St Lucy...

It's St Lucy's Day to-day (in the Gregorian Kalendar). I suppose you could say that St Lucy serves as a satellite for Christmass Day. During Advent we await the coming of the LORD as a weary people in darkness and the cold and the dark amidmost we venerate St Lucy in a festival of light. Years ago I attended a carol service on St Lucy's Day where a wonderful sermon was preached connecting the saint with the antient Hebrews in the darkness before the dawn (that is, the birth of Christ). I wish I could remember it! Instead, perhaps this passage from The Lord of the Rings might resonate with you?

Frodo sighed and was asleep before the words were spoken. Sam struggled with his own weariness, and he took Frodo's hand; and there he sat silent till deep night fell. Then at last, to keep himself awake, he crawled from the hiding-place and looked out. The land seemed full of creaking and cracking and sly noises, but there was no sound of voice or of foot. Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope, for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master's, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo's side, and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep. (The Lord of the Rings, Book V, Chapter II).

Housewife superstar...

I have never seen Dame Edna live but I've always wanted to. Here's why!

Ecumenism...

Fr Hunwicke has written about the meeting of pope Francis and patriarch Bartholomew and I thought I'd say something about ecumenism.

I find myself in sympathy with those efforts that are strictly ecumenical, in the abstract. However I find all the joint declarations, photographs, talk about "progress," watered-down liturgies and general pussyfooting around completely spurious and dangerous. Indeed it reminds me of the lottery in Nineteen Eighty-Four. No prizes for guessing who wins - nobody, ever. And what do the ordinary people get from it? Nothing. The simple simply do not know or care what the pope is getting up to meeting some foreign prelate in a far off country and they are probably completely unaware of what goes on in the Baptist, Methodist or Anglican church in the next street let alone in a Byzantine or Monophysite church. For prelates to declare unity while not carrying the simple folk along with them is like so many castles in the air. Church unity, if there is ever to be such a thing, will have to come from the ground upwards, not the other way around. And, I'm sorry, but people are not interested. They are devoted to their parishes; if the existence of other Christians occurs to them at all, it's in some incidental context, like walking past another church on the way to the post office or, if you're a Traddie, in your summary condemnations of all non-Traddies. You can't change people like this so why bother trying? And even if unity were declared (but certainly not realised), what difference would it make? People would go on as they did before, if you changed nothing; and if you did change things, they would be disrupted and ill-used.

As for the problems inherent to the whole process, I simply shake my head in disbelief. All these declarations, these aliturgical convocations, the relativistic and wholly complacent inter-communion services, the smiling faces; it doesn't foster neighbourliness or improve things; it just pisses me off.
I don't suppose that breaking off ecumenical relations with a particular ecclesial body for the sake of Truth would be the done thing in these days of relativism and spinelessness. This maddeningly weak and pathetic culture of desperately trying not to offend people, inaptly termed "political correctness," has seeped even into the Church! None dare speak their mind nowadays! If everyone simply said: "I believe this, my church fortifies me in this belief and I will not compromise," then we could all sit down to tea together and try to exercise the virtue of charity, ut omnes unum sint. The Westminster Confession and the Roman catechism are irreconcilable; modern Roman liturgical books and the Byzantine rite are, except in some superficial similarities, manifestly at variance and expressive of two completely different traditions, liturgical theologies and of faith. The Anglican ordination of women cannot be reconciled to the constant praxis of the Church; need I say more? There are hosts of other problems; saints canonised by different churches being brought into some nebulous, future "united Church," each condemning the traditions of the other; reconciliation of liturgical traditions, subtle points of Christology and Trinitarian Theology; the Sacraments, their number, theologies; pastoral theology, monasticism and religious orders, the Kalendar; the ministry of women in a general sense; vocations; church polity; biblical and liturgical translations; the list goes on and on.

I wonder what they're saying? That is, the pope and patriarch. Do you think it's something like "everything is hunky dory; there are no serious canonical, liturgical, theological differences between us. We're all all right. Let's share our sacraments together in a wondrous relativistic fudge with complete disregard for our traditions and the sentiments of our faithful."

Ecumenism, as practised to-day, is one of the worst and most ludicrous heresies ever to plague Christ's Church.

