Flos Carmeli

Political Debates and Christianity [Please

Political Debates and Christianity

[Please be advised this is not directed at anyone in the blogworld, these are simply random thoughts on an issue that disturbs me, and which I often find myself caught up in.]

I picked up a book by Ann Coulter at the Library this afternoon called Slander. The subtitle is Liberal Lies about the American Right. I find this, as with much of politics, unhelpful to clarity. The title seems a kind of whining (now, it's the kind of title that sells books, and I will say nothing of the content as I have not read the book and it may belie its title). Another point that really bothers me is the ready attribution of ill-will or malfeasance to the persons on the opposite side of the debate. In the heat of battle everyone is prone to make stupid, insensitive remarks. Such remarks reflect momentary exasperation, not the fullness of the worldview of the person in the debate. Liberals are not generally stupid people, nor are conservatives. So too very few people wish actually ill on others. Sometimes we may be unaware of the implications of some of the views we hold. And sometimes you can hold a very bad opinion for a very good reason. One might believe that the right to choose helps to alleviate some of the suffering in the world. I would counter that it adds to that suffering, but I must understand that the focus of the person I am in debate with is quite different from my own as they make their statements, and I need to shift my focus to be where they are. I am focusing on the life within, the voice for the voiceless. The person making the statement is focusing on the suffering readily visible to him or her. I need to bring my focus back out and point out that we all suffer to a greater or lesser extent. Better then to suffer momentarily the pangs of whatever burden then to suffer continually the pangs of the guilt you will bear if you were to terminate a pregnancy. Here I see both parties taking their views from a need to support and encourage others. The person in favor of abortion has bought a societal lie that it is consequence-free and conscience-free.

When we debate, on the web or in person, the first step we should take is to recall that the opponent, no matter how incorrect his or her views are from our perspective, holds those views with an intensity and a sincerity with which we hold our own. Rather than allow the debate to degenerate into a long list of epithets and a series of ad hominem expostulations, consider the words said carefully and respond to the words and the argument, not to the tone, not to the meaning that WE attribute to the words, but which may never have been intended. As Christians, we need to be "as wise as serpents and as harmless as doves." Our words need to be words of light and love. Rather than engaging in forthright battle, enter by the straight gate and the narrow way. Such an approach to a position is far more likely to bring light than heat and our duty is to be the light of the world--not its fireplace.

A Marvelous View Direct linking

A Marvelous View

Direct linking not working for some reason today, so hie thee to Dylans' Blog, and seek there an entry of this title for today's date-- "The Formidable Fifty-Seventh chapter of Isaiah." I think you will find much there to cogitate upon.

The Mood of the Day

The Mood of the Day

This says it all. Says it better with music, but the words are mostly there.

Linger Cranberries If you, if you could return, Don't let it burn, Don't let it fade. I'm sure I'm not being rude, But it's just your attitude. It's tearing me apart, it's ruining ev'rything. I swore, I swore I would be true And honey, so did you. So, why were you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand? Were you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you? But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger,ah ,ha, ha. Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, Do you have to, Do you have to let it linger? Oh, I thought the world of you. I thought that nothing could go wrong, But I was wrong. I was wrong. If you, if you could get by Trying not to lie, Things wouldn't be so confused And I wouldn't feel so used, But you always really knew I just wanna be with you. But I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha. Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, Do you have to, Do you have to let it linger? Oh, I thought the world of you. I thought that nothing could go wrong, But I was wrong. I was wrong. And I'm in so deep. You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha. Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, Do you have to, Do you have to let it linger? You know I'm such a fool for you. You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha. Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, Do you have to, Do you have to let it linger?

For Science Fiction Fans This

For Science Fiction Fans

This news from Instapundit. I got it via the forum at Blackmask

After being sworn to secrecy, I have just been permitted to release this information. One of the seminal authors of our field, Andre Norton, is gravely ill. She was admitted to the hospital last Monday for surgery, and is still there. More to the point, her spirits have sunk to a life-threatening low. She needs to know just how highly regarded she is in our community, and she needs to know now.

"We" are keeping the location of the hospital and room "secret", because she cannot have visitors and we don't want to overwhelm her with autograph-hounds when she needs to be getting stronger, not being disturbed---this is already a problem as word of her illness has percolated into the local community in Tennessee. The hospital in question will deny that she is there.

Please send cards and letters to:

Andre Norton
114 Eventide Drive
Murfreesboro TN 37130

If you wish to send flowers, you may also send them to this address, but direct the florist to leave them on the porch if no one is home. Andre's two friends who are caring for her will make sure they are brought to her, but they are spending most of the time at the hospital, and so may not be there. (If this gets to be a problem, arrangements will be made for frequent pick-up!) Please do not send food, as she is on a liquids-only diet.

You may send e-cards to:

Andre Norton
E-mail Address:
highhallack@mindspring.com

Again, her friends will make sure she gets to see them.

Those of us of a certain age cut our teeth on Andre Norton in entering the world of Science Fiction. Here's your chance to return something for the joy that she gave us. As you send your greetings, send also aloft a prayer for her. Thanks.

A Continuation of the Previous

A Continuation of the Previous in which the Author Attempts To Put His Brain Back Together

Okay, so I made my initial point about Chesterton--we are not temperamentally suited for one another. I do not share his enthusiasms and he would laugh at mine.

However, I was reading Pearce's biography this morning and reflecting on Chesterton's near-worship of Dickens. This led me to think about Dickens-related things, and ultimately to Sir Carol Reed's magnificent screen musical interpretation of Oliver Twist--Oliver!

Now, this movie brings back any number of memories for me. The first being seeing it when it first came out as part of a summer camp experience. I don't know that we were able to stay for the entire film because the councilors quit work at a certain time, and the film is somewhat long, but I do recall hearing and liking a couple of the songs. Relevant to my thoughts now are two of these. If you have not seen Oliver! do yourself a favor and seek it out. The portrayal of Fagin is not nearly so overtly anti-Semitic as I recall (perhaps quite unfairly) Dickens being. What I recall of reading Oliver Twist is that Fagin was much reviled as a dirty "Jew." But that could have been the influence of my teachers, so please don't take this at face value, only as a vague and distasteful recollection.

