Five Years

Sometimes we meet people who seem to us the bearers of an extraordinary value, unique and irresistible. I met someone like that five years ago, in a lagoon of life’s flow. From 1 to 5 August 2007, I had the pleasure of her company; afterwards I never saw her again, nor will, at least not on this earth. It is strange, and perhaps not entirely just, that we should be so permanently fascinated to people for whom our loving admiration remains untempered by knowledge and mild proximity. Yet these are windows onto a different aspect of our nature, one less easily glimpsed but more poignant.

Anyhow she has changed my life. I wrote a poem in her honour on the first of this month, but since it is still too young, I will share last year’s instead.

Goodbye to Diana

Four years ago, my new-sworn friend and I

Went separate ways; since we could not foretell

Our next rejoining, she had said ‘Farewell’

At last night’s hug and next-to-last goodbye.

I rose to sunder early in the day.

We drew together, had our photo taken,

When time drew us apart; and I, forsaken,

Called ‘See you’ as she turned and walked away.

Diana, friend, my thought has often leaned

Upon the slender column of our meeting,

And I recalled my ill-considered greeting

This year, on learning death had intervened.

Vive la France

For two weeks now, I have been on holiday in France with my family. We have made quite a tour of the country, dropping all the way down on the eastern side via Nancy, Mâcon, Le Puy-en-Velay and Narbonne, then going west within sight of the Pyrenees via Lourdes; now we have found a place in the woods of Les Landes, part of old Aquitaine. We have seen the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean in one holiday.

Lourdes was wonderful, but a bit dismaying all the same. I seem to recall a story of St. Bernadette coming back after many years and feeling sadness at how her visions had changed her hometown. The place would have been unrecognizable; it now crawls with hotels and tourist shops selling religious articles, one after the other, bigger and more conspicuous than in Rome. They do have beautiful items, though; I especially appreciated the pale statues of Our Lady with a deep purple garment.

The sanctuary itself was busy, but not as overcrowded as, say, St. Peter’s Basilica. Passing the church, I saw a round structure with many normal-looking water taps, which I couldn’t believe was Lourdes water until a volunteer told me; people were just as noisy and careless as they are at any other bottle-filling place. But they were silent and respectful at the grotto where Our Lady appeared in 1858; people went in there and ran their hand across the stones. I went to the entrance to the pool without going in, and took pains to explain to my sceptical siblings why sick people went to bathe there if the water had no healing properties and healing was not guaranteed.

The church was awesome. There are mosaics everywhere, especially in the dome. It contains a large image of Mary as a young girl, as she appeared to St. Bernadette; on the walls are the fifteen mysteries of the Rosary. By staircases or ramps the top of the church can be accessed, where the visitor may find a great golden crown (Our Lady’s), St. Bernadette’s crypt and a chapel; and on top of all that another chapel. Thus it is a three-tiered church. On the roof one can cross a road and walk the Way of the Cross in the mountains of France.

At 9pm a movie about Bernadette was shown in cinema with Dutch subtitles (just goes to show), but we did not go for general lack of interest. However, my parents and I did attend the 11pm Mass at the grotto. There were five priests there and a sizable crowd of visitors. After Mass there was Eucharistic Adoration; most of the people stayed. After a short while, we went to look at the candles, where my parents put some of the candles upright, touchingly enough.

Le Puy was interesting too. It is a small city, built around a hill with the cathedral on top and two big rocks close by. One of them, close to our camping, is topped with a thousand-year-old chapel dedicated to St. Michael; two chapels to the other Biblical archangels were added later at various points on the way up. The other rock had a large statue of Our Lady (now entirely wrapped up for restoration purposes). The cathedral had a special feature: somewhere in the middle, between altar and entrance gate, a large staircase came up in the middle of the floor out of the city centre. Inside the cathedral, flanking the main aisle, were two statues of France’s two warrior-saints, St. Louis IX and an unusually masculine St. Joan of Arc. There was also a big statue of St. James, with his famous seashell, because this was a site on the way to Santiago de Compostela.

I went to Mass there at 7am, a pilgrims’ Mass. It was the memorial day of St. Lawrence of Brindisi, about whom my friends at Popin’ Ain’t Easy have written well. The priest present gave a weighty homily, mentioning St. Lawrence’s effort to send soldiers to the Battle of Vienna, and the opposition – ‘not only a difference’ – between Christianity and Islam. Islam, he said, rejected the two chief doctrines of Christianity, the Trinity and the Incarnation: the mystery of God-become-man, on which our whole redemption rests. He concluded on a note such as this: ‘The Church has thought long about what constitutes a just war, and the Battle of Vienna is an example of it; but to support this would require further reflection, which I cannot give today.’ At which he left the ambo.

