shall be killed. And this will be your punishment for killing our saviour."
There is a most remarkable film called God on Trial which stars (if that is the right word) Sir Anthony Sher. The film is based on what appears to be a true account of something which happened in Auschwitz: the Rabbis in residence decided to try God for the crime of breaking his covenant with his chosen people.
During the course of the trial all the expected charges were laid, but nevertheless (in the film at least) the judges were about to acquit The Accused when a very distinguished Rabbi, who had so far said nothing, began to speak. He pointed out how God had bereaved the innocent mothers of Egypt, commanded the Israelites to slaughter the helpless Amalekites, and generally shown himself to be anything but kind and just. And why, he asked, is this so? Because, he said, "God is not good, he is not good - he is just strong." And now he had chosen a new people, and entered into a new covenant - with the very Germans who were hell-bent on exterminating the members of the old one.
At this point in the proceedings, Dr Mengele arrives to choose some more victims for the crematoria. One of these is a young man who has had little or no time for the faith of his fathers. Weeping in desperation, he throws himself at the Rabbi's feet crying, "What do we do now?" "Now," the Rabbi says, "now we pray." Holding their hands over their heads in the absence of skullcaps and shawls, they begin chanting, "You have been our refuge from age to age."
Even stripped naked in the gas chamber, they still hold their hands over their heads as they sing to the God who has not saved them, but in whom (somehow) they still hope and believe.
I find it fascinating that the Jews, more perhaps than any other people, have been the ones to carry the cross of Christ for the last two thousand years or so. And Christianity itself has been the hard and cruel cross which they have carried. I must confess that I do not see the divine (let alone ethical) imperative of zionism, but it does seem to me that the history of God's chosen people in the last two millenia makes presents a most profound mystery to do with suffering and faith of which the adherents of Christianity are hardly aware.
Richard Wagner himself was an appalling antisemite, especially in print, which is one of the reasons that Hitler was so devoted to the family, which in turn helps to explain why, after the war, only Winifred Wagner (late of Bognor Regis) was one of the very few still prepared to sing his praises. I'm afraid I did a little bit of singing myself at Bayreuth. Only the music of Wagner himself is ever permitted to be heard in the Festspielhaus. But I showed them. When no-one was looking I sat in the conductor's seat in the orchestral pit and sang a few bars of Mozart. And the roof stayed where it was.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Off the Wall
A little while ago I attended a Eucharist at which Bishop Richard Randerson was the preacher, whose beliefs (or lack of them) inspired me a couple of years ago to send an article enshrining my fair, balanced and entirely admirable opinion of the said beliefs (or lack of them) to Anglican Taonga in the hope that they would print it. They didn't. Well, they made a mistake, didn't they? But I am the forgiving type, and anyway, why should you be deprived in consequence? So here follows the article:-
It seems that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men have at last managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, since clearly he is alive and well in the Anglican Church in Aotearoa, New Zealand and Polynesia. In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland he told Alice firmly, "When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less," an approach demonstrated in the article, A Randerson Sampler in the [then] latest edition of Anglican Taonga, in which Bishop Richard Randerson’s use of the word God shows that to him it means little more than a beautiful feeling, since to suggest that God is a person or a supernatural being, he says, “goes too far.”
Whatever that is, it certainly isn’t the Christian faith which Bishop Randerson promised to uphold and proclaim when he was ordained, and pretty words do not make it otherwise. He remarks that he “finds it very sad that other members of the church could really doubt the Christian integrity and commitment of someone else in the church,” and laments “the lack of respect for the conscientiously-held views of others.” I for one have every respect for his views, I just wish he would have some respect for them as well, rather than misrepresenting them as those of a believing Christian. Humpty Dumpty could hardly do it better.
Unfortunately none of this is too surprising. For years we have pandered to the local Zeitgeist terrified of seeming out of date or irrelevant. We are, after all, the Church of the chattering classes, and we like the latter to think well of us. We (the Pakeha bit, that is) are nice, well-educated, well-intentioned people with just that touch of bourgeois guilt to convince us that we really care. And care we do. There are few fashionable causes which we do not enthusiastically espouse. Take the greatest of them all, the very heart and centre of Anglicanism in this country – biculturalism. If you think I am exaggerating, just imagine what would have happened if Bishop Randerson had cast doubts on the Treaty of Waitangi instead of on the Holy and Undivided Trinity. Would his peers have been quite so understanding and supportive, do you think? I doubt it.
But even our enthusiasms are not all they should be, biculturalism itself being the principal example. You only have to look at our official logo, the Flax Cross, to see that it has no reference whatsoever to the British Isles, and thus to the Church of Alban, Bede, Patrick, Margaret of Scotland, Julian of Norwich, Thomas Cranmer, Richard Hooker, Lancelot Andrewes, William Wilberforce and a host of others. Our sacred past has been chopped off at the knees, and in its place we have a chauvinist monoculturalism with the occasional patronising (and in the Maori case, somewhat unwilling) nod towards the immediate north. Inclusive language, ecological footprints, social justice, sustainable living, cultural safety, all these and more are what really matter – with Maori as the new Latin.
These are the cuckoos which have thrown transcendence, the sacred, the sense of holiness, and the glories of heaven out of the Anglican nest – and for what? A comfortable, politically correct agnosticism, mere unbelief masquerading as rich diversity, a lack of integrity parading as courageous honesty, and the denial of the creed presenting itself as the means by which the Church might survive – as if it would have any reason to.
Whatever happened to the astonishing glories of the Christian faith? Where is the God who loved his creation so much that he allowed his creatures to torture and slaughter him, and then showed that not even our wickedness could overcome his goodness? Whatever happened to the conviction that the whole purpose of human beings is that they are to be changed from glory into glory throughout eternity? How is it that everything from the virgin birth to the physical resurrection of our Lord has to be airbrushed out of the creed as merely mythological, simply because we no longer have any conception of the greatness, the wonder, and the sheer extraordinariness of God. Clearly it would all be so much better if God could just be nice and tidy and (in a word) manageable.
Our New Zealand Prayer Book is a perfect mirror of this, replete with phrases like “Teach us to care creatively for [the earth’s] resources,” or “Strengthen us as we share in making people whole,” and (my favourite) “that we may use your gifts responsibly,” all of which sound as though they were written by rather earnest schoolgirls from one of our better suburbs. Such texts go perfectly with most of the hymns and songs in Alleluia Aotearoa! with their high-minded, almost Victorian emphasis on self-improvement; but like them they too seem largely unreal. Lex orandi, lex credendi – as you pray, so you believe – thus it often seems that our prayers are little more than the expression of our good intentions, designed to reassure us that we still have something to offer.