The two relevant songs are quite wonderful--"Where is Love?" and "As Long As He Needs Me." Now, I think if I were doing another (Heaven forbid) Sister Act, I might consider these two songs for treatment. Oliver sings, "Where is Love?" I would have to review the movie to relate the circumstances, but given the plaintive sound, I suspect that it was in quite forlorn circumstances. But sometimes I ask myself, "Where is Love?" Where is the love we are supposed to show to one another? Did I do so today? I can tell you that I didn't fail as mightily as I did yesterday, and yet, I doubt I have done nearly what was set out for me to do. It is my hope that anyone who came within my circle of influence would never have cause to sing this song, that they would know that Love was wherever I was. Today that is not true. But I know that is what I am called to. There is no doubt, we are all called to be saints, and to be saints we are all to be exemplars of God's caring compassion not just when we give a thought to it, but all the time.

The second song, is lovelier taken out of context. Within in context it is one of those songs that makes me cringe because it is sung by Nancy just after she's been beaten by Bill Sykes and seems to diminish his culpability in the abuse he has rained upon her. The result is a song in which while she doesn't quite justify her abuse, she resolves to remain within the abusive situation because her love can change it. Ultimately, that proves not to be true, and in a truly heroic act of love she. . . well--watch the movie. Anyway, her love cannot change Bill Sykes, nor can the human expression of love we show to one another truly change anyone because our love is needy, we need something back from it. Our promise of love, as much as we would like it to be pure, comes with all manner of strings attached. If we are not treated in the way that we feel we ought to be, we become hurt and withdrawn. However, "As Long As He Needs Me" is true if the love we are showing is God's love. If we are in a difficult relationship or situation (but not one that ends in abuse or harm to one or other person) and we determine to stay there because we are called to loyalty to our vows, or out of true God-given love, the love of Christ may change that situation. I think of Elizabeth LeSeur, who all her life lived with an atheist husband, loving him as a wife should love a husband, praying constantly for his conversion. After her death her husband became a priest. This is the kind of love that transforms. If our love becomes detached from earthly expectations and serves only our Heavenly Father's will, that love becomes transformative. So Nancy's forlorn hope becomes the promise fulfilled for those who love and pray with God's love. We need not stand by and be used and abused by those we love, but we must always love them with the passionate love of Jesus Christ on the cross. We must stand ready to help those we love to salvation, sometimes at great personal cost. In fact, we must stand ready to help those we don't particularly care for with the same sense of sacrifice. That is the country of saintliness.

A Curious Reflection I've been

A Curious Reflection

I've been reading Chesterton's Heretics this week and enjoying it in an offhand fashion. I will continue to say that I do not care for the man's style, I find him homey to the point of hokey and sometimes just overmuch. In the "Kipling" chapter of Heretics, Chesterton tries my patience with a long digression on the poetics of the name of Smith, and how it is the most poetic of names, hearkening back to the days of yore etc. etc. etc. Some may be charmed by these proses excurses--I bear with them in hopes that the point being made is worthy of the trip. Most of the time I think it would be better made in a simpler phrase. So that just says I don't like Chesterton's style and I doubt that I will ever grow to like it. This is not to discourage others with sensibilities different from my own, but simply to make clear that Chesterton is a hard row for me to hoe--I prefer R.H. Benson, Ronald Knox, and other contemporaries writing in a similar vein. I far prefer C.S. Lewis, for example. But, taking Chesterton with what I perceive as limitations and all, he is still more readable than the most readable of the slick writers today and a lot more entertaining than the vast majority of the "literary" writers today. Five minutes spent with Chesterton is worth all the Sebold and Franzen you can pack in around the clock.

One Heckuva a Week Once

One Heckuva a Week

Once again late in blogging, and there won't be much this evening I fear. I am exhausted with the trials and joys of the week. Two episodes of car trouble, an election, a crisis and a full day meeting at work, and additional tasks relating to annual review made for a very packed week. So packed that I didn't make it to daily Mass once, and boy can I tell it from my energy level. I keep it at the top of the priority list, but this week was simply impossible. Oh well, God gives us these weeks sometimes, so I rejoice in the gift and move on, thanking Him for seeing me through. His Grace is irresistable, His Love infinite. I love you, Lord, my strength.

From the Blogmaster at Quenta

From the Blogmaster at Quenta Nârwenion

Okay, this was pretty cool It's one of my favorite colors and I've no idea what the others languages might be. Didn't even experiment after I got this, I liked it so much.

what foreign language are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Les Chants de Maldoror Call

Les Chants de Maldoror

Call this the Eraserhead of the turn of the century. Called variously decadent and surreal, Maldoror is a book-length prose poem by Isidor Ducasse, the self-styled Comte de Lautreamont, that has some of the most disturbing images in modern literature. Note, for example, that this site chooses as illustration Goya's Saturn Devouring His ChildrenMoreover, on more than infrequent occasions it makes no syntactical sense. All of that said, I wonder what it translates to in Spanish. Here's your chance to find out. Next Mr. Gonzalez will perhaps regale us with the Spanish version of Finnegan's Wake. I am given to understand that the person who undertook to translate Joyce's last work into Greek had a nervous breakdown and died shortly thereafter. But that could be anecdotal.

Poetry From a Rag-Tag Burnt Out Butt-End of a Day

I'll share with you as a précis of the day, one long observation of people meeting.

Closed Meeting
Two Haikus and Two Quatrains on Eternity
I
The buzzing of these human bees
rapidly threatens to deafen me.

II
Round and round and round
and round and round and round and round
it starts out being just like words
and ends up merely sound

III
I have learned my great
ideas are made of air.
I shall swallow them.

IV
Do these vibrations try the air
the way they try my ear?
Thank God they go, I don't know where,
just anywhere but here.

© 2002, Steven Riddle

Sheer unadulterated doggerel. But hey at least it's unadulterated.

The Poetry of Nature

I know Gilbert White more from his pioneering studies of what we would today call ecology. He worked in the eighteenth century and wrote a number of works about wildlife near his native Selbourne. He also happened to be an ordained, but non-practicing minister. Despite its unflinching metrical regularity (blame Dryden and Pope) this poem is quite nice in its evocation of some of the rhythms and sights of a summer night in the 18th century.