Tolkien's Jonah...

"At the roots of the mountains. I went down into the countries beneath the earth, unto the peoples of the past. But you raised up my life from the pit, Yahweh, my God." Jonah 2:7, from Tolkien's own translation.

Compelled, as they were, to compile a translation in timeless English (a dead term) Alexander Jones wrote to Tolkien in January 1957 and expressed his profound longing to "have an English Bible translation from such a hand." I don't know what he expected; Tolkien's right English goodliness of speechcraft is hardly "timeless," and Tolkien's original translation of Jonah (from French into English) was so heavily revised for the 1966 publication that it ceased to be his own. When asked to contribute, Tolkien sent a sample translation of Isaiah's prophecy, even so:

Heavens hearken, earth give ear, for Jahveh speaks: I have brought up sons and caused them to grow, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows its keeper, and the ass the crib of its master; Israel knows nothing, my people understand nothing.

It's poetically alliterative but rather dumbed down towards the end. Compare this to the Authorized Version:

Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth: for the LORD hath spoken, I have nourished and brought up children, and they have rebelled against me. The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's crib: but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider.

Tolkien's attempt here reminds me very much of Mgr Ronald Knox's New Testament. Knox's translation is a marvellous scholarly feat but I always got the impression that its style was somewhat artificial. Take one of the dearest moments in St John's Gospel, for example:

Woman, Jesus said to her, why art thou weeping? For whom art thou searching? She supposed that it must be the gardener, and said to him, If it is thou, Sir, that hast carried him off, tell me where thou hast put him, and I will take him away. Jesus said to her, Mary. And she turned and said to him, Rabboni (which is the Hebrew for Master). Then Jesus said, Do not cling to me thus; I have not yet gone up to my Father's side. Return to my brethren, and tell them this: I am going up to him who is my Father and your Father, who is my God and your God.

I mean, if intelligibility or applicability is the desired end why retain obsolete pronouns? Do men find "saith" more difficult than "said," or "borne," for "carried?" What you end up with is something dull and uninteresting.

Five years ago Tolkien's original translation of Jonah was going to be published in its own handsome cover. For some legal reason it was shelved. It would have been marvellous to see Jonah's prayer turned into alliterative verse; the style most dear to Tolkien. I mean it would be unsuitable for liturgical use but in one's private devotions...

Friendship...

I initially published this article in August 2014 but it was brought to my attention the other day by a friend of mine, who may or may not be included in the narrative, who asked who the persons described might be. Naturally, I am not going to reveal names and some of the names of churches are made up (but most are real). One of the names given is real, because that person has no interest in liturgy, does not read my blog and would not necessarily mind the description I have given of him (or her), but the rest are either chosen at random, rearranged or have some significance, though that significance may be purely personal or become apparent to them in time. My attention being turned to this article the other day reminded me of one of my mother's typically acerbic answers to the many questions I put to her over the years about my relationships with other people. I said, now many years ago: "mummy, why don't people like me?" And she said: "because you can't keep your mouth shut." Of course, it did not occur to me upon my friend's enquiry about this article that my indiscretion or bluntness had anything at all to do with it and that his or her asking me about it was just frank curiosity. The article is very much the same as before but has been expanded somewhat that I may reflect upon my indiscretion I have also included accounts of three other friends excluded heretofore from the narrative.

As the years have gone by, friends of mine have come and gone. When I was at school, from about the age of 8 years, my best friend was Alex. We were a match of opposites. I was intensely religious, he was largely indifferent to religion (he eventually embraced atheism); in fact one day, during a Religious Education lesson, somebody expressed an opinion on Mark's Gospel at variance with the teaching of the Church so I raised my hand and bluntly told the teacher that anybody who dissented from Church teaching must leave the school. Alex turned to me afterwards and said: "you would say that, wouldn't you!" I was always instinctively conservative; he was very liberal. I was interested in history and languages; he was interested in science and mathematics. The only thing we really had in common was a sense of intellectual superiority. When we achieved our A Level results and went our separate ways, he to study Mathematics and Philosophy at Cambridge, I to study Divinity at Heythrop, we fell out of contact and both of us met new friends at university. Years later, but still some years ago, we met again through Facebook. I remember meeting him at Charing Cross railway station in my best suit - the idea was that I would go for a "more successful than I really am" look - and we went for tea at Browns. Over the course of several months, I met him and his girlfriend (who disliked me intensely), and it was, for a while, very good to catch up, even if I did at whiles perceive the wisdom of our parting. The friendship waned, however, after one evening. Alex had broken up with his girlfriend and, in a spirit of experimentation, we decided to go to a gay bar in Greenwich. Perhaps it was a bitter blend of boredom and beer but he made several homosexual advances towards me, which I rejected, and then invited me to his flat. It was raining, I had no umbrella and I was very much put out so I did the right thing and embarked upon my train homeward. Later, after ignoring his phone calls, I wrote to him saying that I wasn't offended per se but to myself thought that maintaining even the veneer of friendship was too much of an effort. I cut him off and since that evening he has made no attempts to contact me.