From the first century to the present day it has been for the love of the Lord Jesus Christ and for the hope of heaven that the saints and martyrs have lived and died. Or were Perpetua and her companions thrown to the lions for ecology and cultural safety? If you are despairing and dying, will inclusive language and social justice see you right? When you are desperate to find a meaning and a purpose to life, will sustainable living and biculturalism provide the answer? I rather doubt it. But we are not despairing or desperate. We are just a little too pleased with ourselves for that, despite the fact that we have a certain adolescent anxiety about our identity which (along with the need for some rather unconvincing self-congratulation) has been part of our national make-up for as long as I can remember.
And so we have made the Good the enemy of the Best. We have put some of our nicest and most politically correct idols with their lovely feet of clay into the place of the Living God, without really facing up to what we have done. Perhaps that is because we have used words not as a means of telling the truth, but as a figleaf for our evasions.
Surely it’s about time that Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall for good.
It seems that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men have at last managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, since clearly he is alive and well in the Anglican Church in Aotearoa, New Zealand and Polynesia. In Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland he told Alice firmly, "When I use a word it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less," an approach demonstrated in the article, A Randerson Sampler in the [then] latest edition of Anglican Taonga, in which Bishop Richard Randerson’s use of the word God shows that to him it means little more than a beautiful feeling, since to suggest that God is a person or a supernatural being, he says, “goes too far.”
Whatever that is, it certainly isn’t the Christian faith which Bishop Randerson promised to uphold and proclaim when he was ordained, and pretty words do not make it otherwise. He remarks that he “finds it very sad that other members of the church could really doubt the Christian integrity and commitment of someone else in the church,” and laments “the lack of respect for the conscientiously-held views of others.” I for one have every respect for his views, I just wish he would have some respect for them as well, rather than misrepresenting them as those of a believing Christian. Humpty Dumpty could hardly do it better.
Unfortunately none of this is too surprising. For years we have pandered to the local Zeitgeist terrified of seeming out of date or irrelevant. We are, after all, the Church of the chattering classes, and we like the latter to think well of us. We (the Pakeha bit, that is) are nice, well-educated, well-intentioned people with just that touch of bourgeois guilt to convince us that we really care. And care we do. There are few fashionable causes which we do not enthusiastically espouse. Take the greatest of them all, the very heart and centre of Anglicanism in this country – biculturalism. If you think I am exaggerating, just imagine what would have happened if Bishop Randerson had cast doubts on the Treaty of Waitangi instead of on the Holy and Undivided Trinity. Would his peers have been quite so understanding and supportive, do you think? I doubt it.
But even our enthusiasms are not all they should be, biculturalism itself being the principal example. You only have to look at our official logo, the Flax Cross, to see that it has no reference whatsoever to the British Isles, and thus to the Church of Alban, Bede, Patrick, Margaret of Scotland, Julian of Norwich, Thomas Cranmer, Richard Hooker, Lancelot Andrewes, William Wilberforce and a host of others. Our sacred past has been chopped off at the knees, and in its place we have a chauvinist monoculturalism with the occasional patronising (and in the Maori case, somewhat unwilling) nod towards the immediate north. Inclusive language, ecological footprints, social justice, sustainable living, cultural safety, all these and more are what really matter – with Maori as the new Latin.
These are the cuckoos which have thrown transcendence, the sacred, the sense of holiness, and the glories of heaven out of the Anglican nest – and for what? A comfortable, politically correct agnosticism, mere unbelief masquerading as rich diversity, a lack of integrity parading as courageous honesty, and the denial of the creed presenting itself as the means by which the Church might survive – as if it would have any reason to.
Whatever happened to the astonishing glories of the Christian faith? Where is the God who loved his creation so much that he allowed his creatures to torture and slaughter him, and then showed that not even our wickedness could overcome his goodness? Whatever happened to the conviction that the whole purpose of human beings is that they are to be changed from glory into glory throughout eternity? How is it that everything from the virgin birth to the physical resurrection of our Lord has to be airbrushed out of the creed as merely mythological, simply because we no longer have any conception of the greatness, the wonder, and the sheer extraordinariness of God. Clearly it would all be so much better if God could just be nice and tidy and (in a word) manageable.
Our New Zealand Prayer Book is a perfect mirror of this, replete with phrases like “Teach us to care creatively for [the earth’s] resources,” or “Strengthen us as we share in making people whole,” and (my favourite) “that we may use your gifts responsibly,” all of which sound as though they were written by rather earnest schoolgirls from one of our better suburbs. Such texts go perfectly with most of the hymns and songs in Alleluia Aotearoa! with their high-minded, almost Victorian emphasis on self-improvement; but like them they too seem largely unreal. Lex orandi, lex credendi – as you pray, so you believe – thus it often seems that our prayers are little more than the expression of our good intentions, designed to reassure us that we still have something to offer.
From the first century to the present day it has been for the love of the Lord Jesus Christ and for the hope of heaven that the saints and martyrs have lived and died. Or were Perpetua and her companions thrown to the lions for ecology and cultural safety? If you are despairing and dying, will inclusive language and social justice see you right? When you are desperate to find a meaning and a purpose to life, will sustainable living and biculturalism provide the answer? I rather doubt it. But we are not despairing or desperate. We are just a little too pleased with ourselves for that, despite the fact that we have a certain adolescent anxiety about our identity which (along with the need for some rather unconvincing self-congratulation) has been part of our national make-up for as long as I can remember.
And so we have made the Good the enemy of the Best. We have put some of our nicest and most politically correct idols with their lovely feet of clay into the place of the Living God, without really facing up to what we have done. Perhaps that is because we have used words not as a means of telling the truth, but as a figleaf for our evasions.
Surely it’s about time that Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall for good.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Giving Thanks
Yesterday we kept our Harvest Festival, as we usually do on the first Sunday after the Easter Octave. Here in Dunedin it has a rather different feel to it than it did twenty-five years ago in my previous parish in Wallasey, on the other side of the Mersey from Liverpool, where I had the uneasy feeling that the occasional pentangle or pointed hat would not have seemed out of place. I was always a little taken aback by the rather tribal, indeed totemic, aspects of the observance there. People whom I had never seen before, either in or out of the pews, made their annual appearance at Evensong before mysteriously disappearing for another year.
At All Saints Margaret Street, on the other hand, Harvest Festival was entirely forbidden as some kind of nonconformist rite appropriate to Congregationalists or Methodists - although I always thought that (to those not familiar with it) Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament must have looked a little bit like the New Testament equivalent of the Wave Offering.