The Naturalist's Summer Evening Walk
Gilbert White
 
equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis
Ingenium. Virgil

WHEN day declining sheds a milder gleam,
What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream;
When the still owl skims round the grassy mead,
What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed;
Then be the time to steal adown the vale,
And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale;
To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate,
Or the soft quail his tender pain relate;
To see the swallow sweep the dark'ning plain
Belated, to support her infant train;
To mark the swift in rapid giddy ring
Dash round the steeple, unsubdu'd of wing:
Amusive birds!- say where your hid retreat
When the frost rages and the tempests beat;
Whence your return, by such nice instinct led
When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head?
Such baffled searches mock man's prying pride,
The God of Nature is your secret guide!

While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day,
To yonder bench leaf-shelter'd let us stray,
Till blended objects fail the swimming sight,
And all the facing landscape sinks in night;
To hear the drowsy beetle come brushing by
With buzzing wing, or the shrill cricket cry;
To see the feeding bat glance through the wood;
To catch the distant falling of the flood;
While o'er the cliff th'awaken'd churn-owl hung
Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song;
While high in air, and pois'd upon his wings,
Unseen, the soft enamour'd woodlark sings:
These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ,
Inspire a soothing melancholy joy:
As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain
Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein!

Each rural sight, each sound, each smell, combine;
The tinkling sheep-bell, or the breath of kine;
The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze,
Or cottage-chimney smoking through the trees.
The chilling night-dews fall:--away, retire;
For see, the glow-worm lights her amorous fire!
Thus, e'er night's veil had half obscur'd the sky,
Th'impatient damsel hung her lamp on high:
True to the signal, by love's meteor led,
Leander hasten'd to his Hero's bed.

For Those Inclined to too

For Those Inclined to too Much Reason

This is a nice poem particularly for those too bound to their own notions of what constitutes acceptable data in the argument for or against religion. Really a bit of doggerel, but it makes the point amusingly and lightly.

The Positivists Edward James Mortimer Collins   Life and the Universe show Spontaneity; Down with ridiculous notions of Deity! Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists; Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,
Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison;
Who will adventure to enter the lists,
With such a squadron of Positivists?

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages;
Cause of all crime is our system of marriages;
Poets with sonnets, and lovers with trysts,
Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community,
Exquisite freedom with absolute unity;
Wedding rings worse are then manacled wrists,
Then he was a MAN - and a Positivist.

If you are pious, (mild form of insanity,)
Bow down and worship the mass of humanity,
Other religions are buried in mists;
We're our own gods, say the Positivists.

Just as a side note, the Huxley mentioned here is T.H. Huxley, relative in some fashion or another of the quasi-mystical Aldous Huxley (who, along with C.S. Lewis had the misfortune to die on the day of the Kennedy Assassination).

Praise and Thanksgiving My dear

Praise and Thanksgiving

My dear friends in California have written me to thank everyone who has been praying for them. After a particularly trying time, they have come to a decision that will be the best for their family at this time. I'm sure my friends will not mind if I share from their message:

Please post a note on your blogsite thanking people for their prayerful support. Our agonising time of decision making is over. . . . We are most grateful to your blogfriends for their help. It was much needed.

Thanks to everyone who helped in this prayer endeavor. And please don't forget these friends, move their needs to a back burner, but as with every such decision, there will be details to deal with and accommodations to make, and perhaps a future set of decisions to make. Please continue to pray for them as I know they do for all of us.

The Conscience of America

After our initial surprise/joy fades, we would do well to remember that we are the conscience of America. While we elect our politicians with the hope that they will do at least some part of what they have promised us, politics is the art of compromise without looking like you're compromising. Most politicians don't seem to start with well-formed consciences anyway (I point to Ms. Granholm as an example; she might in all sincerity cling to her barbaric and ruthless beliefs, but surely that should be a signal that something is malformed in the conscience.) Many of our supposedly Catholic politicians and leaders seem to have little or no conscience or deep understanding of what the Church teaches and what it means. I was shocked when even Antonin Scalia--a supposedly well-informed, faithful Catholic announced his particular brand of cafeteria Catholicism (if it doesn't look traditional enough to me, I'll reject it.)

We must serve as the consciences of these men and women. Voting is the beginning of communication, but it becomes more and more imperative to continue to keep those lines of communication open. We must communicate and pray. The window is open for a very brief period. Everyone seems focused on things other than the issues most of us voted on. It is time to temporarily redirect their attentions to these issues and to get at least some minor relief in place for the unborn. We cannot rely upon the politicians to remember everything they have told us--the pressures of political life are such that it is nearly impossible. And so through our prayers and our letters, we need to remind them.

A suggestion--get a Mass Card from your favorite Church, Cathedral, or Society, and send it to your representative and/or Senator with a note that indicates that you are praying for them daily. Let them know that part of the electorate (a larger part than will be represented by Mass Cards) is truly Christian and truly concerned about both what is going on in Washington and the people themselves. Politics must be a lonely, ruthless, unpleasant business. People do not seem to be particularly happy--but then addicts generally are not. Most politicians are addicts to the power they have received. Sending them a note that encourages them and lets them know that we are thinking about them in something other than wholly negative terms will be a boost. More, it will keep the issues we are concerned with in their minds.

I suggest a Mass Card because it is something within our tradition that both supports our institutions and offers real help for those to whom we give them. But if it seems inappropriate--if your representative is Jewish or Christian of some other variety, buy a specifically religious greeting card that without apology invokes the name of God and send it. Send several in the course of the year. Let our representatives know from whence come our marching orders.

Perhaps we have too long been asleep. Perhaps it is time to be less apologetic (in both senses of the word) about our faith and more demonstrative of it. The best argument against an Evangelical or Fundamentalist who is seeking to convert Catholics is a life of exemplary faith. Even the most Evangelical or Fundamentalist among us would be hard-pressed to say something bad about Mother Teresa. We, that is all of us Christians, are the light of the world, and sometimes I think we've grown very used to the bushel basket secular society asks us to remain within. Now it is time to break out and to express ourselves not in political terms, but in overtly religious terms. The most important part of this expression is to let the person with whom we communicate know that they are loved, prayed for, and cared for by the God who loves us all. We must function as the well-formed conscience of the nation--we must not simply sit back and complain or make commentary, we must pray, pray, pray and let those in Washington know we are praying. Such an outpouring of prayer will certainly call down the Holy Spirit to convict a few who need conviction and to give courage to a few who need to move forward with the torch.