When I went to Heythrop in 2006 I met Lewis. Lewis was wonderful. His mind was marvellously subtle; he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Church history and spoke four languages fluently. He was also very attractive. He was a year ahead of me but we took Latin and Greek together and sometimes he would make an appearance at Corpus Christi in Covent Garden (though that was seldom). He was clearly homosexual so during my "traditionalist" days a grievance but lulled to sleep came between us. I was obedient to the Church's magisterium and not only accepted my being queer but protested the fact - in other words, I would not be ordained however much I wanted it and however much that might impede my own future happiness. I was also, in those far off days, still under the delusion that homosexuality was not so rife among the clergy as is now seen to be. But Lewis seemed to flout the rule and, for his piety, that cross would remain to drag him earthwards. When he graduated (with a first) he went to do a Masters degree in Celtic Christianity at an overseas university so I joined Facebook to stay in contact. He used to read my blog and, being a Roman Catholic (indeed in holy orders), took offence at some of the more intemperate posts. I used to send him a Christmass card and write to him occasionally; he would in turn write back with prayers and blessings. I last wrote to him at Epiphany 2014 and received no reply. Whenever I think of our antient friendship I am assailed by the feeling that I didn't do enough. I loved him dearly.

I met David through a mutual friend. I never much liked him though he claims to have loved me with every inch of his manhood. I found him repulsive and cheap from the start and only met him during concourse of other folk, occasions which gave him opportunity to flirt shamelessly with me. He was completely oblivious to my disdain. You see, his idea of flirting was a few neolithic lurches towards the object of his desire. He invited me to his flat for dinner on at least three occasions. I declined two of them but to save face I consented to the third. Dinner was an Iceland pizza with chopped up brie and salami! My stomach turned. Two hours to get there, four hours of this, two hours back. There wasn't enough wine. The whole evening was an unmitigated fiasco. He wanted sex. I declined. One year, before Christmass, he wrote to me crying penury so I sent him a cheque. On another occasion he met me at the church of St Magnus the Martyr and brought along his new special friend. Even among the "fags of St Mags" he didn't quite fit in; though one of the more senior members of the congregation was smitten with his histrionic, ostentatious boyfriend. It wasn't encouraging to be so privy to their pasty affections so I sneaked off quietly with another friend. He wrote to me that evening whining that I had left him "all alone." Weeks later I asked about the boyfriend whereupon he said that they had broken up, a "tragedy" (or travesty) for which I was apparently to blame; although it transpired that he found cause to blame our mutual friend too. Needless to say, I felt no pity. Eventually, he came to understand that I no longer wished to continue our association. The last I heard, he wished me dead.

Nina was one of two lady friends in my life. She was beautiful, urbane and witty and dispelled a number of prejudices I had had hitherto about women; though I daresay the extent to which she exercised any real influence there was mitigated by the fact that during the term of our acquaintance religion very seldom came up in conversation. I met her in 2007. We worked together at Morrisons and both of us had similar hard-luck stories to tell. The only reason, in hindsight, that I worked there for nine years was because of my own indolence. She had been a dancer for two years on cruise ships but had had an accident and so she came home to take up part-time work and start another degree. When I told my mother about her, she asked me if I liked her to which the reply was a curt "no!" Nina and I had very similar non-liturgical interests such as ballet and Alexa Chung and we both read Vogue magazine. We enjoyed the same films, the same contemporary music, vintage dresses and she met my Irish grandmother on one occasion (whom she described affectionately as "amazing"). But, at the same time, we were very different. She was outgoing and sociable and had a number of (mostly lady) friends. I was...well, I am me; hamfast and standoffish. Certainly few of her lady friends cared for me much and I never felt so lonely as at Nina’s 25th birthday party. She left Morrisons about a year before I did to take up a dance and drama teaching position. About a year ago she was offered a job in Canada and I haven't seen her since. Whenever I reflect upon our time together I am struck by how superficial it all was. In hindsight, Nina had a wonderfully beautiful face but very little personality.