Here in New Zealand, however, Harvest Festival seems to be little more than an edible form of ecclesiastical interior decoration.
However, I note that in the 1928 Book of Common Prayer (and perhaps elsewhere as well) Harvest Festival is called Thanksgiving for Harvest, and this strikes me as a very important difference. After all, the very centre of Christian observance in every season, autumnal or not, is the Eucharist, a name which itself speaks of thanksgiving before all else.
So what is the principal focus of our worship? Surely it must be thanksgiving, thanksgiving for our creation, our redemption, the beauty of the world, the joys of love and friendship, knowledge, discovery, and a limitless host of blessings which come to us from the hands of our Creator. And then of course, there is the staggering hope, indeed the expectation, of overwhelming, unending bliss. I rather think that a mere hour or so once a week is not too much time spent in returning thanks together for what has been granted to us in time and eternity.
But, with all the talk of evangelism, does the general population think the Church has much to do with joyful thanksgiving to a God worth thanking? Do we ourselves? Meister Eckhart said that if the only prayer you ever said was Thankyou, it would be enough. Perhaps we should ask ourselves what he meant.
At All Saints Margaret Street, on the other hand, Harvest Festival was entirely forbidden as some kind of nonconformist rite appropriate to Congregationalists or Methodists - although I always thought that (to those not familiar with it) Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament must have looked a little bit like the New Testament equivalent of the Wave Offering.
Here in New Zealand, however, Harvest Festival seems to be little more than an edible form of ecclesiastical interior decoration.
However, I note that in the 1928 Book of Common Prayer (and perhaps elsewhere as well) Harvest Festival is called Thanksgiving for Harvest, and this strikes me as a very important difference. After all, the very centre of Christian observance in every season, autumnal or not, is the Eucharist, a name which itself speaks of thanksgiving before all else.
So what is the principal focus of our worship? Surely it must be thanksgiving, thanksgiving for our creation, our redemption, the beauty of the world, the joys of love and friendship, knowledge, discovery, and a limitless host of blessings which come to us from the hands of our Creator. And then of course, there is the staggering hope, indeed the expectation, of overwhelming, unending bliss. I rather think that a mere hour or so once a week is not too much time spent in returning thanks together for what has been granted to us in time and eternity.
But, with all the talk of evangelism, does the general population think the Church has much to do with joyful thanksgiving to a God worth thanking? Do we ourselves? Meister Eckhart said that if the only prayer you ever said was Thankyou, it would be enough. Perhaps we should ask ourselves what he meant.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Light from further East
Monday was the feast of St Isaac the Syrian, sometimes called Isaac of Nineveh because he was briefly bishop of that city in the sixth century before going off into the mountains of what is now Iraq to be a hermit and to become, according to Bishop Hilarion Alfeyev, "one of the most widely read spiritual writers on Mount Athos. His name is known to every monk in Russia and he is venerated as a saint in the Russian Church. [And] we have seen ordinary believers, neither monks nor theologians, who know entire passages of Isaac by heart and are able to quote long passages from his discourses."
"[...] Word of St Isaac has crossed not only time but also confessional barriers. As early as the ninth century he was read by the Byzantine and Syrian Orthodox Churches, as well as by [Isaac's own] Church of the East; each group produced its own recension of his writings. In the fifteenth century Isaac broke into the Roman Catholic world while remaining at the same time one of the most popular ascetical writers of the Eastern Orthodox Church. In our day his writings continue to draw the attention of Christians who belong to various traditions but share a common faith in Jesus and are engaged in the quest for salvation. During one scholarly conference, after I had delivered a paper on the practice of prayer in St Isaac, three people came up to me, one after another: a cistercian nun, a protestant layman, and a buddhist monk. All three were wondering how much of Isaac's teaching of prayer, which I had expounded, was consonant with their own tradition. Then a franciscan friar informed me of the existence of St Isaac of Nineveh's retreat house in New Zealand: the house is run by both Catholics and Anglicans."
Not bad, I think, for an obscure mountain solitary who belonged to a church (often now called the Assyrian Church) which has been out of communion with with everyone else since the fifth century - and usually derided as heretical as well. St Isaac's writings are important because they are clearly based on his (and his tradition's) actual experience of God, and not just on academic speculation. Helpful though the latter can often be, it's the music the matters, not the score.
"[...] Word of St Isaac has crossed not only time but also confessional barriers. As early as the ninth century he was read by the Byzantine and Syrian Orthodox Churches, as well as by [Isaac's own] Church of the East; each group produced its own recension of his writings. In the fifteenth century Isaac broke into the Roman Catholic world while remaining at the same time one of the most popular ascetical writers of the Eastern Orthodox Church. In our day his writings continue to draw the attention of Christians who belong to various traditions but share a common faith in Jesus and are engaged in the quest for salvation. During one scholarly conference, after I had delivered a paper on the practice of prayer in St Isaac, three people came up to me, one after another: a cistercian nun, a protestant layman, and a buddhist monk. All three were wondering how much of Isaac's teaching of prayer, which I had expounded, was consonant with their own tradition. Then a franciscan friar informed me of the existence of St Isaac of Nineveh's retreat house in New Zealand: the house is run by both Catholics and Anglicans."
Not bad, I think, for an obscure mountain solitary who belonged to a church (often now called the Assyrian Church) which has been out of communion with with everyone else since the fifth century - and usually derided as heretical as well. St Isaac's writings are important because they are clearly based on his (and his tradition's) actual experience of God, and not just on academic speculation. Helpful though the latter can often be, it's the music the matters, not the score.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
And at those Feet
A good few years ago now I sat at the feet of the Dalai Lama in the Town Hall during what I think must have been his first visit to Dunedin. Like most of the other people who virtually filled the hall, I don't think I followed His Holiness' line of thought as closely as I perhaps should have done, but one thing was as clear as a bell. According to the Dharma, all sentient beings would eventual reach eternal bliss.
I couldn't help contrasting this with the Gospel (as commonly received) according to which only human sentient beings would be putting in an appearance beyond the grave, and most of them would immediately find themselves in a place of unbearable and unending torment for reasons of which they were entirely unaware before their arrival. It made me wonder just which is the Good News, the Dharma or the Gospel? According to the latter only cats and dogs, it seems, can face the future with confidence. At least their sufferings will be ending rather than just beginning.
Ah yes, but what about freewill? Surely God is just respecting our freedom. Well, I'm not so sure. Were any of us asked whether we wanted to come into existence in the first place, and thus run the appalling risk of eternal damnation? Speaking personally, I don't remember receiving a questionnaire on the subject myself. And nor do I expect to have any say as to whether I survive my death or not. I'm just going to have to carry on whether I like it or not, in whatever state I find myself, and that state might be rather on the hot side for my eternal comfort.
