Man, I Feel Like a Minority

The Curt Jester links to this disturbing article on the developing legal status of the "transgendered" and then asks the intriguing question, If people can be affirmed and legally recognised as being a woman when they are biologically male simply because they 'feel' like one, could a person also be affirmed and legally recognised as black if they were in fact white for the same reason?

Can we invent a category of transraced? Or would that bring two cultural taboos into an unwinnable conflict? Or, let's take another example, what about those who feel older than their biological age- the transaged? Can I be given a senior's card and get discounts in shopping centres because I get on better with folk over 50 than with people my own age (and like to wear waistcoats, to boot)? The list goes on.

I read somewhere a little while ago (I forget where) that if abortion had nothing to do with sex, it would still be seen as horrific and barbaric. I wonder if the same principle applies here. Its all about sex. If these things had nothing to do with sex, nobody would have gotten up to try to normalise them. Same principle as with homosexuality and the gay agenda. Our culture's relativism happens in very few other places.

Mind you, one question that does intrigue me is what the ratios are with these "transgendered" folk of men who 'feel' like women and women who 'feel' like men. Are there more of one than of the other? One usually only hears about the former. A related question: why is it that gay men are almost always effeminate (thankfully with the exception of Ian McKellen) whereas lesbians don't act more masculine? I've often wondered about that. What is the reason behind it and is it significant? Good luck getting someone to do research on that though. They'd probably be sued.

Feast of St Thomas Becket

Oh, incidentally, I'm back.

And it seemed not inappropriate, after a long hiatus of no-blogging, to recommence on this, the feast of St Thomas Becket, the man whom I went to England in large part to encounter and to venerate. And so I did.

After two weeks and one day of walking across English farmland, up Downs and down Downs, through villages, towns and cities, woods and fields, I entered the ancient city of Canterbury, mother of English Christianity, and made my way to the cathedral like the pilgrims of old. There, I knelt and prayed on the spot where Thomas was united with Christ in death, on ground that, 837 years ago today, was stained with his blood and brains.

I have been back in Australia for a couple of weeks now, but today I wore my pilgrim's badge to work with a certain amount of pride. Also a certain sense of unworthiness. One thing about martyrs is they stand as a reproach and challenge to one's temporal attachments. The desires in us that have not been purified, that still seek after worthless things, or even seek after good things but make them an end in themselves rather than a means and signpost to the glory and beauty and goodness that are in God and Him alone- while sometimes we can ignore or excuse these, the martyrs show them up with monochrome starkness by living and embracing the alternative. And that alternative is the Cross.

I shall no doubt say more about the numerous events and epiphanies of my pilgrimage in the near future. For today, however, it is enough for me to recall the awful and numinous experience of kneeling in the place where an English archbishop completed his journey to Calvary, and thence to Heaven.

I Am Pilgrim

...or will be as of tomorrow. This morning I spent several hours packing my rucksack and about the same amount of time sewing a red cross- the symbol and sign of a pilgrim- onto the shoulder of my coat (and if ever I had any doubts, I am now firm in my resolution to never seek a career as a tailor).

Here you can see my final destination.

Its going to take me a while to reach Canterbury Cathedral though. Over two weeks in fact. And what happens between now and then is anybody's guess. All is in God's hands though, and I'm pretty content to leave it there.

Libera me, Domine, ab vitiis meis, ut solius voluntatis tuae cupidus mihi sim.

The Mystery Worshipper

Funny the things you find when you are randomly browsing. I discovered this when doing a search for St Peters Catholic Church, Winchester, where I will be offering the Sacrifice this Sunday. I haven't looked through the site exhaustively, but I like the concept. And, moreover, St Peters in Winchester got a pretty decent review. Which is a bonus.

A Book That Needs to Be Written

Found this on the Curt Jester's blog. Funny and pertinent. Sounds like something G. K. Chesterton would suggest.

Mala nostra Pelle

This morning I went to the Solemn Pontifical Mass at St Mary's Cathedral to give thanks to God for the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum. During the offertory, the Ave Maris Stella was sung and this line caught my eye: Mala nostra pelle.

For some reason, the phrase conjures up in my mind images of our good Cardinal laying into various representations of evil (rainbow sashes and poker machines leap to mind) with a mighty swing of his crozier. If I were more artistically inclined I would try to draw it. Of course the question does arise, if Pell were made into a Latin verb, which declension would it be?