I met Francisco at a dinner party in 2009. He was the only liturgical man I ever met of my generation for whom I have had any patience. When I first met him he was an Anglo-Papalist, with portraits of pope Benedict XVI and Carolus Rex side by side in his flat. Like Lewis he was deadly attractive but nothing ever reared its ugly head. We had a few laughs. Indeed, now that I think about it laughter was the principle feature of our acquaintance. We often met each other in one of the many queer churches of London; places, I have come to understand, of assignation, but certainly occasions given not so much to immorality as a lot of hysteria. Homosexuals together, especially religious ones, tend to act more affectedly homosexual for some mysterious underlying purpose. But on one such occasion, when I admitted to Francisco my childhood dream of becoming a Roman housewife, he suddenly stopped laughing and said that I was "weird." I was shocked by his bluntness and took offence perhaps more because I had been drinking than the fact that it was by no means a gratifying observation. The hysterical laughter was forever after stilled. I did always suspect that I liked him more than he liked me. Maybe because he was beautiful I made the mistake of putting myself out more. He was liturgically rather sensible but more diplomatic than me and willing to compromise where I would depart in wrath. He had the remarkable ability to build bridges where my talent seemed to lay in their destruction. Not that maintaining the bridge did the people of Nargothrond much good. When the dragon finally came they took to throwing down the stones of their pride too late and, for all his bridge-building, Francisco's fate was not dissimilar to theirs. We remained congenial, despite the weird comment, until he moved overseas but I think he departed a defeated man and, like me, took little further interest in Western liturgies. He now worships with the Russian Orthodox. I haven't heard from him for at least two years.

I met Dr John in 2004. I was 16, he was conservatively in his late sixties. That year I had started going to Corpus Christi church in Covent Garden. I remember my first evening there very clearly. I wasn't entirely sure where the church was so I wrote down the directions from Charing Cross on some note paper and went up to the church on a summer afternoon (three hours early in fact) in June. I had finished my GCSE examinations and was a vivacious little tradunculus looking to spend my summer in piety and tradition. It was weeks before anyone spoke to me and then someone from the choir asked me on the way out if I could sing; and I do sing quite charmingly. Not wishing to commit myself, I declined his invitation to join the choir, the sound of which was like unto wailing. Nevertheless I joined in the conversation outside the church. John was there. When everybody else had departed he invited me to Ponti's for coffee and we had a very pleasant chinwag.

Until that evening I had thought of myself as the only homosexual in the Church. How naïve! John was a theatrical costume maker and art historian. He had escaped Old Mother Damnable in 1994 during the first major influx of Anglicans into Rome but was still "Anglican-at-heart," as he said. In the early days of our friendship I met a few of his more colourful friends and learned a lot about his fascinating life. He had such wonderful stories to tell and had met some very interesting people. He had had tea with Quentin Crisp in 1977 and told me an amusing story about his first meeting with Dame Margot Fonteyn. When I told him about my Irish grandmother, he said: "I think I probably knew her," and indeed they had met. They were at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane when they saw Judy Garland inebriated in a corner. "We were both invited to a dinner party in her honour," he said. "But we agreed we wouldn't go if she was to be in that state." And they didn't. She died soon afterwards. At some point I confided to John my secret, unrequited love for Formosus. Formosus was a young man in the retinue of Fr W.C Mick. He wisely told me to give up daydreaming, and I did try.