I would have thought that if God has already made the fundamental choices about my existence for me, then he should be responsible for seeing me right in the end as well. I certainly hope so.
I couldn't help contrasting this with the Gospel (as commonly received) according to which only human sentient beings would be putting in an appearance beyond the grave, and most of them would immediately find themselves in a place of unbearable and unending torment for reasons of which they were entirely unaware before their arrival. It made me wonder just which is the Good News, the Dharma or the Gospel? According to the latter only cats and dogs, it seems, can face the future with confidence. At least their sufferings will be ending rather than just beginning.
Ah yes, but what about freewill? Surely God is just respecting our freedom. Well, I'm not so sure. Were any of us asked whether we wanted to come into existence in the first place, and thus run the appalling risk of eternal damnation? Speaking personally, I don't remember receiving a questionnaire on the subject myself. And nor do I expect to have any say as to whether I survive my death or not. I'm just going to have to carry on whether I like it or not, in whatever state I find myself, and that state might be rather on the hot side for my eternal comfort.
I would have thought that if God has already made the fundamental choices about my existence for me, then he should be responsible for seeing me right in the end as well. I certainly hope so.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
The Remnant
I have just been listening to the wonderful New Zealand pianist Richard Farrell playing the music of Chopin and Brahms on CDs recently remastered from old Pye records. Farrell was killed on the roads of Sussex in 1958 at the age of 31. I don't remember hearing of his death (I was only eleven at the time, and anyway I thought the pipe organ the only instrument worth listening to) but I certainly feel a sense of loss now. And I can imagine the cries of anguish and despair when the news reached his native land.
And no doubt there would have been the inevitable question, "Why?" Farrell came from a good Catholic family and was educated in good Catholic schools. Given his affiliations (not to mention his talents) why was God careless to the point of criminal negligence? Why didn't he give Farrell a reasonable, indeed normal, span of life like everyone else?
These are very understandable questions, of course, but do they really accord with the evidence of our experience? What exactly is a normal life-span? I take normal here to mean usual. And in this matter usual can mean vanishingly short. Consider all those miscarriages, abortions, and infant deaths since recorded history began, then add all the young lives cut short by disease, famine, war and violence of every kind. I wouldn't be surprised if only a minority survived to celebrate their first quarter-century - if that.
So what are we to make of it all? I rather imagine that our more fundamentalist brethren would explain matters by blaming the devil. And of course, the Letter to the Hebrews describes the latter as the one having the power of death. But in Christ, God has defeated death - so what sense can we make of the continuing mayhem? How can God's purposes still be achieved despite the death and destruction which always surrounds us in this world?
Well, I have A Little Theory. So sorry. But here we go. When I was about fifteen I had a remarkable experience. All I remember of it is the way it ended: the Light (note the capital letter) which filled the room moved away through the ceiling and the ceiling itself, together with the walls, the floor and the contents of the room reappeared to view. And I was filled with the most absolute feelings of love, joy, peace and all the other good things for the next half-hour or so, after which matters slowly returned to normal.
This was during the summer holidays and I was working in the Otago University Library when it was still in the Tower Block. I remember a day or two later standing beside a stack of books (including, if I remember rightly) that all-time best-seller, 'Homing Tendencies in Migrating Turtles') and surprising myself by thinking that if Christ and this Light were one and the same, well and good. If not, I would stick with the Light.
Somewhat unusually for me, I told no one of my experience. It needed no confirmation. It didn't even need an explanation. Whatever the Light was, it was the final reality, and the final authority. It was totally self-authenticating. It had no face, it said nothing, and it gave itself no name - none of which mattered in the slightest. I had (and have) no doubt that this Light was what life was for, including all life of whatever kind. It was obvious to me that we came into existence by the will and power of the Light and that it was the purpose of our existence to return the Light. And I knew that death was an essential part of that process, and therefore not to be feared.
I also knew immediately that the Old Gentleman on top of Mt Sinai with a long beard and a short fuse simply didn't exist - and never had. No wrath, no rage, no thunderbolts, no plagues, nothing but love, mercy and forgiveness. And truth, of course. I'm not suggesting that the Light is filtered through rose-tinted lenses, but I am saying that Master Calvin of Geneva should have read Mother Julian of Norwich before rushing into print.
It wasn't until I was ordained and in my first parish that I came across 'Life after Life' by Dr Raymond Moody, with its accounts of many Near Death Experiences, and recognised their extraordinary similarity to my own experience. And it wasn't until many years after that that I encountered the Eastern Orthodox teaching generally known as Palamism, according to which God can be (and often is) seen as light, as by St Paul on the Damascus Road. Since then I have come across many people (some of them here in Dunedin) who have had the same experience as I did, likewise without being anywhere near death. And just as it permanently transformed my life, and my understanding of the meaning and purpose of life, so it did the same for them.
Now, one of the distinguishing characteristics of this kind of thing is the way in which people find, firstly, that while it is happening, their consciousness is somehow expanded and enlarged, and secondly, they appear to enter into a kind of telepathic communication between themselves and others, based not so much on words and language but on simple shared awareness.
Thus we come (at long last!) to My Little Theory, which works like this. It seems likely to me that beyond the grave we shall all participate in a kind of shared consciousness to which we shall each contribute our own individual awareness, our memories and our experiences. This would mean that those who died before they could acquire such memories and experiences would not be deprived of their reality, and it would also mean that what appears now to us to be the pointless and useless suffering of (say) the inmates of Auschwitz might well be a most profound gift to the rest of us, after the model of the passion of Christ when it is seen from the Garden of the Resurrection. But it all depends on the reality of human destiny. And on a remnant (very biblical, you will note) which has undergone the experience of life in this world long enough to be able to take it into the world to come.
So that's it - at least for the moment. Outraged responses on a postcard, please. Or not.
And no doubt there would have been the inevitable question, "Why?" Farrell came from a good Catholic family and was educated in good Catholic schools. Given his affiliations (not to mention his talents) why was God careless to the point of criminal negligence? Why didn't he give Farrell a reasonable, indeed normal, span of life like everyone else?
These are very understandable questions, of course, but do they really accord with the evidence of our experience? What exactly is a normal life-span? I take normal here to mean usual. And in this matter usual can mean vanishingly short. Consider all those miscarriages, abortions, and infant deaths since recorded history began, then add all the young lives cut short by disease, famine, war and violence of every kind. I wouldn't be surprised if only a minority survived to celebrate their first quarter-century - if that.