A Small Delight from X.J.

A Small Delight from X.J. Kennedy

A favorite poet of mine gets it just right:

Nothing in Heaven Functions as It Ought X. J. Kennedy

Nothing in Heaven functions as it ought:
Peter's bifocals, blindly sat on, crack;
His gates lurch wide with the cackle of a cock,
Not turn with a hush of gold as Milton had thought;
Gangs of the slaughtered innocents keep huffing
The nimbus off the Venerable Bede
Like that of an old dandelion gone to seed;
And the beatific choir keep breaking up, coughing.

But Hell, sleek Hell, hath no freewheeling part:
None takes his own sweet time, none quickens pace.
Ask anyone, "How come you here, poor heart?"—
And he will slot a quarter through his face.
You'll hear an instant click, a tear will start
Imprinted with an abstract of his case.

Founding Fathers Again I've been

Founding Fathers Again

I've been about looking, and I've seen a few Adamses (my choice, but unfortunately not my personality, but we're a perfect match--After all Jefferson and Adams shared a very long friendship after they got over their snit.) They were so close that the good Lord took them both to Him on the same day (July 4, 1826). Remarkable.

There are more than a few Hamiltons. (I am a borderline Hamilton, only toppled over into the Jefferson category when I was so thoroughly chagrined at being likened to the arrogant little illegitimatum (literally)). Usurping power, consorting with the enemy and undermining American foreign policy. It's hardly a wonder that he got himself shot. (In case you can't tell, I'm not a Hamilton Partisan. In fact, I'm about as far away as possible--identifying myself as that mysteriously transmorgrified "Federalist"--which today means what "Democratic-Republican" meant at the time of Jefferson. Now we kind of lump this bunch into libertarian, which isn't entirely accurate. I prefer my rule a bit closer to home.

Jefferson is no great shakes in my estimation either. A man arrogant enough to refuse to free his slaves either before or after death because it would be an injustice to them to be released into the world unprepared. Give me a George Mason or a George Washington any day. Or best of all an Adams. Probably wouldn't have cared for him in person--but one can never tell, I have tremendous admiration for what I know of him as it stands.

Prayer at a Difficult Time

Prayer at a Difficult Time

In some ways, times of great joy are incredibly difficult for prayer. We are so busy rejoicing, planning, and looking ahead that we forget to give proper thanks to God. Yesterday when I was standing at the lines in the polls, I prayed the joyful mysteries of the Rosary. I don't necessarily follow the cycle of the days, and it seemed that since what was heavy on my heart was the question of children (unborn) and the need to protect these most innocent and most vulnerable of all, it seemed the joyful mysteries, focusing on Mother Mary and children as it does, were good for line-standing. I suspect many prayers were raised and God has given us a brief time of favor. More than that something else occurred in another aspect of my life that was nearly miraculous--long awaited, half-hoped for, half despaired of. Out of the blue it struck and I spent the day asking everyone I saw whether it was indeed true, whether I would return only to find that it was an elaborate and complicated joke. It was not.

Now, I need to balance this unbelief with the acknowledgment of the miracle, and I need not to exult in the event, but exult in the evidence of God's hand. More than any of this, my friend, a confirmed agnostic admitted to me that as a result of this event he actually said a prayer and may be beginning to think about eternal things. (Please pray for him.)

Prayer is so much more difficult in joy. It mustn't be gloating, it mustn't be exultation at another's failing or downfall. It mustn't be full of oneself. All prayer must push aside these material things. It must detach from the glorious gifts we have been given, and it must recenter around pure love of God. We must focus not on what has happened, but on what we are called to today. I know that I need to listen around the braying, cawing, the mourning, and spinning, and try once again to hear God rather than the innumerable pundits and commentators. God has the victory and we are His good people. We must now take our places in His loving plan.

Much to be Grateful For

Much to be Grateful For
While the election results are much to be thankful for, long, strong, ardent prayer is still in order. What needs to be done requires little political courage, but that little seems more than our people in Washington can summon. In addition, while attending to the most critical issue in some small way, I must say the results do not reflect a preferential option for the poor. Much work needs to be done, but it is work that is in the proper domain of compassionate caretakers. As good and faithful Catholics, we are called more than ever to reach out to the poor, the disenfranchised, the marginalized and make them feel more central and most of all loved. I think it is more than a coincidence that we have a year of a Rosary and an opportunity to do something about the gross injustices to the unborn. Our Lady has interceded for us once again. Those of you who have recently elected Senators, start pushing and continue pushing until Partial Birth Abortion is banned. Keep at them on the judicial nominations. Now is not the time to rest on laurels, but to move those who represent us to start representing the least of us!

Light Blogging Initially Today Sorry

Light Blogging Initially Today

Sorry folks, but a light blogging day for the first part. I'm still stunned over the events of yesterday both personal and national. Stunned in a good-I-can't-really-believe-this-is-happening sort of way, but stunned, nearly to silence. God is incredibly, wonderfully good and merciful.

Founding Father's Quiz Found

Founding Father's Quiz

Found it at Vita Brevis who had it from Eve Tushnet. Came out an Alexander Hamilton, which I couldn't stand for reasons I need not go into, went back and changed an answer to something more accurate anyway, and came up with T.J. over whom I am quite conflicted. I don't think I can quite get over his actions in the Aaron Burr trial, and I think he and Adams were boneheads when it came to their friendship. Would have preferred John Adams whom I sincerely and deeply admire if only for the way he loved his wife. Truly one of the great men of history.

Which Founding Father Are You?

Schadenfreude Something has occurred that

Schadenfreude

Something has occurred that makes this a temptation. Please pray for me that I do not fall victim to it. Thank you.

Fr. Walter Farrell, O. P.

Fr. Walter Farrell, O. P.

