Non Mea Culpa

 

Catholics of a certain age (like me) said aloud, each Sunday, the Latin words "mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa" while reciting the Confiteor.  That was a confession of our many sins we were all required to make not only to God, but to the Blessed Virgin Mary, Michael the Archangel, John the Baptist, Saint Peter and Saint Paul, all the saints and, if memory serves, most everybody else.  Each of us repeated that those sins were committed through our fault.  So, "mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa" which translates as "through my fault, through my fault, through my most grevious fault."

While saying these words, we would beat or rap on our chests with our fists. The Confiteor was intended to be a humble acknowledgement of our failings and errors and admission that we were responsible for them.

It is yet another example of Catholicism's odd celebration of our sinful nature. But it's also, more positively, an example of moral courage and integrity.  The devil and his angels aren't blamed for our wrongs and mistakes, nor are other people.  To use a modern phrase I think is suspect, we "own" our sins.  We don't seek to describe them as trivial; we don't argue that they're sins everyone commits, and therefore are insignificant and we shouldn't be singled out for criticism; we don't misrepresent them for self-serving reasons; we don't claim that we're unfairly treated when asked to account for them.

In other words, we're not miserable, cowardly, hypocritical, weak, shifty weasels. Instead, we're honorable people, who have the courage to admit fault and the character to do better.

In what's being called "Signalgate" weasels abound. Perhaps they follow the example of their chief, who is never willing to acknowledge fault. But it's particularly difficult to avoid blame when a mistake has been admitted and the mistake is evidently one no knowledgeable person would have made and could have had serious consequences.  Seeking to avoid blame in those circumstances and becoming increasingly shrill in doing so merely make one appear cowardly, contemptible and untrustworthy.

Those who lack moral courage are likely to be cruel. They're also likely to be crass and juvenile.  We see these traits in the Group Chat in question but also in the conduct of this regime and the content of its self-righteous communications.

The State of Gracelessness

As shown above, "gracelessness" has two meanings, one being secular, the other religious.  Our state, I propose, is one of gracelessness in both senses.

According to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, grace in its religious sense is of two different kinds.  It's first a kind of favor or boon of the Almighty, encouraging us to seek and obtain what's needed to become Children of God; it's then what the soul has as a result.  Note the favor--we're not worthy of being God's children to begin with, presumably because of Original Sin.  So God in his goodness must provide the opportunity.  If we accept the gift given, then we may enter heaven, though most of us must burn, though full of hope, in Purgatory before we have access to it.  If we don't, then to Hell with us.  We're irretrievably nasty.  We are as is noted above, depraved, corrupt.

A person is graceless in the secular sense if lacking elegance.  A graceless person is clumsy, has no sense of propriety, and is lacking in wit and socially awkward; in a word, is unattractive.  An oaf.

That we're graceless in a secular sense is established by many things and in many ways.  Most publically perhaps it's apparent from the popularity of the personage I'll call for purposes of this post "Agent Orange" (or should that be Aging Orange?).  Now matched with a baby-faced clone or Mini-Me, he is to all appearances gracelessness incarnate.  His demeanor and speech may also be described as ugly.  His efforts at wit are mere insults; so for that matter are his efforts at argument.  He's boastful and crude.  His followers are equally crass when they're not simply moral cowards who lack the courage to defy him or denounce him publicly.  

It's unsurprising that his followers treat education as something secondary, and seek to regulate it.  It's also unsurprising that their attacks on the person who is now Agent Orange's opponent involve fearmongering related to education.  Education may expose people to grace in the secular sense.  If there is one thing they fear in particular, it's that their children may be different than they are.  Because of the American fascination with sex, their primary concern is that their children will be different from them sexually, but they fear also that through education they'll become less ignorant of the world than they think they should be, and be exposed to people and ideas different from them as well.

That we're graceless in a more religious, less secular sense is apparent given the examples, or perhaps more properly the exemplars, of depravity and corruption littering our social culture.  It's significant that the most prominent exemplars are Justices of our Supreme Court.  One of them complains he's not being paid enough though the Court is in session for only nine months of a year, perhaps seeking to explain his propensity to accept handouts.  But perhaps the most prominent of the examples of our depravity and corruption are, I think, the amounts being spent in connection with out elections.  One can't help but wonder how such money should be spent.  Imagine if it was devoted to remedying poverty or repairing infrastructure, instead of assuring the election of compliant and complicit servants, and those who promise to benefit those donating funds.

Of course that won't happen.  

I won't dwell on whether were offered grace by God, though I think it clear that any God who is what we claim God should be would have tired by now of trying to encourage us to make our souls full of sanctifying grace as it's called, and that any God of the kind I would find worthy of reverence isn't one who would make our salvation dependent on whether we accept his favors rather than, for example, being virtuous in our lives.

But it seems clear enough to me that we live in a state of gracelessness here in our Great Republic (for now).

 

You Take 16 Nuns And What Do You Get?

How to complete the phrase making up the title to this post so that it matches with the song made famous by Tennessee Ernie Ford?  In the circumstances, I suppose something like:  "An undersized, dubious Catholic sect."  How's that?

It's unusual for me to post about the Church twice in a single month, but I find myself fascinated by the news about 16 Spanish nuns, of the Order of St. Clare or "the Poor Clares", who have declared themselves separated from Rome and their putative superiors in the well-established Catholic hierarchy, thereby becoming a self-described sect.  The Church has had a number of sects and heretics over the centuries, but this one must be remarkable at least for its small size and the fact that it's made up of nuns.

Instead of the Pontifex Maximus (as I enjoy calling the Pope) and their duly appointed bishop, the nuns have pledged their allegiance, as it were, to a person who calls himself a bishop, Pablo de Rojas Sanchez-Franco, who was excommunicated by the Church in 2019.  The declaration or manifesto of the nuns in which their schism from the Church was announced makes it clear that they object not only to the current occupant of the Throne of St. Peter, but to all of those who have sat in it since Pius XII.

From these facts it may be inferred that the sectarian nuns are very conservative Catholics, or traditional Catholics, or perhaps best described as Catholics who utterly reject the reforms which have taken place since 1958, when Pius departed this sinful world.  And if what we read about the manifesto is correct, that certainly is the case.  I'll admit I haven't read it, and must do so.  In fact I will do so now, if I can locate it via Google.

Well, perhaps not.  It seems to be 70 pages long, and I'm having trouble finding it.  I'll read the letter to which it's attached instead.

No, I won't.  As far as I can ascertain, both the manifesto and the letter are only available in Spanish.  Perhaps there'll be a translation someday.  No doubt I won't be interested in reading it then.

There are indications in some articles I've read that the manifesto may echo criticisms of clerics of the Church's authorization of the blessing of same sex marriages.  It's uncertain whether that's true, as it may be the person who wrote the articles merely refer to that as an example of dissent in the Church.  The nuns presumably condemn this practice as well, by implication if not expressly, its authorization being given post-Pius XII.  Regardless, it appears the Sisters complain that in general, Catholic pastors have failed their flocks, leaving them exposed to the (homosexual?) wolves.