At the end of Mass, a benediction was given to the pilgrims, who gathered around the statue of St. James.

The homily fits well with the book I have been reading. It is Joan of Arc, by the famous agnostic writer Mark Twain. He was fascinated by the little girl who became commander-in-chief of the French army at 17, and this awe is perceptible on every page of the book. Joan of Arc is shown as a staunch patriot, naturally bashful but completely convinced of her divine mission to save France; an unflinching leader of battles, but with truly human feelings for those who suffer in war.

I think St. Joan of Arc should be given as much attention as that other famous French girl, St. Therese of Lisieux. She gives a unique answer to the question where God is on the battlefield. We people of today, in love with the soft power of potential but full of sentiment about weakness, will be inclined to seek the face of God in the suffering wounded or the medical staff. That God could shine in the general in the brunt of the battle is a foreign idea to us. What does God care about petty human affairs? Why would God send Michael the Archangel (no less) to put a pathetic figure like Charles VII on the throne of France, honouring the ancient (but human) Salic law rather than the recent (but equally human) Treaty of Troyes? I’m not sure myself, but Sainte Jeanne’s generalship did not stem from human ambition. Let the doubters read doubting Twain.

Life

During our Pentateuch oral exam, Dcn. Koet offered the opinion that the original Vulgate (St. Jerome’s translation) is much more interesting than the New Vulgate, a ‘compromise translation’ arrived at by voting. This Sunday, in the enjoyment of tranquillity, I read Genesis 1-3 in the Buber/Rosenzweig translation, and now I realize why Scripture translations should be made by one or two poets, not by committees.

This translation tries to be as faithful as possible to the oddities of the Hebrew original, which engenders turns of phrase like ‘From all the trees in the garden you shall eat, eat’ and ‘On that day you shall die, die’. For once, a Bible that reads like ancient poetry!

Grammar is stretched (the way Jesus did) in sentences like: ‘And God saw that it is good.’

The same goes for God’s and man’s naming activity. The word ‘call’ retains its strength through the skillful use of interpunction: ‘And God called the light: Day! And the darkness he called: Night!’

To me, the most striking thing (though I have not yet plumbed its full meaning) is that when God tells man, ‘Dust you are and to dust you shall return,’ he responds by calling his wife: ‘Chawwa (Eve), Life!’

End of May

Today was the last class at seminary. One hour of singing and three hours of Fundamental Theology make for a good end. We’ll be here for a while yet, sharing prayers and meals during our exams, which will last until the end of June.

I find it hard to assess this year. On the one hand, it has been very restful. On the other hand, I feel I have not accomplished much, because I did not apply myself to anything in great depth. It is difficult to know when one is simply meant to receive and digest, observe and adapt, commune and enjoy, and when to make an effort. Dwelling on that, however, obscures gratitude by vague feelings of guilt, which can never be a good thing.

What I definitely did learn this year – without noticing it – was the depth, importance and richness of liturgy. That applies to the wide scope of the liturgical year, the changing moods of Advent and Christmas, Lent and Easter, and so forth, but also to its details. Learning about liturgical colours, hymns, antiphons, when and how to celebrate or remember what, has drawn me deeper into the life of the Church. Next year, hopefully I will learn to remember more frequently Who is the life of the Church. Having fixed times of prayer in each day may be a step on the road to incessant prayer, but it is not the road.
 

Today is the last day of May, the month of Mary. Since I have been lost for words throughout the month, I will borrow those of Chesterton in Book VII of The Ballad of the White Horse. Mary, Queen of Confessors, pray for us!
 

The King looked up, and what he saw

Was a great light like death,

For Our Lady stood on the standards rent,

As lonely and as innocent

As when between white walls she went

And the lilies of Nazareth.
 

One instant in a still light

He saw Our Lady then,

Her dress was soft as western sky,

And she was a queen most womanly –

But she was a queen of men.

Sovereign Hunger

Qualms mostly quelled, I went to see The Hunger Games with my brother and sister. Fr Barron in his commentary remarked on the connection with René Girard’s idea of the scapegoating mechanism, in which all the tensions within a society are discharged on a few selected victims. Blaming, ostracizing or even killing them gives a temporary peace: order is restored.