I mentioned Father Farrell in the previous post. I am delighted to report that many works are available online. For those daunted by an encounter with the Summa alone, you might wish to peruse the magnificent Companion to the Summa available online here.

Farrell wrote a good deal more and he wrote quite well.

The first lines of a lengthy, prophetic essay follow. For the entire essay see this.

No Place for Rain

By Fr. Walter Farrell, O.P.

The western world has nearly come to the conclusion that hell is probably unpleasant. At least the previews of the last fifteen years have shaken us out of a smug dismissal of the possibilities of hell.

Enjoy these wonderful gifts from our Domincan brethren.

Great Link for Catholic Books

Great Link for Catholic Books

Found this great link via a little meditation blog called "the journey". PCP stands for "Preserving Christian Publications," and the site is an on-line catalog of out-of-print Catholic Books. Take a look! I remember that one of the local convents in Columbus was closing and the Regnum Christi bookstore bought their stock. I was able to get the wonder Farrell commentary on Thomas Aquinas for something like $6.00 a book. So, sometimes used books are a major bargain.

The King is Dead!

The King is Dead! Long Live the King!

Conscience is King!. Yep! If my conscience tells me to do it, I must. Yep. If my conscience tells me that saving three bunnies in a shampoo factory lab (by the way, a horrible travesty of research) is worth the annihilation of property and the slaughter of a few measly human beings, so what? I must follow conscience. In a PoMo world, conscience is sometimes not the best of guides. When consciences are formed with relativism and metheism at the base, the ultimate product could make Jeffrey Dahmer look like a humanitarian.

This note (link found on Jeff Miller's blog) helps to sort out some of the confusion.

In other words, if not checked by truth, the individual conscience tends toward error. How can we avoid following a flawed conscience? The Church affirms there's one sure way: to correctly form one's conscience. To form a good conscience, the Church proposes a few practical means. The first is the acceptance and practice of Catholic moral teaching as taught by the magisterium of the Church. Every Catholic has a serious obligation to know the Church's moral teaching in order to form good conscience. Next we need to strengthen our knowledge of the moral truth with prayer and mediation. Prayer enlightens the dictates of our conscience and directs us toward God, the source of all truth. To form a conscience that conforms with God's will, we need to examine our conscience frequently in light of Christian morality. This is the best way to prepare for the fruitful reception of sacramental confession.

I am often appalled at having to vote the way I do. I cannot countenance the vast majority of what politicians do. I do my best to remain overtly apolitical and to espouse in non-political terms what I desire from my representatives--a preferential option for the poor, proper stewardship of Earthly resources, justice for the disenfranchised (particularly the most disenfranchised at all) and so on. The only way that our politicians will hear us is if we stop talking politics and start talking the truth--straight from the shoulder in complete candor and honesty. And these truths should not be couched in the minispeak of PoMo advocates, but in the eternal verities that come from faith in Jesus Christ. These truths are relative to nothing--they are absolutes, and we should not be ashamed to espouse them because they are written on the heart and in the minds of all believing Christians. The Holy Spirit burns them into us with His annealing flame.

The Important Stuff Floridians Need

The Important Stuff Floridians Need to Amend Their Constitution For

Apparently the legislature in Florida doesn't DO anything--which, as legislatures go is not all that bad. As a result every issue that comes up needs a constitutional amendment. We had ten on the ballot this morning. Some of them seemed legitimate, constitutional concerns--death penalty rulings, among other things. However, the one that really just about knocked me flat when I got the sample ballot and again when voting this morning was the amendment to prevent the inhumane confinement of pigs during pregnancy. Isn't this something the legislature could do or decide? We need a constitutional amendment for this? I never fail to be stunned by politics and political games.

On the plus side--I was able to vote against retaining two of the idiotic Supreme Court Judges who foisted off on the American Public the travesty of a political decision disguised as a legal ruling in 2000. I don't suppose it will do any good, as most people won't remember that far back, but it was a brief moment of triumph for me.

Get out and Vote! And vote as pro-life as you can. I know in some states it's nearly impossible, but there's almost always a lesser of two evils, and we should do what we can to keep diminishing the evil.

A Blog I Must Bring

A Blog I Must Bring to Your Attention

There are many fine blogs in my list. All of them, exquisite for one reason or another. But among the very finest in both the observation and the recording of observation must be Notes from Pure Land Mountain. I haven't been listening in long but when I do I hear the sounds of things that I very much like. Not Catholic, but filled with a grandeur and a sensibility that reflects the fine hand of the creator. If you have some time, spend a few moments with this inveterate, contemplative gardener, you will be glad you did.

On Poetry (part 9,847,715,235.1)

My friend Tom Abbott gives me much cause to rethink old thoughts about poetry and to examine them closely. Commenting on his blog, which today features the wonderful "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost, I had this to say of it.

So--surely what you read here seems valid, [a poem about death and eternity] but I would point you toward other indications in the poem--indications of something hidden--"Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though; he will not see me stopping here. . ." why is this important? (By the way, it isn't as though I have some secret answer you have to guess, I'm just asking you why in your schema or understanding this might be important.)

Another indication is at the end of the poem, "The woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and mmiles to go before I sleep. . ." A suggestion of a desire to abandon all for an unseen something--a possible recommitment.

Work with some of those suggestive ambiguities and add it to what you already have--you'll find all sorts of new things springing out of a familiar work.

Poetry works on productive ambiguity, it gives rise to great meaning through little things. Watch the little signposts of the words and be prepared to account for each one. For poetry, like the cautious Christian is ultimately called to account for every word.

End original post and now this addendum. And that is why the PoMo and the deliberately vague commit such a sin against the art. Poetry is the most tightly packed of all the literary arts. It is called upon to attain a precision and concision not demanded of any other written art form. Think about it--it's difficult to write a coherent, deeply meaningful sentence of only seventeen syllables, and yet there are entire schools of poetry devoted to this very compact poetic form. In poetry there is no room for fat everything is lean, lithe, and has the tensile strength of carbon monofilament. And so, when it does not. . . let's just say, I am disappointed, the artist has done less than what is called for.