What we see here may be another example of the claimed tendency of modern Catholics to desire a return to the "halcyon days" of the Church, i.e. the days pre-Vatican II, which has been remarked on by some as I noted in a prior post.  If that's the case, this desire goes beyond the aesthetic (and perhaps sentimental) preference I have for the old forms and rituals of the Church, which I think is understandable given the dreariness of its current ritual.  It is instead, I think, a sign of a sort of atavism among Catholics.  There is it seems a desire to revert to the past, not only as to form but substance.

I wonder if this desire is a sign that many of us today seek certainty more than anything else.  Certainty of thought and doctrine, even if that means disregard of what's taking place, perhaps even the disregard of what facts and reason indicate or suggest is true, or regarding the nature of the world with which we must interact.  Adherence to a doctrine already established and unquestionable creates a sense of comfort and stability, lacking in our all-too-interesting times.  It also instills a sense of fellowship; those who accept the doctrine and the lore are part of a community, no longer alone in the face of seeming chaos.  

What can compete with such a sense of solace?

  

Catholics Get Back To Where They Once Belonged

I saw an interesting article while browsing the news on the Web today.  Buried among the stories regarding student protests (but are they, really?) and the trial of America's Trimalchio for payoffs to a porn star was a story which claims to describe the rise of traditional Catholicism in these Not-So-Very United States.  Can it be so?

Perhaps.  Those who've indulged me by reading this blog with some attention will know of my sentimental fondness for the ceremony and ritual of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church as it existed before, and even for a time after, Vatican II.  It seems that others are fond of them as well, and miss them or seek in them something they've been unable to find in the bland proceedings which take place each Sunday hosted by the local churches.

It seems to me that something not necessarily bad, but stupefying, happened as a result of the reforms of Vatican II, in this country at least.  I don't pretend to any knowledge of what took place elsewhere.  But here it seems that Tom Lehrer was right when he said that the reforms were being made in an effort to make the Church "more commercial" (as he noted in introducing his song The Vatican Rag on the TV show That was the Year that Was).

There was the switch from the recitation of the liturgy in Latin to English, of course, but other reforms were made as well.  For example, the priest said mass on an altar, which consisted of something resembling a large table, facing those attending the mass.  Prior to Vatican II, the altar was as shown in the picture above and the essential portion of the mass devoted to the transubstantiation of the water and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ took place with the priests facing the altar with their backs to the worshippers.

The idea was, I think, to make the worshippers participants rather than observers and make the mass and the Church more popular, as it was believed people were leaving the Church.  So, the clergy was to encourage involvement of laypersons in arranging the ceremony, and did so.  Whether as a consequence of that or of the efforts of priests and clergy as well, the music accompanying the ceremony was replaced by other music considered more popular, and the language of the liturgy itself was changed, not merely to English but to an English it was believed would be more comprehensible and less challenging, in other words more "modern" than "old fashioned."

Perhaps it was an effort to make the Church more "popular" rather than more "commercial" but I think that the result was the same.  It seems to be an axiom of marketing of products in our economy that the pitch to sell be aimed at the "lowest common denominator."  A formula was arrived at for that purpose.  There was to be nothing unusual or exotic.  Songs sung and words used were commonplace, and sometimes even maudlin or cheesy.  Attending mass became more and more a like watching a sitcom, or to put it more kindly a drama of some kind.

Instead of becoming interesting to more and more people, the Church became less and less compelling, less worthy of interest.  It was much the same as everything else.  

What it seems the Church forgot, I think, was that people don't want religion to be like anything else.  There's an expectation that it be different.  There's a view that those of a particular religion should be distinguishable from others--that they form a community, devoted to certain beliefs.  This is desirable as it is establishes the difference between believers and others.  It makes the followers of a particular religion special.  The best way of making a religion and its adherents distinct and a separate, presumably superior, community is through ritual and ceremony.

It seems to me that the apparent tendency towards "traditional Catholicism" is a result of these expectations and desires.  The Tridentine (Latin) mass was certainly exceptional, and some (like me) probably think it remarkable and even inspiring.  The old music was beautiful and ornate, not mundane imitations of bad rock or country songs with references made to Jesus and love.  The ritual, the incense, the chiming of the bells, the solemnity of the Eucharist, must seem quite attractive now in comparison with the tepid performances which have been endured so long.

What I find concerning, though, is that "traditional Catholicism" which may be making a comeback includes old doctrine and forms which express not the beauty of the old ritual but the repressive aspects of the Church.  That women are now beginning to wear hats or little lace hair coverings as they did in Church before Vatican II seems to single them out due to their sex, and in an oppressive fashion.  Requiring that only men be priests, and they be celibate, is much the same in that respect; the claim that men only be priests because the Apostles were all men makes no sense.  They weren't women, true, but neither were they priests.  Early Christianity owed much to the participation of women and they were very involved in its spread.  Only later did it begin to imitate Judaism and reduce their status.

There are various problems with Catholic doctrine, and I would find a resurgence of belief in them disturbing, but I can understand why the old ritual and ceremony that distinguished the Church before Vatican II is seeming more and more attractive to religious believers.

Blessings in Disguise

Every now and then, I comment in this blog on news related to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church ("OHCAC") that took up much of my time in my increasingly distant youth, though it now does so only sporadically.  At the moment, I'm interested in the controversy surrounding Fiducia Supplicans, which it seems is a declaration on Catholic doctrine issued with the support of the Pontifex Maximus allowing priests to bless...well, I'm not sure what, frankly.  It seems, though, to allow blessings of a sort to be made to couples engaged in an irregular or same-sex relationship.  This sort of blessing doesn't constitute a validation of the relationship, however, which remains forbidden.

I admit to some confusion.  I'm a lawyer, and so am not phased by distinctions which may baffle normal people.  I can accept that a relationship may be recognized without being validated, or sanctioned.  I can also accept that those involved in a relationship may be blessed though the relationship itself may be forbidden (well, for religious purposes in any case--religions forbid so much after all).  Sinners may be blessed by my understanding, so I suppose that, if OHCAC determines being in a same-sex relationship is sinful, the sinning participant may yet be blessed by a priest.  The problem, if any, arises when the relationship itself is blessed, it seems.  That at least is the position being taken by those functionaries of the Church who object to the declaration.

Let me be clear.  I have no dog in this race.  I don't think such relationships are sinful.  Priest may and do bless pets, which I find charming.  They bless things, and places.  So be it.  I can't recall whether the Gospels or any part of what's considered the New Testament condemns these relationships.  I'd be surprised if Jesus ever directly addressed them, as I think sexual relationships and sex in general weren't matters of great concern to him.  That they are to Catholic clergy is, alas, all too obvious.  This particular kind of sexual relationship is in any case thought to be contrary to doctrine or even Scripture by those who oppose Francis in this matter. 

I think there's a problem with this position, if it is the fact that one is involved in such a relationship that constitutes the sin.  If persons A and B are sinners because they're involved in a same-sex relationship, but nevertheless may be blessed individually, what is it that forbids their relationship from being blessed?  That a relationship exists must be taken as given; that's why those involved in it are sinners (though they are no doubt sinners for other reasons as well; this is assumed by OHCAC, of course).  Is it believed that the relationship is distinct in some sense from those participating in it?   But how can that be the case?  Without them, there would be no relationship to be condemned.