So what are we to make of it all? I rather imagine that our more fundamentalist brethren would explain matters by blaming the devil. And of course, the Letter to the Hebrews describes the latter as the one having the power of death. But in Christ, God has defeated death - so what sense can we make of the continuing mayhem? How can God's purposes still be achieved despite the death and destruction which always surrounds us in this world?
Well, I have A Little Theory. So sorry. But here we go. When I was about fifteen I had a remarkable experience. All I remember of it is the way it ended: the Light (note the capital letter) which filled the room moved away through the ceiling and the ceiling itself, together with the walls, the floor and the contents of the room reappeared to view. And I was filled with the most absolute feelings of love, joy, peace and all the other good things for the next half-hour or so, after which matters slowly returned to normal.
This was during the summer holidays and I was working in the Otago University Library when it was still in the Tower Block. I remember a day or two later standing beside a stack of books (including, if I remember rightly) that all-time best-seller, 'Homing Tendencies in Migrating Turtles') and surprising myself by thinking that if Christ and this Light were one and the same, well and good. If not, I would stick with the Light.
Somewhat unusually for me, I told no one of my experience. It needed no confirmation. It didn't even need an explanation. Whatever the Light was, it was the final reality, and the final authority. It was totally self-authenticating. It had no face, it said nothing, and it gave itself no name - none of which mattered in the slightest. I had (and have) no doubt that this Light was what life was for, including all life of whatever kind. It was obvious to me that we came into existence by the will and power of the Light and that it was the purpose of our existence to return the Light. And I knew that death was an essential part of that process, and therefore not to be feared.
I also knew immediately that the Old Gentleman on top of Mt Sinai with a long beard and a short fuse simply didn't exist - and never had. No wrath, no rage, no thunderbolts, no plagues, nothing but love, mercy and forgiveness. And truth, of course. I'm not suggesting that the Light is filtered through rose-tinted lenses, but I am saying that Master Calvin of Geneva should have read Mother Julian of Norwich before rushing into print.
It wasn't until I was ordained and in my first parish that I came across 'Life after Life' by Dr Raymond Moody, with its accounts of many Near Death Experiences, and recognised their extraordinary similarity to my own experience. And it wasn't until many years after that that I encountered the Eastern Orthodox teaching generally known as Palamism, according to which God can be (and often is) seen as light, as by St Paul on the Damascus Road. Since then I have come across many people (some of them here in Dunedin) who have had the same experience as I did, likewise without being anywhere near death. And just as it permanently transformed my life, and my understanding of the meaning and purpose of life, so it did the same for them.
Now, one of the distinguishing characteristics of this kind of thing is the way in which people find, firstly, that while it is happening, their consciousness is somehow expanded and enlarged, and secondly, they appear to enter into a kind of telepathic communication between themselves and others, based not so much on words and language but on simple shared awareness.
Thus we come (at long last!) to My Little Theory, which works like this. It seems likely to me that beyond the grave we shall all participate in a kind of shared consciousness to which we shall each contribute our own individual awareness, our memories and our experiences. This would mean that those who died before they could acquire such memories and experiences would not be deprived of their reality, and it would also mean that what appears now to us to be the pointless and useless suffering of (say) the inmates of Auschwitz might well be a most profound gift to the rest of us, after the model of the passion of Christ when it is seen from the Garden of the Resurrection. But it all depends on the reality of human destiny. And on a remnant (very biblical, you will note) which has undergone the experience of life in this world long enough to be able to take it into the world to come.
So that's it - at least for the moment. Outraged responses on a postcard, please. Or not.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Culture Wars
Last Saturday Kelvin Wright was ordained and installed (i.e. consecrated and enthroned) as the ninth Bishop of Dunedin of the Anglican Persuasion. It was a wonderful occasion if only because it achieved the right result, and because the new bishop's splendid new gear (made by his sister who should do this kind of thing for a living) didn't make him look like the Imperial Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan.
But I wish I could say the same for his fellow bishops. They were all clad in something called a chole. Yes, a chole. And what do you suppose that is? Why, it's a combination chasuble cum stole of course. Except that it isn't. It's actually a sandwich-board designed to encourage racial harmony and cultural diversity (and to help us rather insecure New Zealanders feel a bit more confident about our identity). You can tell that by the fact that it has flax crosses prominently displayed front and back.
You don't have to be a member of the Anglican Church of Aotearoa, New Zealand and Polynesia for long to realise that the significance of the flax cross is cultural rather than Christian. Thus we seem to have made the good the enemy of the best, and I'm not sure that that would appeal to the One whose kingdom is not of this world.
But I wish I could say the same for his fellow bishops. They were all clad in something called a chole. Yes, a chole. And what do you suppose that is? Why, it's a combination chasuble cum stole of course. Except that it isn't. It's actually a sandwich-board designed to encourage racial harmony and cultural diversity (and to help us rather insecure New Zealanders feel a bit more confident about our identity). You can tell that by the fact that it has flax crosses prominently displayed front and back.
You don't have to be a member of the Anglican Church of Aotearoa, New Zealand and Polynesia for long to realise that the significance of the flax cross is cultural rather than Christian. Thus we seem to have made the good the enemy of the best, and I'm not sure that that would appeal to the One whose kingdom is not of this world.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Having it both ways
Today is the anniversary of the papal bull Regnans in excelsis published in 1570 announcing Pope St Pius V's deposition of Queen Elizabeth I from her royal throne and his call to her subjects to abandon both their sovereign and the spiritual leadership of the 'lewd preachers and ministers of impiety' whom she had planted in the Lord's Vineyard.
You might therefore have thought that Pius was no friend of the Anglican Church in any shape or form. But apparently not, if the following endorsement by an American Episcopalian culled from the internet is anything to go by.
Today is a very special day, the Feast of St Pius V. As one of my patrons (I took Pius as my confirmation name) I'll be serving at the Holy Sacrifice today from his Missal (but in English, alas). If you are able, do join us today at noon at Grace and St Peter's to celebrate this illustrious Pope and Confessor and great friend of the Church of England.
With friends like this . . .
You might therefore have thought that Pius was no friend of the Anglican Church in any shape or form. But apparently not, if the following endorsement by an American Episcopalian culled from the internet is anything to go by.
Today is a very special day, the Feast of St Pius V. As one of my patrons (I took Pius as my confirmation name) I'll be serving at the Holy Sacrifice today from his Missal (but in English, alas). If you are able, do join us today at noon at Grace and St Peter's to celebrate this illustrious Pope and Confessor and great friend of the Church of England.
With friends like this . . .
