Che Vivesse in Italia Peregrina

I came across a beautiful exchange in the Purgatorio today. Throughout Inferno, Dante often asks after or seeks out Italians (naturally because of the common language), especially Florentines, since he was from Florence (and was exiled from it at the time of writing). The people he speaks to are only too happy to volunteer their local origins, and this results in several interesting and (in different ways) illuminating conversations. As he reaches the second section of Mount Purgatory, he again uses the same tack but this time gets a decidedly different reply:

We are, dear brother, now all citizens
Of one true place. But you must mean
"Who winged his pilgrim life through Italy".

One senses that Dante must feel slightly put out to have his question (hitherto perfectly natural) dismissed so effortlessly. But after much of the factionalism in Inferno (the intricacies of thirteenth century Italian politics are never far from the narrative there), it is decidedly refreshing to meet a soul who, though not having forgotten his earthly roots, calls Dante's (and our) attention to a far deeper and more abiding reality and a more primeval and ultimate homeland.

It is a good reminder for Advent as well (and a reminder for me personally to hearken back to the lessons God taught me in England a year ago)- we are all pilgrims, all exiles. Here we have no lasting abode. That homesickness we intrinsically feel, that Sehnsucht, that longing for ultimate joy will be fulfilled. He is coming. But we must be ready. And we must not mistake our earthly dwellings for home. We may love them deeply (for patriotism is a virtue, even if a pagan one) but they are waypoints, inns on the journey. Our destination is somewhere different. To quote T.S. Eliot, "the end of all our journeying will be to arrive back where we started, but to know the place for the first time." Eden shall be remade and returned to and, indeed, a better than Eden, for He Who walked there of old shall then walk among us in our own flesh. There is our final destination. There is the end of our pilgrimage. There is home.

Nixon for Nine Year-Olds

Mark Shea yesterday posted a link to this article, decrying the sexualisation of children. I, on the other hand, was far less disturbed by the subject matter of this 9-year-old's first book than I was when I read this sentence.

Alec - who just finished a children's book on the Watergate scandal - said he wants to be a full-time writer when he grows up.

He just finished a WHAT?!

Pope Benedict on Sola Fide

I have long been of the opinion that the doctrine of justification by faith alone is and always has been a 'red herring'. The real crux of the Reformation, and the real disagreement between Catholics and Protestants, lay (and lies) elsewhere entirely.

I first came upon such a theory a long time ago in a letter J.R.R. Tolkien wrote to his son during the War, and was sceptical to say the least. That scepticism took a blow when I read the Council of Trent's statements on justification as a Protestant Evangelical and found, to my great surprise, that there was almost nothing that I (and every other Evangelical I know) did not already agree with. With continued study and thinking, I have eventually come around to the same opinion as Tolkien.

And, it must be said that, once in a while, it is nice to be vindicated in an unfashionable opinion. And it is particularly nice when the person by whom one is vindicated happens to be one of the most scholarly and interesting theologians of our time, and the successor of Peter to boot!

Witness, then, Pope Benedict demonstrating....well, look, just read it, its brilliant!

Impressions of Inferno

I have just finished the first part of Dante's Divine Comedy and thought to jot down some thoughts.

In point of fact, it has taken me long enough to finish it. I have started it several times and never made it past the beginning of the Eighth Circle. In fact, the first time I started it was when I was about nine on Christmas Eve, to pass the time as I held vigil during the night in the (vain) hope of catching Santa Claus in the act- which just goes to show what a strange child I was (if memory serves, I didn't get past the fifth canto). However, coming up to this Advent, I decided to make a fresh go of it and try and get the thing finished. And, as I say, I have just finished Inferno. So far, so good then. With a bit of luck and continued persistence, I might get to Heaven before...well, before I get to Heaven (assuming, of course, my perseverance in grace). Certainly before Epiphany, anyway. So, anyway, some initial and not particularly scholarly or groundbreaking impressions.

The one thing we don't appreciate about the medievals (or one of the things) is the multi-layered nature of their thinking. Some of my more traditional friends deplore the superficiality of the Novus Ordo Mass where only one thing happens at once, much preferring the layered richness of the Tridentine (I must confess I often have trouble keeping up with the Tridentine for precisely that reason- there are too many layers and connections to properly grasp, let alone appreciate, everything that's going on). In the Inferno, we moderns are, I suspect, tempted to just read on the surface, as we tend to do with most things. We expect that if there are hidden meanings, they should be pointed out or hinted at. The notes I used caught a lot of meaning, but they were by no means exhaustive- a fact which the translator, to his credit, acknowledged several times throughout.