I've seen it claimed that blessing the forbidden union would be like blessing an abortion clinic.  Although, according to some, a woman who has an abortion may be blessed as a sinner in some circumstances, an abortion clinic may not be blessed; such is the argument as I understand it.

The analogy strikes me as less than perfect, however.  A relationship is not a clinic.  If it is a sin to have an abortion, it must be a sin for a doctor to be involved in the abortion as well it is a sin for a woman to obtain one.  There's a doctor-patient relationship involved; both are sinners if having an abortion is a sin.  Yet it seems both, as sinners, may be blessed.  Is it the doctor-patient relationship that is condemned rather than the clinic?

Well, it's an interesting dispute, but happily one which need not concern us, or at least me, except perhaps as part of the history of an ancient and still in some ways fascinating institution. It's unfortunate that sex is so much a part of it and its concerns, and for that matter its own sins, both of omission and commission.  

 

The Curious Conflict of the Church and Masonry

 We're told the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church has now reaffirmed that the Church forbids its members from joining the Freemasons, and that for them to become Masons is a "grave sin."  This has been the Church's position regarding Freemasonry for centuries, since Freemasonry was founded in the 18th century.  The reaffirmation was approved by the Pontifex Maximus himself.  Interestingly, this continued condemnation of Freemasonry was issued contemporaneously with a determination by the Dicastery that transgender people may be baptized, may be godparents and may serve as witnesses at a wedding.  Better transgender than Mason, it seems.

Why does the Church persist in forbidding joining the Masons, while seemingly becoming more inclusive of those once thought sinful or unnatural?

The Church's prohibition of membership in the Masons is interesting in several respects.  Because both institutions prominently feature men (for the most part) dressed up in silly costumes, uttering pretentious phrases and performing peculiar rituals, one would think that they would have much in common.  It appears that this was the opinion of Joseph Keppler, who drew the cartoon gracing the top of this post for Puck magazine in 1884.  The cartoon is called "Two of the Same Kind" and features absurdly dressed Catholic clergy, one of whom seems to be a bishop or perhaps a pope, in battle with absurdly dressed Freemasons.

Perhaps their similarity is the basis for the conflict.  They're rivals, in a sense.  We humans have a taste for gaudy, garish costumes and impressive ritual, particularly in matters of religion.  The Church's condemnation of Masonry appears founded on the belief that Masonry is a religion.  There's some basis for this belief, according to the sometimes invaluable Internet.  I know very little about the Freemasons, but it seems that they extol a supreme being they call the "Divine Architect" (they're supposed to be the successors of medieval masons, after all), and see themselves as servants of that being in the pursuit of a divine plan of sorts, or at least are pleased to say they are in their rituals.  One of the reason past popes have condemned it is that they've considered it to espouse a religion of "naturalism" as opposed, it seems to "supernaturalism."  That would be a point in its favor to some.

They have a fairly complicated system of initiation into several levels of Masonry, regarding which they're sworn to secrecy.  This is similar to the practice of the ancient mystery cults, from which some say they're also derived or intend to mimic.  

What distinguishes Freemasonry from modern religions, particularly those of the Abrahamic tradition, is the fact that it welcomes members of any other religion into its fold.  This may make it particularly dangerous from the perspective of the Church.  At least according to Freemasonry, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims and others are free to become Masons.  There's no need for an initiate to disavow the religion in which they were born or have practiced in order to be a Mason.  Thus the need for the Church to affirmatively forbid Catholics from joining the Masons.

The Church may also see danger in the fact that membership in the Freemasons is said to be beneficial to its members in various secular ways.  It may satisfy the religious yearnings of those who are deists and others, but by all accounts does satisfy the ambition of those hoping to make their way in business or become wealthy.  Masons are said to take care of each other, to grant each other favor or favors in life.  A religion which isn't at all unworldly, then.  Masons may have a reward in heaven because of their beliefs, but in the meantime will be rewarded in this life by other Masons. 

It's not all that surprising, then, that the Church persists in condemning such an attractive religion.

The Vatican Just Says No

There once was a species called human,

Who thought God cared what they were doin',

But the truth is He said that "For me, they've been dead,

Since the Garden of Eden stopped bloomin'."

That's just a limerick of my creation which I thought up not long ago in a different context, but it seems appropriate in light of the Vatican's announcement that it can't "bless" homosexual unions.  I was going to write that it seems appropriate so near to St. Patrick's day, but a gnawing sense of doubt combined with a quick search of the Internet reveals that the limerick didn't necessarily have its origins in Ireland, though there is an Irish city which bears the name. 

I've noted before that our religions are not unnaturally, but still unreasonably, based on the assumption that if there is a God, that God is fascinated, perhaps even obsessed, with humanity.  Given the vastness of the universe, this seems unlikely.  To maintain that we're God's sole or greatest concern is preposterous, as we're mere specks on a speck among an unimaginably large host of specks which make up what God is said to have created.

Even more unreasonable (I think) is the belief that God is particularly concerned with our sexual conduct.  Any God which lays down rules governing who we have sex with and how we have sex is a very small, petty, and peculiar God indeed.  It follows that those of us who believe there are such rules and seek to enforce them are even smaller, more petty and peculiar.

And so we come to this latest declaration by the Vatican, endorsed, we're told, by the Pontifex Maximus himself.  The One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church welcomes those who are gay ("homosexually inclined" is the wording used, I think) in a kind of grudging fashion, according to the declaration, but no union of gays may be blessed because only the sacramental may be blessed.  The most relevant sacrament is marriage and marriage, as we know, may only be between a male and a female.  Thus, no blessed gay unions and as sex is inappropriate outside of marriage, all gay sex is inappropriate as well, and may never be appropriate.  

This comes from having a Busybody God, a name I've used in the past in this blog.  But as you may guess from the limerick at the top of this post, I find myself curious regarding why such a God--the kind that is worshipped by the Abrahamic religions--would care what we do, if we accept the doctrine of Original Sin.

Under that doctrine, we're at the least tainted by the sin committed by eating of the Tree of Knowledge by our ancestors, the first humans, which caused them to be expelled from the Garden of Eden.  There are several versions of the doctrine of Original Sin.  The most draconian of them has us damned from birth.  We may nonetheless be saved if God chooses through the medium of Grace, but that's in God's sole discretion.  Then there is the version that proposes that we're cleansed of the sin by baptism.  Another version is that Jesus saved us from Original Sin through his sacrifice.  There may be more versions, I just don't know.  But even the kinder, gentler versions I know of provide that all of us are born with the proclivity to sin as a result of the first (notably heterosexual) humans.