The blame does not need to be placed on the individual. In the Hunger Games, the tributes expiate the past sins of their districts and, in doing so, atone for the nation (as Seneca remarks: it ‘knits us all together’, makes us at-one). Every time at the Reaping of the tributes, the President’s words are replayed:

This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.

Scapegoating can take various forms. The victims are not necessarily depicted as repulsive; in fact, quite the opposite happens in the Hunger Games, where the tributes receive all kinds of goods, are dressed up to the best of their advantage and enjoy the admiring attention of all. They are the pride of their district: not only a sacrifice for expiation, but also a representative of the people.

This reminded me not so much of René Girard as of William Desmond, and his concept of the erotic sovereign. Eros, as Plato reminds us, is born of Plenty and Poverty, full and starved by turns; so there are erotic energies in man (including but not limited to the sexual) that strive to overcome all finite limits, all poverty in every sense of the word.

This can be seen in the hero, the self of infinite purpose, who strives without end to become more fully himself. (‘I want to still be me,’ as Peeta says; there must be an inner unity to the hero, a singleness of purpose, not mere good fortune.) The hero is isolated, like the scapegoat; just as the scapegoat is singled out to bear the blame of the community, the hero is singled out to bear the glory of the community. Singled out: single indeed, but always out of the whole and in relation to it. As Desmond says, the ‘unsatisfied longing for perfection is buoyed up in the vision of exemplars dedicated to ascend to the heights.’

The Hunger Games depict excellently what it means to be an erotic sovereign. It starts when Katniss and Peeta drive into the Capitol; Peeta looks out of the window and waves, awed by being the focus of so much attention. But the climax is yet to come. It comes at the Tribute Parade, where the team of each district wheels into a huge stadium in chariots. Katniss and Peeta are last in line, as usual, and we have already seen that their stylist has been planning something. We get a panoramic view of the whole stadium watching the chariots roll in to the triumphant anthem ‘Horn of Plenty’; the first verse’s last note is drawn out, something like a hush falls, and people lean forward in surprise, the commentator asking his buddy ‘What is that?’ As the swollen fermata bursts into an intenser hymnody, the entire cinema screen is at once filled by the living lit-up face of Katniss.

The Horn of Plenty for us all!

And I thought it was impressive on a laptop. Before we have recovered, we see Peeta and Katniss in tight black suits, flames billowing behind them.

Two young people, holding their hands up, saying, ‘I’m proud I come from District 12. We will not be overlooked!’ Now I love that!

Desmond says that erotic sovereigns are daimonic: powers between gods and ordinary mortals, marked by nobility but more intensely in danger of betraying the good. Daimons are lifted into the air; they do not yet dwell in heaven. Let anyone who thinks that he flies take heed lest he fall. Katniss falls. Because she is virtuous, because she has the makings of a sovereign, the whole nation of Panem focuses its hungry desires on her. Under such pressure, she cannot remain honest; she turns away from reality towards the show and the applause, from love of her neighbours to the subtle domination of the crowd. Human, all too human.

We might conclude that there should be no place for erotic sovereignty in our society, since it is too dangerous both for the rulers and the ruled. (As if we ultimately had a choice to exclude it!) Yet Desmond suggests that we need them, for if they remain open to true transcendence, they show us ‘the glory of the world’ and the realized promise of excellence here and now. Without them, we do not really grasp what it means to be human. One is reminded of Goethe saying: ‘Without having seen the Sistine Chapel, one can form no appreciable idea of what one man is capable of achieving.’ Erotic sovereigns not only channel desires; they excite them. Besides that, they are essential as ‘judges free of the tendency to say only what many will want to hear.’ No one can rob them of their standard of excellence. Without such exemplars, virtue in a society will erode. Less and less will knit us together. We will distrust all greatness and deny our own.

En tois epouraniois, in the heavenly things or the heavenly places, is where the daimons live. The Greek phrase, as Heinrich Schlier points out, is used frequently in the Letter to the Ephesians. Christ fills the epourania; the Church is blessed in the epourania; but all spiritual powers, for good or evil, also inhabit the epourania. The epourania is the realm of the ‘transcendent’ in the broadest sense of the word. It is a word that Desmond uses quite frequently. Schlier (being German) defines it: ‘that which opens up a ‘space’ for man on earth and the earth as such, through which he gains an ultimately infinite breadth and depth beyond the earthly … that which is open to him beyond himself, allows him possibilities and prospects.’ The epourania is ‘the manifold ‘presence’ of powers, namely of space and time and spirit, so of conceding and encompassing, urging and destining powers.’