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Crown and Mitre
On 30th January we Anglicans observed the feast of the blessed St Charles, King and Martyr. And we did so with hearts overflowing with gratitude for his courageous defence of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Faith - even unto death. We did, didn't we? Well I certainly did, but some of you might have been just a little too squeamish to do the same, I fear.
Perhaps you were put off by Professor J.P. Kenyon's remarks on the matter, 'His [Charles the First's] was never a masculine character, and his femine delicacy of feature, his tristesse, that Pre-Raphaelite droop so attractive to the old ladies of Anglo-Catholicism, had a limited appeal to contemporaries.' As a put-down (two put-downs, in fact) this is simply superb, but is it true? And is it enough to account for the reality of the king's part in the life of the church, or the reality of the church's life following his death?
Here's the opinion of another distinguished historian of the period, C.V. Wedgewood, 'His church policy was the outcome not of calculation but of conviction; he was ready to die for it.' And what in the end was the church policy Charles was prepared to die for? According to Mandell Creighton, bishop of London at the turn of the twentieth century and a noted ecclesiastical historian, 'Had Charles been willing to abandon the church and give up episcopacy, he might have saved his throne and his life. But on this point Charles stood firm: for this he died, and by dying saved it for the future.'
And these are some of the Royal Martyr's own words on the matter, 'I conceive that episcopal government is most consonant with the Word of God, and of apostolical institution, as it appears by the Scripture to have been practised by the apostles themselves, and by them committed and derived to particular persons as their substitutes or successors therein, and have ever since to these last times been exercised by bishops
But perhaps your sympathies lie with a later (and somewhat Presbyterian) sovereign. At a garden party for Anglican bishops Oueen Victoria remarked to her lady in waiting, "A very ugly party. I do not like bishops." When Lady Lyttelton expressed some disquiet at this pronouncement from the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, the queen said, "I like the man - not the bishop." I'm sorry to say that a good many Anglo-Catholics since then would have happily reversed her reply, and may even have had good reason to do so.
No doubt there have been (and will continue to be) objections to episcopacy from our more protestant brethren, but I'm afraid I find them entirely unconvincing. Perhaps there was a period of uncertainty about the ministry in the early Church (though you might like to take a cursory look at From Synagogue to Church by James Tunstead Burtchaell, CUP 1992, before you make up your mind). For myself I find the universal practice of the churches which have any claim to antiquity (some of which, like the Assyrian Church of the East, have been in a world of their own from very early on) to be most persuasive. Despite enormous differences in their histories, liturgies, and even in their canons of scripture, these churches have all held fast to the doctrine of apostolic succession and to the consequent three-fold ministry as being essential to the Catholic Church.
I mention the scriptural canon because even where the New Testament is concerned, there have been notable differences. The Syriac churches, for example, did not accept 2 Peter, Jude, 2 and 3 John, and the Book of Revelation until very late in the day, and even now the latter is not read at the public services of the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Only tradition tells me that there are four Gospels and not three or thirty. Likewise tradition tells me that in some vital sense bishops have succeeded the apostles in the governance of the People of God. Perhaps some bishops have been no good. But then, the gospel of John has been used to promote antisemitism, and I have yet to hear of a plan to remove it from the bible as a result. Episcopacy was established in the church before the canon, and has ever since been a foundation of the church's life. No doubt the church could get by without St John's gospel, just as some denominations get by without bishops - but it would be an impoverishment, and a statement that Christianity was on the wrong path for fifteen hundred years, which (in this instance, at least) makes very little sense to me.
However, there is an exception. There is always an exception! And the exception in this case (you will be surprised to learn) is the Roman Catholic Church. Should you consult Principles of Sacramental Theology by Father Bernard Leeming SJ (published in London by Longmans Green in 1956) you will be interested to discover that bishops are largely surplus to requirements, since the Roman Pontiff can give permission (and presumably power) to simple priests to ordain to the priesthood and the diaconate, and perhaps even to the episcopate. At least three popes have done so, and Father Leeming rather reluctantly acknowledges the fact.
But we shouldn't be too surprised. Remember those missals which we all had (well, some of us) before the Second Vatican Council, with an imprimatur from none other than one L. Suenens, working his way up to the archbishopric of Malines and a galero (a cardinal's red hat)? In the helpful introduction to these missals we are told that 'There are three major Orders or consecrations,' and that they are those of subdeacon, deacon, and priest. And just in case a bishop should feel left out, he is assured that he possesses 'the fulness of the priesthood.' Furthermore there are (or at least have been) reputable dogmatic manuals (so-called) used in seminaries which maintain that ordination to the episcopate is not a sacramental act.
Since Vatican Two, of course, all is changed. But let's not forget that until the pope says sorry, the Roman Church is officially Presbyterian. So, given a rather obvious 'defect of intention' where the episcopate is concerned, do they really have valid orders like us?
Perhaps you were put off by Professor J.P. Kenyon's remarks on the matter, 'His [Charles the First's] was never a masculine character, and his femine delicacy of feature, his tristesse, that Pre-Raphaelite droop so attractive to the old ladies of Anglo-Catholicism, had a limited appeal to contemporaries.' As a put-down (two put-downs, in fact) this is simply superb, but is it true? And is it enough to account for the reality of the king's part in the life of the church, or the reality of the church's life following his death?
Here's the opinion of another distinguished historian of the period, C.V. Wedgewood, 'His church policy was the outcome not of calculation but of conviction; he was ready to die for it.' And what in the end was the church policy Charles was prepared to die for? According to Mandell Creighton, bishop of London at the turn of the twentieth century and a noted ecclesiastical historian, 'Had Charles been willing to abandon the church and give up episcopacy, he might have saved his throne and his life. But on this point Charles stood firm: for this he died, and by dying saved it for the future.'
And these are some of the Royal Martyr's own words on the matter, 'I conceive that episcopal government is most consonant with the Word of God, and of apostolical institution, as it appears by the Scripture to have been practised by the apostles themselves, and by them committed and derived to particular persons as their substitutes or successors therein, and have ever since to these last times been exercised by bishops
But perhaps your sympathies lie with a later (and somewhat Presbyterian) sovereign. At a garden party for Anglican bishops Oueen Victoria remarked to her lady in waiting, "A very ugly party. I do not like bishops." When Lady Lyttelton expressed some disquiet at this pronouncement from the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, the queen said, "I like the man - not the bishop." I'm sorry to say that a good many Anglo-Catholics since then would have happily reversed her reply, and may even have had good reason to do so.