So, we're either damned or damnable from the moment we are born.  If that's the case, though, why does God even bother to peer at us suspiciously, and why did he bother to dream up and impose the many regulations it's claimed he imposed on us after the Garden of Eden was shut down?  He would have written us off after the Original Sin was committed, I would think, as we all would be sinners of necessity thereafter.  Can it be the case that he decided in the first century C.E. that we may in one manner or another avoid the curse of Original Sin, and so appeared among us and induced us to create the sacrament of baptism sometime later?  What changed his mind?  Why are those who lived before then damned without recourse?  Why would he be so interested in what we do given that it's more likely than not that were going to sin anyway, being inherently inclined to sin?

The problems which arise from belief in such a personal God so fascinated with us aren't merely limited to those that result from the fact such a view is incredible, therefore.  They include those that arise when the doctrine which is inferred from that view is made and applied.

 

Invincible Ignorance

"Invincible ignorance" has at least two meanings.  In Catholic theology, it refers to the state, or condition, of persons who are ignorant of Jesus because their circumstances are such that they are, or were, unable to know him.  Among those who possess invincible ignorance according to the Church are pagans who lived before him--especially worthy pagans such as Plato--and infants.  These necessarily ignorant, and thereby unworthy of heaven, are said by some to spend their afterlives (assuming the infants die before baptism) in Limbo.  Limbo is a kind of place which isn't heaven, but isn't hell either. There, it is to be presumed, Plato, Aristotle and other pagan greats debate and think great thoughts while changing diapers and otherwise tending babies.

Another meaning for "invincible ignorance" is the condition resulting from a refusal to accept evidence or argument.  This is referred to as a logical fallacy, sometimes.  It is the ignorance I address in this post, and was also I believe referred to by the man quoted above, a French physician and philosopher of the Enlightenment.

It is the refusal that characterizes ignorance of this kind.  You or I may be ignorant simply because we don't know something or other for perfectly acceptable reasons--acceptable in the sense that there is no deliberate effort not to know something or other.  Invincible ignorance is ignorance by choice.  The invincibly ignorant choose not to know.  Their ignorance is the result of their willing rejection of knowledge or the effort to know.

According to Julien Offray De La Mettrie, our happiness depends on this kind of ignorance.  Judging from the nature of the quote, he probably had ignorance of some thing or things in particular in mind.  But ignorance of anything which disturbs us can contribute to our happiness.  Ignorance is bliss in some circumstances if not all circumstances.

But the refusal to consider an assertion or an argument, or the evidence which supports them, is different from a refusal to know something in the sense of experiencing something.  You can have perfectly good reason, I would think, to refuse to know what it's like to murder someone or torture someone and can hardly be blamed for balking at having knowledge of what it's like to do so.  In some cases, then, the desire to be invincibly ignorant is quite understandable.  Some knowledge isn't good.

Sometimes an argument or assertion is so absurd there's no point in giving it any serious consideration.  Judgment must be exercised in determining absurdity, though.  Judgment is something we come to lack more and more these days, at least here in God's favorite country.

It strikes me we live in a time when people are less inclined than ever to consider any position that may challenge or undercut personal, political, religious or cultural views.  It may be that such consideration is too trying; the world is more complicated than it has been in the past, in great part because there are more of us needing and demanding limited resources.  It may be that the uncertainty of these times causes us to cling more than before to cherished and comfortable thoughts and customs, particularly where religion and politics are concerned, and to so dread what is different as to disregard it as much as possible rather than try to understand it.

But I'm concerned that fear and uncertainty and the desire for the happiness that results from ignorance aren't the only motivations behind invincible ignorance.  I'm concerned that many of us are invincibly ignorant simply because we have accepted the view that many intellectuals and academics have propounded for some time.  What I'm thinking of is what has been associated with the word "postmodernism" rightly or wrongly.  That is, an adverse reaction to the Enlightenment and the faith in science which dominated modern Western culture for two or three centuries, until the 20th century.

A skepticism regarding the extent to which science can cure all our ills and make the world a paradise is understandable.  But that skepticism has been associated with a distrust of reason and logic generally; with the view that they are mere constructs of a social and political tradition or culture, no more admirable or desirable, or worthy of respect, than any other construct.

If that's the case (not "true", of course), why is there any point in being anything but invincibly ignorant?  We can ignore, refuse to consider, anything we like.  There's no basis on which it can be said that assertions or arguments different from those we favor are to be preferred.  There's no reason to consider the evidence in their support.  There's no reason to think, in fact, or second-guess ourselves, when what others think or claim is no more worthy of respect or acceptance to what we believe and like already.

The invincibly ignorant are fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth. 

I Pardon Myself--Ego Absolvo

 

I've noted previously in this blog that I'm not a fan of the pardon power granted the president by the Constitution of this Great Republic.  It may be guessed, then, that I would find the thought of a president pardoning himself to be offensive, and I do.

There's something laughable about the idea of someone pardoning himself/herself, or perhaps a better word would be "incredible."  It makes no sense; or no common sense, in any case.  If I've done wrong, I generally have done wrong to someone other than myself.  If anyone has any business pardoning me in that case, it would be the person I've wronged.  It would be strikingly unjust if I could pardon myself.  It would be evidently unfair.

The pardon power isn't an exclusively American creation by any means.  Kings and Queens had that power for centuries.  It was apparently accepted that they had the authority to grant clemency or even wipe from the record of the law any crime committed by a subject.  I wonder if this power derived in some sense from the belief in the King's Touch.  It was thought that a king could cure someone of the skin disease called scrofula by laying his hands on the stricken.  Henry VIII, who certainly had the power to detach the heads of subjects if not by his own hands then by others, is shown using them (his hands, I mean, not the detached heads) to banish scrofula from some fortunate man above.  The King's Touch itself probably derived from the power of Jesus and the apostles, and even some saints, to heal by laying their hands on the stricken.

Catholic priests, of course, have--or at least had (it's been some time)--the power to absolve, pardon that is to say, some sins by virtue of the Sacrament of Penance or Confession.  They possessed the power because they were in effect the authorized representatives of Christ.  The Catholic Church believes itself to be in direct succession the heir of the apostles.  It is the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church, after all.  Thus, its agents may forgive certain sins as it's thought the apostles did.

A King, Queen and I suppose some would say a president is in some sense treated, at least, as sacrosanct.  There's something about their person while they hold their office that renders them untouchable, incapable of interference.  There's a hint of mysticism in this.  Our current president's lawyers have opined that a president as the chief officer and representative  of the law of the land cannot obstruct the law, as the president is, in a way, the law as much as a person can be.  The president thus becomes the law incarnate.  The president cannot obstruct himself, right?

In any case, I think it's fair to say that for quite some time, and perhaps ever since we've had Kings and Queens or their equivalent, or priests or their equivalents, it's been accepted that certain persons, because of their special status or capacity, have the authority--the power--to pardon or absolve others of their crimes or sins, and even to cure them of certain diseases.  But I don't think it's been accepted that certain persons have the authority to pardon or absolve themselves.  Ego te absolvo was the formula used by priests, in nomine patri, fili et spiritus sancti.  "I absolve you in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit."  Never, as far as I know, has anyone ever said "ego absolvo", i.e. "I absolve myself."