Now Christ both is in the heavens and has ascended above all heavens. His sphere encompasses all, and we can choose either to live in his heaven or in another, ruled by different powers than Christ. We choose a space ‘into which and from out of which’ we live, and a lord to rule over us. We can live in the confusing, cramped, dark spaces of lower lords (the stadium, the arena), but we are called and enabled to dwell in the epourania in Christ Jesus. In all cases there will be strife. If we struggle for power in the stadium, the arena or any such ‘heaven’, we will find no rest; but if we live in Christ, other pretended masters will find it curious and irritating that we do not submit to their lordship and play by their rules. The heavens resound with the trumpets of war.

All this is frightening. We might try to stay at home (and succeed in various degrees), clear of the invisible pulling into the unknown, saying no to the spotlights and despising or pitying the people in them, secretly claiming for oneself the greatest of gifts: humility. But, as C.S. Lewis said, we might be mistaking the decrease of nature for the increase of grace. Pride is not starved by erotic anorexia. If we deny the goodness of greatness, can we be happy for others’ temporary (perhaps timely) sovereignty? Can we be grateful for our own moments of soaring? Can we aspire to the ‘riches of grace’ (another Ephesian phrase), grace, the all-encompassing expanse in which true Plenty meets Poverty and gives birth to beauty?

If we share in the mystery of Good Friday and even of Easter, perhaps we can share in the mystery of Palm Sunday as well; without forgetting that the King wept at the height, looking out on Jerusalem. We may be focal points, but the light comes from elsewhere; we are to be magnifying, not refractory. Thus we shall be able to walk boldly en tois epouraniois, in poverty and plenty, remembering the law of the Lord: not ‘Kill or be killed’, not ‘Live and let live’, but ‘Be killed and let live.’

A Journey as Ointment

On Sunday 25 March, the March for Life was organized in Brussels for the third time. On Saturday, after spending some time with other pastoral students of the Rotterdam diocese in the ancient abbey of Egmond (where an 11th-century Duke of Holland lies entombed), I descended on Leuven: from Hillegom to Leiden (where, waiting for the train to move on, I happen to type these lines), from Leiden to Rotterdam, from Rotterdam to Mechelen, from Mechelen to Leuven.

Inner warmth and excitement grew as my latitudinal coordinate decreased. I was looking forward to be back, feeling stimulated to be on my own, out of the ordinary routine. Essays on various subjects were devoured (one by a Lovanian friend), and, putting pen to paper, I wrote two lines of effervescent sprung rhythm.

On arriving, I sent a location status update to Anke, who, like me, had once belonged to the American College’s inner peripheral circle. She, a second-year Theology student, walked with me to the Grote Markt, where we sat down at Notre Dame to have a Stella Artois (a product of Leuven antedating the university) and a good talk. We lamented the splintering of the College, and the realization soaked into me that last year had truly been a blessed time. At the time I may have had too much on my mind to see it clearly; distance and return had reconciled me.

We also found out that her speech was perceived as Dutch by the Flemings, while mine was perceived as Flemish by the Dutch. Evidently a native speaker is not honoured in his own country.

Then I proceeded to Arenberg, where I used to live and where I would spend the night. Pierre was just celebrating his fortieth birthday by watching Tintin with a large crowd of people. It was very nice to see so many happy familiar faces again, not to mention my old place of refuge, the small chapel with the painting of the Crowning of Mary by the Trinity.

Thankfully I was reminded of Daylight Saving Time going into effect that weekend, so I was in time for Mass and meditation. Mass was celebrated in the chapel at 9am, followed by a festive breakfast. After breakfast, I went to Mass at the American College; I arrived at the beginning of the homily, a beautiful one on prayer. At both Masses, my responses were off: the Flemish differ slightly from the Dutch and the Anglophones were using their new translation of the Missal.

O God beyond all praising was the recessional song, one that resonated in memory. I went to the Sunday gathering; the dining hall of the American College was unsettlingly empty with all the seminarians gone. Olivia and Joe were there, but they did not say much. Bosco seemed more pleased to see me. I also made the acquaintance of the main celebrant, a British Dominican.

I remained in conversation, inside the building and walking through town, until lunchtime. Lunch and coffee were at Arenberg, after which Pierre, Fr. Lasala (the new chaplain) and I set off for Brussels, praying the Rosary in the car. Some other residents had gone there on their own; they were part of security and I saw them in special attire. A Belgian seminarian was there as well; he said that things in his seminary were slowly getting better, because they were now allowed to kneel during consecration and receive Communion on the tongue.