In 2007 there was a high Mass of Requiem for Soulmass at Covent Garden and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to convert my rather liberal Latin teacher to the traditionalist cause. I was genuinely surprised that she came. You see, I was so traditional in those days that in addition to wearing my best Charles Tyrwhitt black suit and silver pocket watch for the day, I had also been to the low Mass of Requiem in St Wilfrid's chapel that morning and I was naturally desirous of converting my esteemed Latin teacher to the same frame of mind. What better way of spending one's Soulmass than in traipsing across London for low Masses? I don't remember what she said about the Mass, if indeed she expressed any view at all. John was there with his friend Algernon and, as usual, we all went for tea and cakes, this time to the Patisserie Valerie in Bedford Street as Ponti's had begun to "serve me at breakfast," so John reasoned, and this was clearly not to his liking. There John regaled us with his accustomed wit and Algernon, the only man I ever met who can make the word "yes" sound like "ears" was telling us about the Stuarts. When I went back to college my tutor summoned me to his office, whereupon he said: "Maudlin is worried about you, Patrick," "Oh?" said I. "She is concerned that you're becoming involved with older men." I ought not to have been so dense. No wonder John kept touching my hand and admiring my beauty! We had been to Rule's earlier in the year for my 19th birthday. When I told Lewis that, he said: "it must be true love!" I thought he was joking. Eventually, I stopped going to Maiden Lane as I no longer wished to countenance the impious rites celebrated there and our meetings became less frequent but I still visited John occasionally at his flat in Chelsea. I invited him to visit Blackfen once but he complained of the distance and disparaged the ugliness of the church. When I started going to St Magnus the Martyr he became rather waspish. "You can't go there," he said. "Nobody joins the Church of England!" Even so, he is deeply involved with the Society of King Charles þe Martyr and I think that some of the articles about bl. Charles on the society website were written by him.

These days I see him much less frequently than I used and ought. He has been very good to me over the years and has given me a number of small treasures; an 18th century print, a signed book and celebrity autograph.

I met Martin at Holy Cross church in the palmy days of Heythrop. Like Alex, we were a match of opposites, though we shared some interests such as a latent love of drag queens and a general fondness for battle-axe women. Our common childhood heroine was Dame Edna Everage. He was a talented musician but was actually rather stupid (in an oblivious sense) and I have sadly to admit that I found him endearing except for his optimism and gaiety. We were in town together in the early summer of 2011; we had been to see Lloyd-Webber's The Wizard of Oz, and had each worn red suede shoes for the occasion. We went thence to the Green Carnation and had a jolly good piss up. As we left, he mentioned something about what had happened to me recently (that is to say, my having left the Roman Catholic church); I said; "oh, shut up about that, would you?" I can't really describe the look on his face at that; it was as if he knew that to press the point was a bad idea. I became sullen and wouldn't speak for most of the journey home. Then, upon arrival at the station, we disembarked and he turned and kissed me on the lips. It was as surprising as it was perfect. I'll leave what happened next, if anything, to your imagination, but it transpired that he was moving away with his family to Bath. I have seen him once since then though we exchange Christmass cards. To my knowledge he plays the organ now in some Anglican parish. Like so many other friendships, ours simply waned with distance and time.

I first met Columb at St Margaret Clitherow's. When I first met him I found him rather dull; he had a voice not dissimilar to my Fundamental Theology tutor at Heythrop, the man who forever dried up what little interest I had in theology. Nevertheless, he was a good man. To my other friend, I said that in many ways he reminded me of a good priest we both knew at Covent Garden. When, for liturgical differences, I went elsewhither for Sunday Mass, Columb stayed in contact with me by telephone; his preferred means but by no means my own. I went to his house for dinner on St Stephen's Day some years ago for the first time. I was amazed by his knowledge, experience, his down-to-earth, I daresay Hobbit-like good sense, his complete lack of pretence, his thoughtfulness and consideration, his altruism. The oft-repeated phrase "what you see is what you get," sprang to mind, that and a good many other turns! His house in Highgate was full of books, old prints and paintings. I felt uncomfortable and not a bit confused with the paintings of William III and the Young Pretender that he had in his living room but there were hundreds of Christmass cards from various friends and well-wishers, surely an indication that he is well-liked and respected. I went on visiting him for about three years but as time went by I sensed that he wanted to be more than just friends. He told me about an old romance he had had in his youth with a man who has since died; stories like this interest me not in the least so I looked away. He then took me into his bedroom where I saw several photographs of naked men. Among them was a photograph of myself (the one at the top of this paragraph). By this time he had over-imbibed and kept saying that he thought me beautiful, and such things. He put his arm around my waist so I backed away and changed the subject. I thought enough was enough. I changed my 'phone number and decided that I didn't really think that my charity in visiting him in his loneliness was worth this. I last saw him at Baker Street underground station some months ago and I think he saw me because he stopped but I hastily boarded my train and went my way.