Our current president may be the first (and one can hope last) troll president, in the sense of an Internet troll.  He seems to delight in antagonizing, offending, disrupting discourse, specific people or groups of people through the use of inflammatory, disturbing and even ridiculous statements.  So there are those who think he's made the claim he can pardon himself merely to provoke.  I hope that's the case and that he's merely intent on being annoying, as is his wont, or merely engaged in the kind of tactical display the more brutish of those in power sometimes practice.  But he may in fact mean it.

While the president is in office, he/she is immune from prosecution.  That seems to have been determined by the bulk of legal authorities; that the president is merely subject to impeachment if the designated crimes are committed while in office.  Once out of office, the president is subject to prosecution, however.  So, the concern would be that a president would pardon himself of crimes committed by him/her while in office.  In that case those crimes, having been pardoned, could not be the basis for prosecution even after the president leaves office. The courts haven't weighed in on the idea of self-pardoning.  Perhaps they'll have a chance to do so soon.

The Supreme Being and Revolution

In 1794, during the excesses of the French Revolution, the National Convention established by Decree what has since been called The Cult of the Supreme Being.  It seems to have been created entirely by Maximilien Robespierre, called "the incorruptible."

It was one of those cults that last as long as their leader, although it wasn't formally outlawed until Napoleon outlawed it and other cults in 1802, except, it may be said, the cult of Napoleon himself (but note the small "c"; Napoleon never considered himself God, or even a god).  Napoleon had reached an agreement with the Catholic Church, which The Cult of the Supreme Being and presumably other outlawed cults had sought to replace.

The Catholic Church had to be replaced by something, evidently.  Or so thought Robespierre, and it seems other leaders of the Revolution.  For some it was to be replaced by what was called The Cult of Reason.  That cult didn't have much in the way of a divinity, and didn't hold with the doctrine of the immortality of the soul, however, and was considered a kind of atheism.  Robespierre thought a divinity and belief in an immortal soul appropriate and even necessary for morality and social order, and it seems he even believed in a Supreme Being, though one consistent with the Enlightenment, not with the Church.

Thus The Cult of the Supreme Being envisioned, unsurprisingly, a Supreme Being; one which created the universe and set it on its way to operate according to natural laws, discernible by the use of reason.  Those natural laws formed the basis for morality, and their application resulted in a virtuous life, virtuous people and a virtuous nation, which would be a republic.

The Cult of the Supreme Being became the declared religion of France, for a brief time.  And so as shown in the image above the French people, or at least the National Convention speaking as the French people, asserted belief in the Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul.

Having become the national religion it was thought only appropriate, by Robespierre and likely others, that it be celebrated in some fashion.  Therefore, a Festival of the Supreme Being was held in June, 1794.  The artist David was put in charge, and the festival was, according to contemporary accounts, neatly and precisely choreographed.  It featured a statute of Atheism which was duly burned, a mountain constructed of mostly paper-mache, and a pillar on which a statute of Hercules was placed, atop the mountain.

Robespierre and other notables then climbed the mountain, and Robespierre himself gave a speech from its summit.  There was singing, and people marched about the mountain.  Accounts indicate that the festival was popular.  But Robespierre was criticized for making it appear he was the messenger of the Supreme Being, if not a god himself.  I wonder whether the comparison with Moses on Mount Sinai was made.

Like the Enlightenment, The Cult of the Supreme Being looked back to ancient Greece and Rome for inspiration, and its principles seem consistent with the pagan philosophies of the ancients, even with Stoicism to a degree.  In itself, this cult seems noble, and certainly harmless.  Just what appeal it would have for most people of the time is unclear, though.

1794 was a busy year for Robespierre.  He created a religion.   Then, contrary to it, he inaugurated the Reign of Terror.  Then he was executed by his opponents, who had by that time had quite enough of Robespierre, the Terror and perhaps the Supreme Being as well.  He had his encounter with the guillotine like so many others, many of them his own victims.  But it was a time of extraordinary violence, if what we read is true, and the guillotine may have presented a merciful manner of death in comparison to those inflicted by the mobs which arose, or were summoned.

It's interesting that lawyers were so involved in the French and American Revolutions.  Robespierre was one, so was Danton, so were many others.  Lawyers made up the majority of the National Assembly and its successor, the National Convention. In the French Revolution I suspect that lawyers played a leading role in part at least because they were orators, and trained in rhetoric.

The lawyers of the French Revolution were very different from those of the American who. together with rich merchants and farmers made up the majority of American revolutionaries.  Compared with the lawyers of the French Revolution, who seemed most successful when whipping up fervor in their fellows and the populace and were themselves often frenzied by what they thought to be the injustices of monarchical France, the lawyers of the American revolution seem at most highly annoyed by the injustices they faced, and their contribution was primarily in creating the founding documents and institutions of a nation.  The lawyers of the American revolution ultimately were, and remained, lawyers.  Those of the French Revolution became something very different.

The French Revolution was the Enlightenment gone mad.  The American Revolution also had its basis in the Enlightenment, but wasn't mad at all.  Was this due to differences in national character or culture, or something else?  It certainly wasn't a result of The Cult of the Supreme Being, or that of Reason.  But the French Revolution serves to remind us that reason may show us that certain things, people, institutions are wrong or undesirable and may even show us what is right, but we're always inclined to dispense with it if we can, especially when outraged.  Or when seeking power.

Sancta Mater Ecclesia

Holy Mother Church, or Sancta Mater Ecclesia in Latin.  The One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, just as it's said, also in Latin, in the interesting picture above.  Or, according to the inscription at the Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome, built at the order of the Emperor Constantine and dedicated in 324 C.E. by Pope Sylvester I, omnium urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater et caput, the mother and head of all the churches in the city and the world.

Old Mother Church, in truth.  Quite old, really, as age is measured in human history.  As I've posted before, I have a sentimental fondness for it as it was at one time, during my youth.  It gave a certain joy to my youth, as we as altar boys said its God did as we went to God's altar, or if not joy a kind of distinction. 

It's curious how we refer to institutions, particularly those we look back upon in fondness, as "mother."  We call our old schools Alma Mater.  I suppose we can call Mother Church the same, as it can be said to have nourished us Catholics for a time.  But nourished us in what exactly?

It must be admitted that one thing Mother Church encouraged, probably throughout its long history, is reason, or more particularly reasoning, as it was developed before the Church came to exist.  That may seem an odd thing to say, given that the beliefs of Catholicism, taken literally, seem unreasonable.  That's likely why they often are not taken literally, particularly by those believers who reason or employ reason in its defense.

Regardless, though, I think it fair to say that the Church has always honored reason and reasoning.  The Church Fathers employed reasoning in condemning the pagans.  Tertullian, a lawyer, knew reasoning in the form of rhetoric at least.  That was a lawyer's tool, particularly in those times.  The Church Fathers, like Augustine, knew their philosophy (pagan, of course) well, and were educated in the manner in which ancient pagans were educated and had been for centuries.  The great pagan philosophers didn't take pagan religion literally, either.  Why should Christian philosophers?

So, I think the early Church soon abandoned the position seemingly taken by Paul, rejecting the "wisdom of the wise."  Instead, it accepted it; assimilated it, in fact, and made it serve the purposes of the Church.