The March was beautiful: the atmosphere, the weather, the buildings lining the road. We went from the King’s Square to the Palace of Justice, where we laid down our roses. It made more of an impression than last year and seemed shorter, but last year I was taking pictures of everything I saw; this year I was merely holding my rose on high.

On coming back, I used various media for signal emissions to Dan, Anke and Michaël. Dan received them by proxy, being at church with Anke. Michaël brought his girlfriend Geraldine, and so five of us converged at the Oude Markt. Since I was out of cash and the ATM had broken down, Dan paid for my Stella. We chatted amiably for a too short while. I told Michaël I had read his paper on the train. Also, I mentioned that I had not informed Tyler of my going to Leuven, but had I done so, he would surely have told me to say hi to all. Anke exclaimed, ‘I’ve never had a more contingent greeting!’

All good things end. Our party broke up at dinnertime; I went to Arenberg and had dinner there. It was a very full dinner. The joke was that Pierre had a Triduum this year: first his birthday, then Sunday, then the Solemnity of the Annunciation. Dinner at Arenberg meant that I had to catch the train an hour later and would arrive back at seminary at 0.30 rather than 11.30pm; the journey would take almost four hours. It was definitely worth it, though. On my way back to the station I ran into the last remaining ‘old crowd’ resident, a student of things Japanese who had just arrived in town. No face left unseen!

Apparently there is another Dutch resident at Arenberg now, a biomedical student from a place very close to my hometown. It was agreed that he was more Dutch than I, being tall and vocal.

On the journey back to Mechelen, Rotterdam, Heemstede and Vogelenzang, I prayed Vespers and finished my Lenten poem, which is posted in my thread as Ouai Megalopolis.

Dispersit Superbos

Friday evening I went to a concert with my father. Four Germans sang 16th-century polyphony. The first half passed breathlessly: mostly Passion music from the early Lutheran tradition (and some Bach). There was much laughter and applause during the caperings, mimicry and odd voices of the madrigals of the second half. John Dowland was introduced as the ‘master of melancholy’, but I suppose he was so in a Renaissance English sort of way, much subtler than German Romantics or other loud acolytes at the marriage of Eros and Thanatos.

As we filed out during the pause, I found myself shuffling forward next to a Muslim girl of presumably Dutch ancestry: glasses, white skin and a light blue headdress. Unlike most of the visitors, she wasn’t much older than I. Both of us seemed too shy to say anything, but I was struck by how natural and happy she looked: at ease without the mask of happy sociality, at peace without the defensive artillery of extroversion. Religion, discipline and decency do much to contribute to happiness.

A certain Rutger, who recently achieved notoriety, is a Dutchman without religion, without discipline and without decency; it is a lack he compensates by clutching a microphone with both hands like a scepter, and keeping the company of a camera. He is an insistent and often disrespectful interviewer. The majority of his prey feels forced either to play along or to ignore him. Being harassed is unpleasant, but better than creating a scene and appearing embarrassingly rude to the general public.

Recently Rutger singled out a woman with a partner who had no such qualms, vetted by years of political engagement, arduous physical training, and experience teaching philosophy of law: Prof. Kinneging. When Rutger rang, Kinneging opened. After it became clear that the annoying journalist was not going to leave, Kinneging decided to open the door, turn the camera away, and impress certain facts on the callers, such as:

- If they would return unannounced, he would throw them into the canal, camera and all.
- He might be the first to react this way, but not the last.
- No, he was not going to discuss or argue his point.

The entire exchange can be seen here.

I have to say, I admire the way Kinneging stood his ground. All the forgotten emotions from the playground (and the cinema) have come back to me now, in particular the surge of joy at finding a self-assured person confronting the dominators. It reminds me of the ‘Get off my lawn’ scene in Gran Torino. Sometimes the timorous sons and daughters of the polis need the old men with the anger management problem to teach the wheedling, malicious bullies the meaning of fear. Better to strike up an uneasy alliance with the wrathful God in the desert than to stay with Egypt’s fleshpots, helping the cruel Pharaoh fortify himself.

Some say that the oldest part of the Bible is the Song of Miriam, of God as fighting against the forces of a cocksure civilization: ‘Sing ye to the LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.’ Or as her humbler namesake would put it, centuries later: ‘He hath shewed strength with his arm; he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He hath put down the mighty from their seats…’

Or, nineteen centuries later, Chesterton (since the Road goes ever on and on):

For riseth up against realm and rod
A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod,
The last lost giant, even God,
Is risen against the world.