St George poem- Chapter 1- Final Part

Caesar took my vows of duty,
Gave to me this sword,
But one day when my strencth is slack
I shall give the wer-blade back
And cease to call men to attack
Or surrender at his word.

Thus do earthly duties end,
Finite, short in time;
I would not trade my life for such
A transit'ry pantomime.

Other duties do I have
More ancient of degree;
I serve an older emperor
Whose reign predates the sea.

His subject is the mighty oak,
His throne the Alpine height,
He raises waters to the sky,
Makes the ocean depths to fly
Then makes them fall when fields are dry,
Of such moment His might.

Great Caesar, when his days grow long
And Pluto comes to take
Across the Styx his soul, the Senate
Of him a god will make.

But my liege lord, the one I serve,
Will never know such fame;
He, being God, became a man:
From world's beginning was His plan
Ere ever endless ages ran,
And thus He has remained.

His pow'r pervades every realm,
Pierces princes, pummels vice,
Guides the shipman at the helm,
Rules over both men and mice.
Sov'reignty o'er men is His gift
Which He imparts, which He can lift,
As He each person's life does sift
And judges justly every life.

His justice rules both men and beast;
He's canny- Him no creature 'scapes;
He knows the greatest and the least,
He knows their mind, their moods, their shapes.
I tell you truly, man of Silene,
If what you say is what has been,
And this thing your virgin people rapes,
My King can give to you a peace-
It lies nigh at the door-
A peace whose friends are hope and life
And solace for the poor.
A peace that brings an end to strife
And does not come with war.

His title is the Prince of Peace,
And puissant yet is He;
His lowly, loyal liegeman,
His servant-soldier do I be;
His will will I enact
Your people so to free;
While He is on my side,
Whatever may betide,
No fire-belching beast
Or baleful monster will I flee.

So I swear to you on my own soul
And by my own baptismal vows
That I shall make your people whole
And once again hoist spirits high,
For I shall make the beast to die.
Man, show the way. I will hence now.'

The End of the Internet

Funny stuff. Check it out.

St George poem- Chapter 1- Part 8

With douleur and with gay despair
The elder turned his back to go.
The soldier leapt and held his arm,
Without intending any harm,
But serious as an intoned psalm,
He spoke in tone sombre and low.

'My name is George,' the soldier said,
'A Roman soldier, I;
I do not fear a fearsome beast
Nor tremble when to die.
My soul is made of sterner stuff,
My heart beats bold and high.

Of peace to thee I lately spoke,
A peace that comes with war,
A peace with gifts attached to it
Of roads and Roman law;
But ill I spoke perhaps, for there's
A peace that counts for more.

You see this helm, this red-dyed cloak,
These boots, this gladius:
The symbols of my rank are they,
Esteemed and glorious.

And truly I'm great Caesar's man
And serve him with my life,
But there's agreater one than he,
Than whom a greater cannot be-
He makes the wretched blind to see
And brings an end to strife.

I am a Roman, goodly chief,
Its proudest citizen;
But greater is a kingdom
That transcends human ken;
And I too am its citizen
And member of that race;
My liege lord is the God of men
And arbiter of grace.

A dual citizen you see,
And Rome's the lesser part;
Rome and Caesar hold my flesh
But God does hold my heart.'

The Ever-Broadening Influence of Ebenezer Scrooge

In the Daily Telegraph this morning, buried in an out of the way corner where few but the most perceptive might find it, I discovered a somewhat unnerving article. Repairing to the website of the Daily Telegraph this evening to find the same article online, I was unable to locate it. However I did find its counterpart in the UK Daily Telegraph (since the article was about events in the UK anyway), in addition to a refreshing editorial by some chap I've never heard of before.

It seems we're stuck between the extremes of putting up Christmas decorations in mid-October (what the shopping centre where I work has done) or not putting them up at all. Me, I'm of two minds about the whole thing. A part of me loves the idea of Christmas as a public holiday (by which I mean one celebrated publicly)- one of the more enjoyable experiences of my life was strolling through the streets of London on Christmas 1999 and receiving several cheerful "Merry Christmas!"es from the few other folk who were also out and about that day. On the other hand, another part of me thinks it would not be such a bad thing for the Powers That Be to ban Christmas, because then the Christians might actually be free to celebrate it without the distractions of the Rush, endless nauseating advertising, and all the abominations of tackiness and kitsch that inevitably accompany it these days. More importantly, we might even be freed to observe Advent rather than have the feast forced on us while we should be preparing spiritually for it, then be prodded back to work the moment the real celebrations should just be beginning.