I think its also fair to say that the Church has always honored culture, education, history.  It kept the wisdom of the ancients alive, through the work of its monks, even if they functioned as mere scriveners, patiently copying the great works of the past.  As a result it fostered great thinkers even during what are called the Dark Ages; Abelard, Duns Scotus, Aquinas, Bonaventure, William of Ockham; it's an impressive list.  It borrowed from the heathen as needed in order to do so, and so rediscovered Aristotle via learned Moslems.  Aristotle so impressed churchmen he was called "The Philosopher."  Thomas Aquinas famously modified Aristotelian thought so as to make it the foundation of Catholic philosophy--known as Thomism.  It still has its adherents today.

For these services Mother Church deserves honor.  I wonder, though, if in inculcating its sons and daughters with a love or reasoning, culture, history and education Old Mother Church gave her children the learning needed to lead them to think her cupboard of reason was, ultimately, bare, as that of Old Mother Hubbard was bare of nourishment.

Learning can be dangerous to a religion, especially when learning involves fostering the capacity to reason, to think logically, to ask questions.  Eventually, those questions address the fundamental premises of Catholicism and Christianity, e.g. the divinity of Jesus, Original Sin, Heaven and Hell, the Trinity, the redeeming character of the sacraments, transubstantiation.  What could be their justification?  How can they be justified, in modern times?  How could Jesus be both God and man?  What sense does the seemingly endless list of sins, so specific to human beings, and a belief in a God-man, make given the vastness of the universe and given that our world is such a tiny, tiny part of it?

To someone trained to reason, recourse to revelation and faith is unpersuasive.  It's a kind of resignation.

Mother Church certainly has managed to survive for centuries, so perhaps it hasn't arranged its own destruction after all.  Perhaps it hasn't undermined the fundamental beliefs which make it distinctive.  But it seems to me that it does, necessarily.  And so a choice must be made, to be Catholic by disregarding reason or accepting that fundamental beliefs or premises are not to be "taken literally."  But that, it seems to me, is to accept a Catholicism, a Christianity, which has lost all which makes it distinctive.

The Significance of Ritual

Since I ceased attending mass and being an at least nominal member of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, I've thought now and then of joining a Unitarian Universalist Congregation.  That association has had many distinguished and even admirable members.  The Church has had its share of those as well, of course, but there always seems to be something peculiar about them, like Cardinal Newman and his belief that the "visible world" is unreal.  No commitment to a disturbingly human kind of God is required.  I find it increasingly difficult to worship a God that has human characteristics.  Unitarians are actively involved in good works, which is to their credit.

Perhaps I should say "revere" instead of "worship" when referring to God.  If worship requires praying to or petitioning or placating, or participating in set practices which are expressive of devotion, I stopped worshipping even before I stopped attending mass.  I would stand up, kneel and sit down when others did so, true, but wouldn't sing the largely silly songs that made up the liturgy and avoided as much as possible giving to others "the sign of peace," which for reasons unclear to me is done by shaking hands.

As best as I can recall, Jesus is not said to have gone about shaking hands with his apostles or with anyone else for that matter.  So, we don't shake hands as we do other things in memory of him.  The Gospels state he said "peace be with you" at least once, however, and suppose we may say it as well in his memory.  Shaking hands in imitation of Christ doesn't seem right, though.  The sign of peace must be the creation of some inspired liturgist, then.

Based on what little reading I've done, it seems Unitarians don't worship (as I define it) when they gather.  This should serve to attract me, but does not.  They have readings, it seems, though not necessarily from the Bible or from anything else.  Unfortunately it seems they also sing.  I find myself wondering why.

The simple truth is I have no desire to go somewhere on a Sunday and listen to people read and sing.  It doesn't matter to me what they choose to read or to sing; I don't want to watch or hear them do either or, worse yet, be called upon to read and sing myself and be suspect if I do not.  It would make sense to do so if failing to do so constituted a mortal sin assuring an eternity in hell, of course, but absent such a penalty there is no point as far as I'm concerned.  If one isn't worshipping, though, there is presumably something about gathering, reading and singing which serves some other purpose.  But not it appears for me.

But still, I find myself thinking now and then that something should be done, if not on a Sunday then on some other day, expressing a reverence for the divine, and that it should be done in a group of people.  It's possible I feel this because of the years I spent genuflecting, kneeling, standing, sitting, even singing, in a Catholic Church.  Or it may be the case that we humans have a need to acknowledge the divine with and before others and to do so in a special, prescribed way, which seems to us to have acquired divine sanction.

I'm inclined to think that ritual has and always will play a part in our affairs.  Certainly ancient peoples engaged in ritual, and felt that ritual had always to be performed in a certain way.  In Graeco-Roman religion any departure from the form of the ritual required that the participants begin it again and again until they got it right.  Even those who disdained traditional religious rituals sought to create their own--think of the Freemasons with their convoluted and contrived ceremonies, for example, or the preposterous forms dreamt up by leaders of the French Revolution to celebrate the Supreme Being.

When it comes to ritual, the High Latin Mass was quite a spectacle.  I'm not aware of any modern ritual which can compare with it.  Perhaps my assessment of the significance of ritual is a kind of nostalgia.  It seems clear the Unitarians have nothing similar.  It seems clear the Catholic Church has nothing similar, now.

If we're creatures of ritual, the absence of ritual must disturb us mightily.  Are we seeking some substitute for it?  If so I think the rituals of the future will be garish and barbaric.  The drab nature of what rituals we still have leaves us unsatisfied and we hunt for something which will be colorful and tinged with mysticism.  The Old Church understood the need for ritual quite well.  What person or institution or religion will grasp and exploit this need in the future?

Super Saints!

I refer to John XXIII and John Paul II, who are super, of course, because they were canonized faster than a speeding bullet compared with what has been the norm for the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church (OHCAC), if not for its God, who was indeed the God of my joy and my youth.  They are the Super Santos!

I wonder what is in the mind of the Pontifex Maximus in allowing this simultaneous saint-saying.  Not just one but two saints are proclaimed, unique in the long history of the OHCAC.  But then there are not just one, but two, popes.  They are the Pontifices Maximi I suppose (right declension?) and together they have performed a kind of miracle of their own it seems.

Not that miracles are what they used to be.  It once was the case that no less than two attested miracles were required for sainthood, but it seems that is no longer true.  It's unclear there need even be one anymore.  And worse (for someone like me) is the disappearance of the office of the advocatus diaboli.  Yes, it's true that even the Devil should have a lawyer (no doubt he is one but is wise enough not to represent himself), but to have someone formally involved in the process to question whether canonization is appropriate seems only prudent, and creates at least the appearance of impartiality.

Has the OHCAC gone saint-mad?  Are there more prospective saints in the batter's box?

I've found the active pontiff (as opposed to the inactive one) to be an interesting and in some ways admirable Vicar of Christ.  I like his apparent humility, his self-reliance, his indifference to the baroque ceremony and the grand isolation of the papacy.  It seems also that he is not (yet?) the willing or unwilling slave of the Vatican bureaucracy.  He has said remarkable things, which is no small achievement for the leader of such an ancient institution.  He may even do remarkable things, even with doctrine, and that would be a great thing indeed.  Canonizing two of his recent predecessors seems somehow a step backward.