No doubt there have been (and will continue to be) objections to episcopacy from our more protestant brethren, but I'm afraid I find them entirely unconvincing. Perhaps there was a period of uncertainty about the ministry in the early Church (though you might like to take a cursory look at From Synagogue to Church by James Tunstead Burtchaell, CUP 1992, before you make up your mind). For myself I find the universal practice of the churches which have any claim to antiquity (some of which, like the Assyrian Church of the East, have been in a world of their own from very early on) to be most persuasive. Despite enormous differences in their histories, liturgies, and even in their canons of scripture, these churches have all held fast to the doctrine of apostolic succession and to the consequent three-fold ministry as being essential to the Catholic Church.
I mention the scriptural canon because even where the New Testament is concerned, there have been notable differences. The Syriac churches, for example, did not accept 2 Peter, Jude, 2 and 3 John, and the Book of Revelation until very late in the day, and even now the latter is not read at the public services of the Eastern Orthodox Church.
Only tradition tells me that there are four Gospels and not three or thirty. Likewise tradition tells me that in some vital sense bishops have succeeded the apostles in the governance of the People of God. Perhaps some bishops have been no good. But then, the gospel of John has been used to promote antisemitism, and I have yet to hear of a plan to remove it from the bible as a result. Episcopacy was established in the church before the canon, and has ever since been a foundation of the church's life. No doubt the church could get by without St John's gospel, just as some denominations get by without bishops - but it would be an impoverishment, and a statement that Christianity was on the wrong path for fifteen hundred years, which (in this instance, at least) makes very little sense to me.
However, there is an exception. There is always an exception! And the exception in this case (you will be surprised to learn) is the Roman Catholic Church. Should you consult Principles of Sacramental Theology by Father Bernard Leeming SJ (published in London by Longmans Green in 1956) you will be interested to discover that bishops are largely surplus to requirements, since the Roman Pontiff can give permission (and presumably power) to simple priests to ordain to the priesthood and the diaconate, and perhaps even to the episcopate. At least three popes have done so, and Father Leeming rather reluctantly acknowledges the fact.
But we shouldn't be too surprised. Remember those missals which we all had (well, some of us) before the Second Vatican Council, with an imprimatur from none other than one L. Suenens, working his way up to the archbishopric of Malines and a galero (a cardinal's red hat)? In the helpful introduction to these missals we are told that 'There are three major Orders or consecrations,' and that they are those of subdeacon, deacon, and priest. And just in case a bishop should feel left out, he is assured that he possesses 'the fulness of the priesthood.' Furthermore there are (or at least have been) reputable dogmatic manuals (so-called) used in seminaries which maintain that ordination to the episcopate is not a sacramental act.
Since Vatican Two, of course, all is changed. But let's not forget that until the pope says sorry, the Roman Church is officially Presbyterian. So, given a rather obvious 'defect of intention' where the episcopate is concerned, do they really have valid orders like us?
Friday, January 29, 2010
To be or not to be
Ever since I was a small boy I have been fascinated by matters which I have not had the slightest possibility of understanding. Although I have found this particularly helpful in forming my opinions, and essential in expressing them, it has been a drawback all the same. But please note that modern science backs me up. Take, for example, Werner Heisenberg and his uncertainty principle. Even the name has a certain quality of reassurance for those of us who would like to understand such things as mathematics and physics, but who have always had difficulty in being entirely certain that two and two make four. (When I was at primary school the headmaster informed me that if I couldn't do arithmetic I would never amount to anything. He was quite right - I couldn't and I haven't.)
The uncertainty principle tells us that at the quantum level of reality it is just not possible to be sure about the behaviour of atoms, let alone their constituent parts such as electrons and quarks. And given the fact that atoms are themselves more than ninety-nine per cent empty space, and that the tiny fraction which is something rather than nothing can be described as 'a blur' I can't say I feel too bad about my ignorance.
This is especially so as Heisenberg's successors seem to be approaching the great Somers-Edgar principle which is simply this - the universe doesn't actually exist. Even as a eleven or twelve-year old I had my doubts. I can remember standing at the bottom of Pitt Street at the time when I was still attending Arthur Street School and wondering whether the scene before me was actually the way I percieved it, or if it was even there at all. (I might say that at this point in my life I was drinking nothing stronger than milk.) Perhaps the presence of Knox Church to my left unhinged me somewhat, but I had the same doubts even when I was standing inside St Patrick's Basilica. Nowadays, I must confess, inside all too many churches this is not so much a doubt as a hope.
Clearly something exists in some way or other, but it is not at all clear just what that way might happen to be - especially, it seems, to physicists. Which makes the pious (or impious) certainties of Richard Dawkins and his friends hard to credit. With empty atoms, string theory, the possibility of eleven dimensions (at the last count), imaginary time, quantum mechanics and other scientific propositions, not to mention the theory that the universe divides into millions of complete and separate versions of itself in order to accomodate all possible outcomes - by comparison with all this, believing in God is mere child's play.
The uncertainty principle tells us that at the quantum level of reality it is just not possible to be sure about the behaviour of atoms, let alone their constituent parts such as electrons and quarks. And given the fact that atoms are themselves more than ninety-nine per cent empty space, and that the tiny fraction which is something rather than nothing can be described as 'a blur' I can't say I feel too bad about my ignorance.
This is especially so as Heisenberg's successors seem to be approaching the great Somers-Edgar principle which is simply this - the universe doesn't actually exist. Even as a eleven or twelve-year old I had my doubts. I can remember standing at the bottom of Pitt Street at the time when I was still attending Arthur Street School and wondering whether the scene before me was actually the way I percieved it, or if it was even there at all. (I might say that at this point in my life I was drinking nothing stronger than milk.) Perhaps the presence of Knox Church to my left unhinged me somewhat, but I had the same doubts even when I was standing inside St Patrick's Basilica. Nowadays, I must confess, inside all too many churches this is not so much a doubt as a hope.
Clearly something exists in some way or other, but it is not at all clear just what that way might happen to be - especially, it seems, to physicists. Which makes the pious (or impious) certainties of Richard Dawkins and his friends hard to credit. With empty atoms, string theory, the possibility of eleven dimensions (at the last count), imaginary time, quantum mechanics and other scientific propositions, not to mention the theory that the universe divides into millions of complete and separate versions of itself in order to accomodate all possible outcomes - by comparison with all this, believing in God is mere child's play.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Doubting Thomas
Today we have been observing the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, for whom I have a somewhat ill-informed liking, if only for two particular reasons. The first is that as a small child he would apparently ask his elders "What is God?" Not who?, you will note, but what? I entirely realise that he should actually have been asking whether anyone had found his teddy bear, and I thus have some sympathy with his poor elders - but I do think he was on the right track. God has got to be more than a little old man on the top of a middle eastern mountain with a long beard and a short fuse.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
I also like Aquinas for his reported answer to his own question at the end of his life, namely, that having actually experienced the Real Thing (please note the capital letters) he understood that there could be no answers, except for the ones that make sense. And where God is concerned, sensible answers often make no sense at all. Thus the Angelic Doctor is said to have refused to finish his great Summa with the statement that what he had already written (and that was an awful lot) was only so much straw.