Today's Poem of Choice On

Today's Poem of Choice

On the google search line, the poem of choice for today is Robert Frost's magnificent sonnet, "The Silken Tent." Those of you looking, I do not post paraphrases. A paraphrase of a poem is not an assist to understanding, it is a bowdlerization of a work of art. You don't need someone to interpret Michelangelo's "David", Leonardo's "Last Supper", or David's "Spirit of Liberty." So too, rely on your own reading and understanding. It is correct, it cannot be otherwise because a poem is universal because it speaks to each person where he or she is. Yes, you can extract some pre-existant "meaning" trying to divine "authorial intent." But that puts such strict limits on the poem. No paraphrase will help, nor will any commentary truly assist. Trust your own instincts--you'll learn a whole lot more that way.

Voting Pro-Life? Perhaps not, according

Voting Pro-Life?

Perhaps not, according to Judy Brown. In this splendid discussion Mr. Miller of De Virtutibus analyzes some of the positions and statements of Ms. Brown with respect to pro-life voting. A must-read. Thank you, Mr. Miller.

Apologies Something went wrong the

Apologies

Something went wrong the other night and I must have damaged my template. There is some garbled stuff there that I am weeding out. As a result links to Ms. Lively's site, Minute Particulars, One Pilgrim's Walk, and Quenta Nârwenion vanished temporarily. Perhaps other have also died and are mouldering in the underbrush. As I do my visit routine, I will try to restore these. My apologies to the blogmasters. These four, at least, have been restored.

Poetry Considered Again

Dylan commented with respect to another post on poetry here:

I should have said in my notes on the epic, that whether the work is traditional (narrative, Prelude-like) or a sequence of smaller moments (Berryman's Dream Songs; Lowell's Notebook), or radically fragmented like the Waste Land -- the ultimate test is that highly subjective, almost romantic : Does the writer entice us, does he or she involve us, seduce the reader & bring the reader into the poet's particular vision? I'm more tolerant of experiment than most, I'd say, but it has to be experiment that brings me in somehow.

There's a quotation of Dickinson's, don't know from whence : If it takes the top of my head off, and knocks me over, I know it's poetry. Seems as good a test as any. Also : Do we return to it, year after year (Hamlet!), do we see new things in it with each reading?

There is much here to ponder. I think the first paragraph actually encompasses my definition of poetry. Poetry is a very, very deep, very still lake. You can admire the surface, see the water, the trees reflected in it, the clouds and the mountains passing by--you can take your boat out in it and get a gander at the shore from the middle of the lake. You can choose to put on your snorkel and plumb the depths to see what treasures may lie there. Perhaps you will discover the next Loch-Ness monster. What bothers me about much of the PoMo and even many of the modernist schools is that rather than a lake, they have made poetry a Sargasso. The water is glassy still and deep, and if you decide to jump into it to explore for treasure you will be mired and ultimately drowned by Sargassum a tangled mass of thick seaweed. More, you are likely to be stranded there forever in the doldrums, no longer reading poetry because poetry promises only depths you cannot plumb and a surface that is all too familiar.

I am relatively intolerant of experiment in poetry. Thanks to the things Dylan posts and writes I am becoming somewhat more accustomed to these things and rather than regarding them as similar to the execrations (or excretions) of modern "artists" who cannot draw a straight line with a ruler, I am coming to see them more as the expressionism and abstract renderings of a Picasso who is very deliberately breaking long-established rules to achieve a certain effect. This is successful experimentation. Even when such fails, it provides an interesting study. What is problematic to me isn't disjunctions, jumblings, and typographical anomalies, it is raw pretension. I am most disturbed by the casual toxic dumping of references to things the ordinary reader is unlikely to encounter or understand. Now, to give Eliot some credit, he did provide footnotes to The Wasteland that help with this. However, I studied poetry with an exceedingly fine teacher (not, in my estimation a great poet) who based much of his poetry on a character in an obscure novel by Djuna Barnes, and so all of the references centered around an intimate knowledge of Nightwood. Whatever you may think of the book, poetry that requires this degree of knowledge simply to begin to approach it is, for the most part, utterly useless.

Now, one shouldn't dumb-down one's poetry. Billy Collins is the prime example of a poet who writes one step above Rod McKuen and intends everyone to have access. I do not think there are any mermaids singing in his work. The middle ground between these two, to my mind, is where poetry belongs. There should be something that engages and drags the reader in--either rhythm, rhyme, or imagery (preferably all three) and once there, the poem should present enough fresh and interesting material to invite the reader to stay and "look around." For example, Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale" has wonderful language, rhythm and imagery, and a compelling subsurface look at those languorous, perhaps even melancholy moments when one cannot be dragged from the prison of self.

I rail against poets who feel they must show the reader how much more erudite, how much more knowledgeable, how much more profound their thought than that of anyone else. A poet thinks much as everyone else does, deeply or shallowly. The difference, I think, lies in how the poet sees and hears the world. And it is the exposition of this difference that enables others to see and hear differently. If we fail in that (as poets) then we have done a disservice to our art and our audience.

As to the second paragraph. Right on. Nothing more need be said. It is one of the reasons that I love Finnegan's Wake the sense of joy and of sheer play are overwhelming. Yes, it is difficult stuff to read--but the delight in reading it well compensates for any of the difficulty. Not true for many great "poets." As Dylan has noted, and I concur, plodding through the tedium of The Triumph of Life (about purgatory and a purgatory in itself) provides no new insights into what language can do, it provides precious little insight into the life of the poet, and its phrases drum dully and yet painfully--rain on a tin-roof for those who know what that sounds like, into the drain, suggesting that any attempt to read poetry is a futile, time-wasting endeavor. In fact, poetry lies at the base of language--its tropes, its rhythms, its means of expression enrich even our daily speech, sometimes without our awareness. Metaphor, simile, onomatopoeia, all the tools of the trade that have readily entered the language because up until recently nearly everyone had a certain poetic consciousness. Now, I suppose we have a poetic unconsciousness or perhaps a bouquet of black roses--a deadness and an unseemly softness about the body that makes one queasy.

And perhaps the greatest tragedy of this, is that by alienating so many from the richness of the language, we have lost some of the power to speak of the magnificence of God. Our metaphors, our similes, our expressions need from age to age a freshening. The moribund nature of poetry has given us our NABs and other atrocious, tone-deaf, word-deaf translations of the Bible. They are the product of an age that has no ear because that ear has been drummed out of them with the arcane, the deliberately obscure, the ploddingly, deadly dull.