That's what may be behind it, of course.  It may be that this is a means of placating the traditionalists, and even an effort to assuage at one and the same time the Vatican II fans and their enemies in the Church.  My feelings for the Vatican II reforms are ambiguous, but what objections I have are more aesthetic than substantive.  Vatican II brought about the guitar masses I was obliged to sit through in my youth, and the banality of the liturgy, the gutting of which continues to this day.  I didn't have to sit through the old Latin mass, as I was a participant in it; as an accomplished but perhaps ugly altar boy judging from the fact I was never molested by a priest.  I was an Initiate, at least of the Lesser Mysteries of the Universal Church.  What mysteries are left for Catholics now?

If this is, then, more a political maneuver than anything else, I suppose it is understandable if not honorable.  If saints we must have there will continue to be saints made, and some unmade, like my favorite, St. Christopher, whose medal still adorns my chest after all these years.

I am fond of him if only because he became a saint by virtue of a kind of practical joke by the Deity (at least as I recall the story).  What seemed to be a small child asked to be carried through a river to the other side.  The child, of course, was God wearing a somewhat familiar disguise to those of us used to the symbols of the modern Christmas, but which may not have been familiar to Christopher.  The Divine Child rather mischievously made himself heavier and heavier as poor Christopher tried to make his way through the water, but he bore the child across nonetheless, no doubt cursing himself for agreeing to help.  But he was rewarded for his effort.   Thus he is (was) the patron saint of travelers, and will see you safe to your destination.  Or he would have, in any case, in the days of his glory.  Now he is a kind of stranger to the Church, as am I.

Perhaps, though, "saint" is being redefined.  Perhaps sainthood will be reserved for outstanding individuals of the Catholic faith, people of great influence or inspiring example.  The influence of these two saints in particular can't be questioned.  If that's to be the case, then miracles would seem unnecessary as conditions precedent; they would become a kind of extra, or bonus, qualification.  Becoming a saint would be similar to receiving a Noble Prize. 

Will the newest saints be patron saints of anything, and if so what?  Patron saints of speed, perhaps, their visages to appear on medals made for jet pilots and race-car drivers?  Do people still pray to saints these days?  One must wonder who will pray to them, the Super Saints, and for what. 

The Queen of the May

I refer to Mary, the mother of Jesus, in her capacity as Queen of the May, a title she holds in addition to multiple versions of "Our Lady", generally of something or someplace, in the religion of my joy and my youth--or, at least, my youth.

I can remember her crowning fairly well, in fact.  I even remember snatches of the song we sung:  "O Mary we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels and Queen of the May."  For some reason, I keep remembering the lyric as "Queen of the Rosary" instead of "Queen of the May."  Long ago but not all that far away.  We lived in Michigan then, and I was very young and in a way impressed by the ceremony, and with Mary crowned with flowers and the beginning of spring in the upper Midwest of our Great Republic.  Spring was eagerly awaited and still is in those parts.

Marian devotion is an interesting aspect of the Catholic faith.  It has a long enough history, but in some respects it is also a very modern development.  Mary is mentioned in what we called the Apostles' Creed (the Nicene Creed) as semper virgini; the idea of the Immaculate Conception has been around a very long time.  The Assumption, though, is quite recent in the long history of the Church, pronounced by Pius XII.  Robert Lowell's poem Beyond the Alps addressed that proclamation of the Pontifex Maximus.  He envisioned Mary rising "gorgeous as a jungle bird."  It's a beautiful picture.  John Paul II had a particularly intense devotion to her.  Again, interesting.

Shameless popery as the bastard progeny of the Reformation would no doubt say, or have said in any case.  The worship of the mother of Christ is considered a kind of paganism to some, or a mutation of monotheism.  Alas, that is what I find attractive in it.  The vestiges of paganism in the Church render it far more interesting to me than the dreary, colorless faith and churches of Luther and Calvin and other Protestant denominations.  There is a human truth and need involved in the ancient devotion to the mother goddesses such as Isis and Magna Mater.  I'm frankly baffled by the fact that the Catholic Church has sought since Vatican II to become more and more Protestant, and to me more and more dull.  Perhaps my religious sense is too aesthetic.

I used to go to Novenas with my mother, there to call upon Mary in her capacity as Our Lady of Perpetual Help.  Definitely not "Our Lady of Perpetual Responsibility" created by Garrison Keillor.  That's amusing of course, but Mary is traditionally a comforter and someone who intervenes with the sterner God, Father and/or Son, to forgive if not forget.  The hymns sung were lovely, particularly "Immaculate Mary" and "Mother Dearest, Mother Fairest."  It's unsurprising that Mother's Day is celebrated in May.

Springtime is necessarily welcome in the northern countries, and it's appropriate to celebrate it, regardless of the manner of celebration, I think.  The Queen of the May has other incarnations as well in northern Europe, where yearly some bewildered girl takes the place of the Queen in parades.  It's the season of rebirth of course, which has been considered a time of redemption and resurrection for millenia.

We can't wholly detach ourselves from what we are, and we are thinking organisms in a vast universe which is overwhelming.  That we take comfort in what we may of that universe is unsurprising.  We only flounder, I think, when we try to take comfort in something beyond it.

Habemus Papam

We have a pope, yes.  We will shortly have another, though barring the death of the current Pontifex Maximus he (there's no she, of course) will ascend (there can be no other word) to the Throne of St. Peter while his predecessor yet lives.  As we all know by now, this is quite unusual in the long history of the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church.  The last time it took place was when there was more than one pope, which must have rendered things somewhat messy.  What a time that must have been, with the highest priests excommunicating one another.  Excommunication meant something then, but not perhaps as much as it did when a Holy Roman Emperor stood in the snow at Canossa, seeking penance.

That was just a Holy Roman Emperor, of course; the emperor of something neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire as has been famously said.  It's hard to imagine a real emperor of the real Rome doing the same, even after Christianity so ruthlessly suppressed the pagan religions and divergent Christian creeds.  It happens that the last time there was a resignation, or abdication, the Church was in its slow decline as a secular power.  It's astonishing it still wields power of a sort even now.

That's what makes this interesting, I think.  But there has also always been a fascination with the pope, the Vatican, and the huge male bureaucracy of the Church, which is in a sense a remnant of the Roman Empire itself.  If it is a dead thing, it is shrouded in history.  There is no institution quite like it.  In a way, it is a ghost of the ancient West, but a restless ghost that actively haunts us. 

Benedict's decision is probably wise.  He's unquestionably old, and if he's sick as well, let him have his rest.  John Paul II became a pitiable figure.  Perhaps he felt that his deterioration would somehow inspire the world, but I think not.  I've seen deterioration, and it is uninspiring. 