To take one example (which was not mentioned in the notes and I only noticed upon further reflection), a sizable number of the souls Dante meets are very concerned to have him mention them to others when he goes back to the world of the living. In fact, if memory serves, once or twice Dante actually uses the offer to do such as a conversation-starter for some of the less communicative souls. Many have a preoccupation with their own memory or legacy. Here we see the very essence of Hell, the self bound up in itself, obsessed with itself. Robbed of life, it seeks to perpetuate its existence in the only way that remains to it- by having other people remember it. Even in Hell, the self tries to get the universe to revolve around it. Indeed, one doesn't notice it at first (and the temptation to pity the souls and regard them as victims or hard-done-by is very great, especially for us moderns who find it so easy to impute victimhood), but the souls without exception talk about nothing but themselves, their lives, their present circumstances, etc. Morally speaking, this is completely accurate but, as I say, its not signposted. Dante expects you to notice it for yourself.

Another thing- in each part of Hell, Dante somehow participates in the sin being punished there. This I didn't notice until the Ninth Circle, actually. It serves as a kind of mea culpa of the author, robbing him of any sense of moral superiority and showing him his own sinfulness (and encouraging the reader to notice theirs). Kind of like Mel Gibson hammering in one of the nails in The Passion.

Two other things made an impression on me in particular. One is, I think, a very necessary corrective to popular imaginiation. That is, that Satan is not the Lord of Hell. It is not his dominion or realm over which he rules. Dante, quite rightly, has him trapped, imprisoned in a sheet of ice (the ice, I suppose, to symbolise a realm as far removed from the warmth of divine love as it is possible to get) and- and this is what surprised me most of all- weeping. Tears of pain perhaps, or tears of agony or regret, but not tears of repentance. A very different image of the Devil from what one is accustomed to.

Finally, one was initially impressed by the creativity behind the punishments, the contrepasso and all that, and was curious to see what would come next and who the next famous soul would be (although, of course, some of them haven't been famous for quite a few centuries now). However, I don't know if it was just me- how I was feeling on the day or a symptom of my wanting to hurry up and finish, or if it was a subtle function of the writing intended by the author, or what; but by the Ninth Circle I had the overwhelming sensation of "I don't want to be here." The experience was no longer pleasant. I didn't want to meet any more damned souls. They weren't actually pleasant people to talk to or spend time with. Their stories grated and bored- like an obnoxious dinner guest's. To see the stars at the end of canto 33, after so long in the physical and moral dark, knowing that now Hell was behind for good, was one of the most exquisite literary experiences I've had in recent memory.

On to Purgatorio, then.

In Troubled Times...

I haven't posted any poetry in a while, and, since I'm still working now and then on the St George poem (which grows and grows line by line and may never be finished at this rate), I thought I'd post a short piece I composed a while ago during a quiet spell at work.

In troubled times how muddled men then in their minds become;
In hot pursuit of tainted fruit our nerves are rendered numb;
The onslaught of antipathy so ousts our frazzled thoughts
We cover up our emptiness with what we’ve sold and bought.

While millionaires in mansions are the saddest of the sad,
We want yet disbelieve the joy that Brother Francis had;
The peace that passes muster must have been a foolish dream,
And drearily we wash with little hope of getting clean.

The songs we sang so long ago do now seem bored and trite;
We’ve peace, but only since we’re too disinterested to fight,
And while we seek (by cash or cheque) to save the starving poor
Our lives are no less miserable from having more and more.

Chaput N'est Pas Fou

During the jam-packed week that was WYD, I had the good fortune to meet Archbishop Charles Chaput of Denver, and was, to put it mildly, impressed. He was to speak at P.J. Gallagher's pub in Parramatta, and so on the Wednesday evening I found myself there, sipping a lemon squash, surveying the scene and waiting for the talk to begin. No sign of the speaker yet. Then, lo and behold, I receive a tap on the shoulder, delivered by a short, round-faced Native American fellow in a Roman collar.

"Ya look dressed for winter," he said, indicating my coat.

"Well, it is winter," I replied.

He considered for a moment and said, "That's true."

Then he shook my hand, "How ya doin'? I'm Archbishop Charles."