Some Decisions to Make

Some Decisions to Make

I'm finding that more and more visitors are making their way to my site via arcane searches on Google. Apparently an entire generation of college students is terrified to read a poem for themselves and try to come to terms with what it is saying to them. I get two or three dozen searches a day for paraphrases for certain poems: Orlando Gibbon, Holy Sonnet XIV, Anne Bradstreet, and Edward Taylor among them. But as I do not now, nor will I ever, have intention of paraphrasing (unless the original is in say the Kentish dialect) this is wasted time for these poor searches. I am certain they arrive at the site and are merely frustrated by the deluge of material produced each week. This is not the problem. The problem is one noted by a great many bloggers already, and that is I am hypnotized by statistics. Unlike others, it is not a matter of concern about how many people are visiting--although that is interesting. I spend far too much time trying to determine if there are patterns in the numbers--does a week start slow and build, why are there anomalous days in which I get twenty-to-thirty percent higher numbers, is the change in visit correlatable to any other phenomenon (for example, I note that each time the name order in Mr. Seraphin's list changes, so too does the number of hits for about two days afterwards, usually going up). I love numbers, I love the patterns of numbers, and I love the analysis of data. But it is taking too much time away from actually blogging and actually thinking about what to say, when to say it. Worse, it is taking time away from poetry and it is giving me something to think about other than my literary output--which should be my chief concern. I want many to be able to read my poetry, and as outlined yesterday, I want my poetry to be a vehicle for evangelization, apologetics, and simple enjoyment. This takes a great deal more craft and thought than has recently been given over to thinking and writing. So perhaps I would do well simply to remove my stats.

On the other hand, it is by my stats that I have stumbled into some wonderful places. A great many people who visit do not leave comments, but they have their own wonderful sites which I would be unaware of had I not checked stats. So maybe what I'll do is to ask any new visitor who has their own blog to leave a comment somewhere so I can place a return visit. I am nearly always edified, and often tremendously pleased at the wonderful things that I find.

The blogworld is an interesting place. The quality of writing is not even from place to place, but each place that I go, I get to meet someone new and learn as much as they are willing to tell me. That is an exciting, interesting, and fascinating activity. Everyone that I read consistently, and nearly everyone that I do not, has interesting things to say even if they are not profound reflections on the nature of poetry. The sites I have the least patience with are those they tell me little of their owners and offer for me tidbits from the news with a line or two telling me why I should read it. These are mercifully few. Those that I like best are from ordinary people who have offered to share interesting aspects of their lives--ordinary fathers, mothers, family members, home-schooling moms (as we are about to decide what to do with our 4-year-old, these are particularly interesting right now), religious, clergy--there are so many different people and so many different ways of knowing the world. I am increased when I can come to terms with a new way of perception, a new mode of understanding the world. I am diminished when I refuse to make the effort. As my blog is primarily to help me figure out the road of prayer, I prefer to associate with those with whom I have the greatest religious affinities. I also prefer to stay to quiet places that are not trying to cater to everyone, but have a very clear audience in mind.

Enough baring of the soul. Basically, I am torturing myself over keeping or dumping the site statistics. If anyone has any opinions considering what they have read here or reflecting on their own experience in this matter, I would be deeply appreciative if you would share it. It may go a long way to helping me decide. Is your life and feeling about blogging better after dumping the stats? Was it a dreadful, serious mistake? Are you thinking about dumping them as well? Are you obsessed with numbers and patterns? Whatever, I'd just like to hear any reaction, favorable or unfavorable as I consider this.

(Being a geologist by training, you may rest assured that along with nearly any other decision I make, this too shall be made in geologic time. Or as Andrew Marvell would have it, "vaster than empires and more slow." See, another argument for the delectation of poetry--it becomes part of your day-to-day vocabulary and you can thoroughly confuse people with whom you do not wish to converse anyway.)

A Prayer Before Blogging

A Prayer Before Blogging

Ms Kropp at More Like Mary, Less Like Martha presents this wonderful prayer:

ALMIGHTY and eternal God, who hast created us in Thy image and bade us to seek after all that is good, true and beautiful, especially in the divine person of Thy only-begotten Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, grant we beseech Thee that, through the intercession of Saint Isidore, bishop and doctor, during our journeys through the internet, we will direct our hands and eyes only to that which is pleasing to Thee and treat with charity and patience all those souls whom we encounter. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

See her site for details and access to the Latin Version.

Literature as Evangelism

I have thought about this a long time. I have thought about it since the time that Gerard Manley Hopkins convinced me that Catholicism was the way to go. I don't recall precisely how it happened. What I remember is reading Hopkins in a Seminar on Victorian Poetry (taught by one of my most enthusiastic professors). Somehow a discussion evolved, or I read in an introduction to Hopkins that he believed in something called "The Real Presence." Now, I had slim to no notion of what this was, but the notion attracted me, and if the idea gave rise to the glorious poetry I was reading, then perhaps there was some validity to it, perhaps it warranted further investigation. Thus, through the work of Hopkins, and C.S. Lewis, I found my way back to the church of my youth (Southern Baptist), and from there to the Catholic Church.

Dubay makes a powerful argument in favor of beauty as evidence of God in the universe (The Evidential Power of Beauty) and the Holy Father is convinced that Artists, and by that I am certain that he means Artists in the broadest sense of the word, have a great deal to contribute both to the support of the faithful and to the evangelization of the unbeliever.

What then must be the essential ingredients of any work that might help people come to God. First and foremost, I would think, integrity--a grass-roots, at-the-bottom, fundamental commitment to telling the truth as you see it, even if that truth seems to run counter to God. For example, though Wallace Stevens spent much of his life as a professed Atheist, I think much of his poetry deals with the question of the existence of God, and by stating his case honestly, one sees hidden within the poetry the opposite case as well. Some have argued that "Sunday Morning" is the great atheistic paean. And yet the poetry is, as one would say, "Christ-Haunted." One gets the impression that "methinks the artist dost protest too much." That he struggles mightily to make his point only to fall back on ambiguity and uncertainty that ring with a certain theistic tone. The "Disillusionment at 10 O'Clock" appears to be about aesthetics (another obsession of Stevens's) but it can be read to being about the drabness of the world without the Divine Imagination. So truth will out if one is as honest as he or she could possibly be.