It seems Europe has lost much of its religiosity.  Catholicism in America is a strange thing.  "Cafeteria Catholics" abound.  There are few strident, militant, ecstatic or devoted Catholics here, Opus Dei notwithstanding.  We love our conspiracy theories, of course, so there will always be those who read The Da Vinci Code or watch television shows devoted to some such things, but this is not an expression of the power of the Church.  Those who proclaim the United States to be a Christian nation don't seem to be Catholics.  But it seems the Church is still a growing thing in what's called the developing world.  That is presumably where the focus of the Church should be, then, but it's difficult to believe the next pope will be of the developing world.  If he is, that will be remarkable indeed.  Nonetheless, if the future of the Church lies with those Catholics outside of Europe and North America, some acknowledgement of this will be necessary if the Church is to survive.

The Church has seen much and weathered a great deal over its long history.  It will likely weather the horror of priestly abuse of children and the perpetuation of it for which the institution bears responsibility.  There's not much it can do now, I think, in terms of opening its windows unless it does something like dispense with celibacy or allow women priests.  Lately, we've seen forbearance of the saying of the Latin mass.  Perhaps we'll see a resurgence of traditional Catholicism.  I tend to think that the grasp of Rome will weaken, and the Church will become more localized, with congregations doing more and more of what they think is appropriate.

We should pay it some attention, though.  While the Church in its infancy was influenced by the entire culture of the ancient Mediterranean, which may be said to have included that of the Near East and Egypt, as it grew and aged it became Latinized, a creature as it were of the Western empire and of the barbarian nations which replaced it.  It extended its sway as Europe did.  It became entirely Western in its goals and orientation.  What we see of it in the future may well be part of the death throes of a purely Western civilization. 

The Devil and Rick Santorum

The intrusion not just of religion, but of a particular kind of religion, into the presidential campaign of our beloved United States is disturbing but not entirely surprising.  The people of this nation revel in public displays of affectation, particularly when it comes to religious affectation, and there is a certain subset of the population which makes up a portion of the Republican Party and what is called the Right which expects this of our politicians.  But it seems that others do so as well, as we see our President thinks it necessary to tell us his religious beliefs inform his political beliefs.

It is somewhat surprising that a Catholic candidate is indulging in these displays and being lauded for it by "social conservatives."  This is still in many ways a Protestant country (though that is changing), and American protestants have never given up thinking of the Roman Church as the Great Whore of Babylon.  But politics makes strange bedfellows, to coin a phrase.

I have a sentimental fondness for the Catholic Church and its God--the God of my joy and my youth, as we altar boys used to say with our knees resting on marble or some kind of stone, even in Latin until Vatican II sent its great wind blowing through the Church, making it even less universal than it had already become by that time.  I have little respect, though, for those religions which insist that there is a devil, though the concept of the devil has been the source of many great works of literature which are worthy of respect.  Satan is in some respects a great literary figure; Milton's titanic rebel comes to mind.

The devil as a malignant, evil being or force presents certain problems for the religious, I think.  One can't help but wonder why his existence is tolerated by God, who presumably would be allowing him to wreck havoc as he does if God is all-powerful.  Addressing this difficulty by concluding God is not all-powerful doesn't seem very satisfying.  Of course, those who believe in a devil manage to find an explanation for his existence of one kind or another, or simply dismiss the dilemma as yet another instance of God moving in mysterious ways.

A more practical problem is that such a conception of the devil, to me at least, inclines us to excuse, or even deny, our responsibility for the evil we do.  Who are we to resist the Prince of Darkness?  We are deceived, overwhelmed by his machinations when we do evil, we have been turned astray.  We are poor little lambs and have lost our way.

Of course we will also say that we should not have listened to the Father of Lies, or that we should have sought God's assistance and so evaded him, or that if we had been truly good, full of grace would not have done evil.  In this way we can say that we have done evil and sin when we do so.  We can maintain that we are ultimately responsible, to God that is.  But it seems to me that if we believe in Satan in this fashion we at least manage to insist that we share responsibility for the evil we do with a powerful, supernatural being necessarily even more responsible for that evil.  I think this a craven, cowardly point of view.  We should accept full responsibility for our acts and omissions.

Worse, the belief that there is some powerful evil force at large that is apart from us and has set its sights on us inclines us not to seek the abolition of evil by transforming ourselves and our environment.  We look to be saved from evil by some higher power rather than taking the steps available to us (beyond praying) to control ourselves, our communities and institutions.

Satan hasn't set his sights on America.  We are quite capable of destroying it all by ourselves, and may well do so if we fail to take responsibility for the decisions we make and fail to make them intelligently.

The Appeal of Santayana

I'm given to speculate regarding just what it is that attracts me to this philosopher, this man who was, I think, more than a philosopher--a kind of Renaissance Man to the extent someone who lived most of his life in the 20th Century can be considered such.  Not "just" a philosopher, but a noted poet and novelist.  I wonder sometimes if there is something of the old Catholic in him which speaks to the old Catholic in me, or something of the Latin in him that speaks to the Latin in me.

He writes so well and in such a fashion I think it's sometimes difficult to think of him as writing philosophy.  He doesn't seem to write of things as a philosopher would, though it is clear that he is engaged in a most piercing analysis of the subject matter he addresses.  Perhaps that in itself is the basis for his appeal.  He seems both rigorous and artful, even artistic, in his approach to things.

In certain ways it seems that his concerns and assertions are contradictory, but I think this is part of a universalism which perhaps may be said to have characterized Catholicism at one point, paganism as well, at one point; that can even be said to have been pretended to by Rome, or dreamt of by it's more noble exponents, like Virgil, who wrote of the skill of the Roman being that of ruling the various and dissimilar nations in peace.  He respects and acknowledges the place of ritual, ceremony, art, mysticism in human life, but he also subjects them to analysis--and thereby elucidates their flaws and limitations--even while honoring them and although he seems to believe that they are necessary aspects of the way we live.  He does the same, I think, to science and philosophy.  He is a proponent of reason but speaks of its limitations as well, and accepts them.

As should be apparent, I find it hard to think of him without thinking of Wallace Stevens' poem about him, To an Old Philosopher in Rome.  In that poem we see glimpses of the Catholic and the Roman, sometimes as day to day appearances and perhaps sometimes more than that.  "Total grandeur of total edifice, Chosen by an inquisitor of structures, For himself...."  It amazes me that such a man should have been so completely devoted to naturalism and yet devoted to those characteristics of humanity and those works of humanity which evoke seemingly the desire if not the claim that there is something more, something greater, than nature.  One feels as if he noted and painstakingly studied what it is to be human in all respects, without bias and even coldly and with no illusions, and yet at the same time appreciative of a certain grandeur or at least the capacity for grandeur.

There is something of the stoic in him, I think, that comes with the acknowledgement of limitations and even to a certain extent the inevitability if not appropriateness of those limitations.  Something of the pragmatist as well, though it seems a very individual pragmatism, more like Peirce than James or Dewey.  Dewey's philosophy was a very social philosophy, and Santayana does not strike me as a social thinker.

But there's something else as well, and I think that something may well be the better, or at least the singular, part of him  I'm finding it very hard to define let alone describe just what that is, though I suspect that if I ever do so I'll have discovered what it is that makes him such a unique and--to me at least--fascinating figure.