That was my first meeting with the man, and I watched thereafter as he moved around the pub, striking up conversations with the patrons. Then he got up and gave this speech. And answered questions. I was particularly impressed when one girl asked a question about IVF which, it must be said, was ambiguous (the way she worded the question, it was difficult to tell what she was asking). I have seen many public speakers in similar situations give a brush-off reply to what they hope is the question being asked and then move on. Archbishop Charles, however, engaged the girl and tried to clarify what she wanted to know. This went on for a couple of minutes, with a kind of back-and-forth between them while other questioners waited. I've never seen a speaker do that before.

Altogether, he came across as solidly and proactively orthodox, solidly and proactively pastoral and brimming over in Christian charity. A rare combination, especially in a bishop.

Now, this is all by way of introduction. Given my various interests, I naturally take a casual, though not obsessive, interest in global politics and have consequently been following with some interest the progress of the American elections (or the lead-up to them, anyway- how they can justify spending billions of dollars and more than a year's concerted efforts on a political campaign- which may not even win- baffles me; I much prefer Australian political elections, which tend to be shorter, cheaper and more pointed). With the Democratic Convention taking place in Denver, I was curious to see what Archbishop Charles would be up to.

A fair bit, it turns out. In addition to sending out this pastoral letter about the abortion issue and, especially, two-faced politicians who support it but still try to get Christians to vote for them, he also got together with Martin Luther King's niece and the local Baptist minister to preach outside a Denver abortion clinic, and carry on a prayer vigil there, garnering in the process a crowd of 3000.

This, folks, is what a real bishop looks like.

Schonborn and the Ideologues

On Wednesday last, I attended a talk from Christoph Cardinal Schonborn of Vienna on the creation/evolution debate at Sydney University. It was fascinating, and indeed, I've never seen the Great Hall so full (nor, for that matter, have I ever seen so many Dominicans in one place!). The Cardinal was compelling and intriguing in his arguments and very difficult to put in a box as regards his views. I got the impression, however, that he understands the debate better than almost anyone else engaged in it (though I still have several questions I would very much like to hear him answer).

One of the chief points he made multiple times during the course of the address was, "Science must not allow itself to be married to ideology." Which, being a Dominican and Thomist, he made as a general principle, rather than meaning "Science should not be married to your ideology but mine", which is perhaps its more common meaning these days.

All of this leapt back into the forefront of my mind when I saw this :

Whatever the final scientific consensus on the matter, the steady politicisation and sacralisation of climate change does have its moments of unintended humour.

H/T Zippy Catholic at What's Wrong with the World.

Aftermath of WYD

Well, its over. The Holy Father has boarded the plane and gone home to Rome. All the pilgrims have departed. And Sydney sits back, a bit dazed, and wonders what to make of it all.

Was it all a dream? By no means. The Holy Spirit is subtle, however, both startling and unexpected, and the work of grace never proceeds the way one would expect.

Now we watch and wait for the fruits. Veni Sancte Spiritus!

Coleridge Encounter

This incident is notable enough to quote more or less in full.

We had Archbishop Mark Coleridge from Canberra for catechesis this morning (first Australian this week, actually; so far its been all American and Canadian bishops in our particular group). After his sermon, he opened up the floor for questions. It was then that this exchange occurred.

Man: The Church teaches some things I have trouble with. What do I do with these sorts of hard Church teachings?

Archbishop Mark: I struggle with hard Church teachings too. It shouldn't surprise us that we do. When Christ preached in John 6, the people said, "This is a hard saying. Who can accept it?" What Christ taught was not easy or comfortable. But He taught the truth. Our Lord taught unexpected things, but they were all true. The Church teaches what He taught. It speaks in His Name what He wants spoken. It teaches the truth from Him. But the truth is not always how we expect it. Like Christ Himself, the truth sometimes baffles us, sometimes takes forms or entails things we didn't suspect and may not like. But Christ desires our good, desires our salvation and the truth He teaches through the Church will always bring that. We have to make an act of faith in Him, to trust Him, and therefore the Church which is His Body, that He may know better than us. However much we struggle to accept the truth when it comes to us in unexpected ways, it is only the truth that will set us free."

Very well-put, I thought.

WYD Continues Apace

For the record, I too think they should change the name to World Youth Week. But anyway...

Not as much chance to blog as I had hoped this week. Needless to say, there's a lot going on around the place. I shall, hereafter, reflect on the entire thing in more depth. For the time being, however, I would like to note just one thing- which in fact was my very first impression at the Opening Mass- and it is this:

There is something unbelievably cool about 150 000 people all saying 'Amen' at once!