The contrast between St Thomas and a good many of the Doubting Thomases of our own time (often fully paid-up clergy and theological professors, alas) could hardly be greater.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Taking urgency
16th December was the anniversary of my baptism in 1951. I can't say that I remember it well, but I do recall looking up at the wooden roof and seeing the sunlight slanting through the windows. This was in St Matthew's Church on the corner of Hope Street (most appropriate!) and the officiating priest was Archdeacon Hamblett, the father-in-law of the painter Colin McCahon. At the time even members of my family would have wanted other people to think that they believed in God - even though most of them didn't, some of them with good reason. The latter included my father and his siblings. The reason for their somewhat determined unbelief was not scientific or philosophical, but much closer to home than that - it was their own dear mother.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
Grandma was quite a character, and had had quite a life, not much of it very pleasant or enjoyable. Both her father and his father before him had fallen into debt and had chosen (at different times) to remove themselves from this world as a result, leaving their respective daughter and granddaughter to fend for herself and her children. As a result they all spent at least one winter on the west coast in nothing more than a tent before my great-grandmother was imprisoned for debt (of course!) and her children were sent to the workhouse. Not a very good beginning, I think you will agree, and it didn't improve very much after that either. Grandma grew up to be a beautiful and charming young woman, but not one with the best judgement it would seem, as she went on to marry a well-bred but not entirely useful Englishman who fathered her children but appeared to be largely incapable of supporting them. So Grandma turned to religion, and not just to any religion - she became a Seventh Day Adventist. She also became an absolutely determined advocate for her faith, whether her family or anyone else liked it or not. Hence her children's militant unbelief.
Naturally the failure of her offspring to follow her on the path of righteousness was a considerable disappointment, but Grandma nevertheless remained ever-vigilant against ungodliness. When I was six years old, and my parents were out of the house, she got me to sign the pledge. On their return they insisted on tearing it up and gave Grandma a stern lecture on the evils of manipulating impressionable young minds. I, meanwhile, burst into tears, crying that I would become a gin-soaked alcoholic because Grandma had told me so - as indeed I did, although I had to work at it for some years thereafter. Grandma was not always wrong.
There was also something of a kerfuffle when she gave her eldest son a book about the South Seas. As he already had a copy, his wife took it back to the shop, where the saleswoman examined it to make sure it was resaleable. It wasn't. One of the photographs in the book showed a most attractive Polynesian girl wearing nothing but a grass skirt - and a large piece of black tape which Grandma had placed strategically just below her neck in case my uncle (then in his fifties) was led astray. My aunt, who had no time for religion of any sort - let alone Grandma's - took the book and drove home in something of a rage. On the way a little idea popped into her head. She turned up at Grandma's and announced that at last she had Seen The Light. Grandma was thrilled - until my aunt informed her that she was going to became a Roman Catholic. (She didn't, of course.)
My other grandmother was also religious. She was a Christian Scientist and would tell me when I was sick that my illness was in my head, something which was particularly true whenever I had a cold. On the rare occasions that she and Grandma met you could see that they didn't exactly have a lot in common, but as they were the only members of my family to have some sort of religion, I think I did rather well to remain a mere Anglican, which is rather more than I can say for most of my cousins who (most understandably) remain resolutely indifferent.
And I think I know why. Some years ago, when another of my father's brothers arrived in England for a holiday with his wife, I accompanied them to various historic monuments, including a few churches. In one of the latter my uncle put some money into the offertory box, and when I asked him why he had done so, he replied in two words, "Fire insurance." Naturally I enquired as to whether or not he actually believed that. He didn't. And just to make his reasons clear he said in a quietly mocking voice, "Ah yes - little children dying of cancer, and all to please the God of Love." Merely theological explanations at this point didn't quite seem appropriate. My uncle had caught God out, at least in his own mind, and even now, almost forty years later I'm not at all sure what would have been an adequate reply, or even if such a thing were possible.
So my uncle had found that God was fundamentally heartless, perhaps not so much immoral as amoral, and thus not worthy of his attention, let alone his allegiance. He could simply dismiss him from consideration, backed up, of course, by what he understood of modern science. And how could I have found just the right words in those circumstances to effect the necessary change of mind and heart? He had, after all, heard it many times before.
So why didn't it convince him? That's the sort of question I don't think we ask ourselves often enough. Insofar as I have any kind of answer, I think it has a lot to do with context in which the Gospel is preached. Something must already be part of the experience of your listeners for them to build on. Where the first Christians were concerned their understanding of things already included a belief in what we would (rather loosely) call the supernatural, so more of the same not only made sense, it helped to make sure that the supernatural was on your side and not otherwise. Becoming God's friend (and staying that way) was thus a very good idea.
But nowadays God can seem too unreal (and too unreliable) to bother about. Darwin, Marx and Freud have seen to that. Not to mention celebrated scientists like Richard Dawkins and famous philosophers like Antony Flew. Or at least that's what we thought. But recently, Professor Flew has let the side down badly by becoming a theist (a deist in fact). And why do you suppose that is? Because science (if you please) has convinced him that there must be what he describes as an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good. Otherwise the universe could never have happened, it could not show the extraordinary order that it does, our genome could never have evolved by chance no matter how many billions of years it had at its disposal, and self-reproducing life just could not arise spontaneously from inanimate matter.
My uncle was able to be an unbeliever without too much trouble. He didn't really have to think about it. God's shaky morality and scientific implausibility gave him the right to dismiss the deity without looking too closely at his opinions and the reasons for them. But it is my belief that those who share those opinions are in for something of a shock in the coming years. Despite, or even because of, the Darwinian fundamentalists, science is beginning to reveal a reality which I am sure is a necessary part of the Gospel - and we should loudly and ostentatiously proclaim it as such.
As the title of Professor Flew's latest book says, There is a God. If we want to make faith in God much more widely possible for our generation we need to investigate closely this new development in the sciences. For if people come to believe that 'an omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient Spirit which is both eternal and completely good' and which created and sustains everything including themselves, is not just scientifically plausible but perhaps even scientifically necessary, then the question of their relationship with this reality (or the lack of it) might well become rather more urgent.
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