The second quality is accessibility. Geoffrey Hill may convert a PoMo, but the man on the street will take one look and answer with "Say what?" T.S. Eliot, in "Ash Wednesday", "Preludes", and "Prufrock" gives us a certain kind of accessibility and encouragement. Hopkins too, though he is quite difficult. Accessibility means the invitation to dine, not spoon-feeding. There must be something at the surface of the poem that is fundamentally attractive and which encourages the prospective convert to read the work. But the surface must not exhaust the purpose of the poem. It can't be a sing-songy rhyme that tells about how lovely are the daffodils and tulips scattered by the saint around the feet of God. A poem like that can work, but most often it becomes a Helen Steiner Rice catalog item.

The third quality is that the work must be literature. It must be much better written than the vast majority of the novels that are being issued from the Catholic Novel Mill. I take a glance and see that the work of Bud McFarlane has actually been given at least one and perhaps two awards for Catholic Writing and I am appalled. Perhaps if the award was for piety in print I would have less objection, but McFarlane's work needs work. The sentences are as sloppy as most of what I publish on this blog. When writing a blog, a certain amount of that is allowable, but when executing a novel it is an unforgivable sin. Catholic and Christian work needs to be judged by the same standards that are applied when one looks at any work of literature. If the work does not rise to that standard, it should be neither awarded nor exalted. There is no reason that a Catholic Writer cannot consistently produce the work of say a Ron Hansen or a Jon Hassler (at a minimum) or a Flannery O'Connor, Shusaku Endo, Graham Greene, or best of all an Evelyn Waugh. We no longer truly encourage writers of this sort. We award our awards to those who can be most "Catholic" or most overtly religious--not a good way to decide any artistic merit.

This is a start at thinking about what might go into poetry as evangelism. And in this impulse, it might be possible to reignite the epic impulse that too long has lain dead. Chesterton did write both "Lepanto" and "Ballad of the White Horse." I am not particularly fond of these as poetry--a trifle overcontrolled and stuffy (Chesterton's best work is by no means his poetry. On the other hand, Belloc had some truly wonderful light verse and some really fine poetry as well.) The Epic impulse requires a single eye, an unfragmented vision. And the only way that is available in the modern world is through a denial of the modernist/postmodernist influence through a solid base in the truth of Christianity.

A Couple of Gems from "Acton, Ellis, and Currer Bell"

The names use above were pseudonyms used by Anne, Emily, and Charlotte Bronte to given their publications more substance in the eyes of a population that did not much value the contributions of women to literature--although with the advent of Jane Austen that was fast changing.

The following poem by Anne Bronte is exemplary of the work. Much of the poetry is quite fine if a bit regular and sometimes, depending on length, monotonous in rhyme.

THE DOUBTER'S PRAYER
Anne Bronte

ETERNAL Power, of earth and air!
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.

If e'er thine ear in mercy bent,
When wretched mortals cried to Thee,
And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent,
To save lost sinners such as me:

Then hear me now, while, kneeling here,
I lift to thee my heart and eye,
And all my soul ascends in prayer,
Oh, give me-give me Faith! I cry.

Without some glimmering in my heart,
I could not raise this fervent prayer;
But, oh! a stronger light impart,
And in Thy mercy fix it there.

While Faith is with me, I am blest;
It turns my darkest night to day;
But while I clasp it to my breast,
I often feel it slide away.

Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks,
To see my light of life depart;
And every fiend of Hell, methinks,
Enjoys the anguish of my heart.

What shall I do, if all my love,
My hopes, my toil, are cast away,
And if there be no God above,
To hear and bless me when I pray?

If this be vain delusion all,
If death be an eternal sleep,
And none can hear my secret call,
Or see the silent tears I weep!

Oh, help me, God! For thou alone
Canst my distracted soul relieve;
Forsake it not: it is thine own,
Though weak, yet longing to believe.

Oh, drive these cruel doubts away;
And make me know, that Thou art God!
A faith, that shines by night and day,
Will lighten every earthly load.

If I believe that Jesus died,
And, waking, rose to reign above;
Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride,
Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.

And all the blessed words He said
Will strength and holy joy impart:
A shield of safety o'er my head,
A spring of comfort in my heart.

ANTICIPATION
Emily Bronte

HOW beautiful the earth is still,
To thee-how full of happiness !
How little fraught with real ill,
Or unreal phantoms of distress !
How spring can bring thee glory, yet,
And summer win thee to forget

December's sullen time !
Why dost thou hold the treasure fast,
Of youth's delight, when youth is past,
And thou art near thy prime ?

When those who were thy own compeers,
Equals in fortune and in years,
Have seen their morning melt in tears,
To clouded, smileless day;
Blest, had they died untried and young,
Before their hearts went wandering wrong,
Poor slaves, subdued by passions strong,
A weak and helpless prey !

" Because, I hoped while they enjoyed,
And, by fulfilment, hope destroyed;
As children hope, with trustful breast,
I waited bliss-and cherished rest.
A thoughtful spirit taught me, soon,
That we must long till life be done;
That every phase of earthly joy
Must always fade, and always cloy:

This I foresaw-and would not chase
The fleeting treacheries;
But, with firm foot and tranquil face,
Held backward from that tempting race,
Gazed o'er the sands the waves efface,
To the enduring seas-

There cast my anchor of desire
Deep in unknown eternity;
Nor ever let my spirit tire,
With looking for what is to be !

It is hope's spell that glorifies,
Like youth, to my maturer eyes,
All Nature's million mysteries,
The fearful and the fair-
Hope soothes me in the griefs I know;
She lulls my pain for others' woe,
And makes me strong to undergo
What I am born to bear.

Glad comforter ! will I not brave,
Unawed, the darkness of the grave ?
Nay, smile to hear Death's billows rave-
Sustained, my guide, by thee ?
The more unjust seems present fate,
The more my spirit swells elate,
Strong, in thy strength, to anticipate
Rewarding destiny !"