I don't remember the first time I knew Crassus but I knew of him for years. I think I first saw him at St John and St Elizabeth; or was it at Spanish Place? We became Facebook friends. I spoke to him for the first time in the crypt of St Magnus the Martyr. I was surprised one Sunday to hear a very distinct baritone voice coming from the organ loft. Afterwards we went to lunch with a mutual friend. Nothing much else happened betwixt us for another four or five months. Then in January we were both guests at a splendid Old Kalendar Christmass dinner party hosted by an esteemed mutual friend of ours. He shook my hand and gave me a very unpleasant look; there was a look of hideous lust in his eyes. He was very rude to one of the guests. The wine was copious, of course, and so his company was at least tolerable. He wrote to me the next day saying that he was enchanted by me and was desirous of seeing me again and so, thinking that I could use him for his influence and money, I consented to accompanying him to breakfast at St James' Court on the occasion of Mary Stuart's anniversary and thence to Westminster Abbey for the Royal Stuart Society commemorations. We said the Angelus in the nave, prayed by St Edward's tomb, shook our fists at the statue of Oliver Cromwell by the Palace of Westminster and then returned to his flat for lunch and to watch Brian Sewell's Grand Tour series on DVD. His personal insecurities, lust and grandiosities became manifest throughout the afternoon. He shewed me his collection of pornography, his vast collection of pseudo-Baroque tat, and insulted my family not to mention making several inappropriate passes at me and trying unsuccessfully to get me drunk. He begged me to spend the night with him; I refused and made up the excuse that I was making brunch the next day for my long-suffering mother (I would never treat my mother with such deference). Even so I remained on speaking terms and thought his aristocratic pretentions amusing. I do not blame people for being queer any more than myself, but it does bother me when men would fain have us believe they lead godly, celibate lives when, in fact, they do not. When I told my esteemed friend, he of the Christmass Party, what had happened on that Saturday he remarked: "perhaps he has a papal dispensation to be gay?"

Moving on.

I next saw him a few weeks later. At Spanish Place, where a parishioner recognised me from my blog, we attended a concert of poorly-integrated Irish music sung by a not-very-prestigious choir. We went afterwards to his flat for a cocktail party. Expecting Miranda I was greeted by Caliban. He expected me to help set things up, help host the party and wanted to shew me off as his new boyfriend. I was outraged! He served cheap Prosecco bought from Tesco when I had expected vintage champagne; you know, to at least match his pretence and hauteur. A terrible host, more than once I felt obliged to circulate the room with the bottle. I met his mother, a charming lady with a noticeable accent, and my thoughts went back to our last meeting when Crassus said condescendingly that I was like a young Kenneth Williams. I thought, but didn't say, "well, unlike your mother, my Irish grandmother took elocution lessons to get rid of her accent!" We were watching George V's Delhi Durbar on YouTube when, in the midst of the dwindled party, he asked whether I'd have felt more comfortable sitting in his lap. I said, "certainly not." I stayed until all left – a mistake since it seemed to substantiate the illusion that I was really together with him. No wonder his sister and the rector of Spanish Place ignored me that evening! He put his right hand on my arse and tried kissing me, asking whether I would consent to spending the night with him again. For the last time, I said no. I went home and was resolved never to speak to him again. Of all my friends and acquaintances over the years I never once met one so hypocritical, so rude and so downright bloody awful. Crassus, Knight of Magistral Grace and social climber.

Edward was a dear friend and I, for my part, still count him so. I met him at the London Abattoir (or Oratory) and found him very sensible. We became close and eventually he introduced me to his partner Piers. We had so much in common; a mutual love of ballet, of Tolkien, of liturgy, of dogs, of fine food and wine (and ale), and of history - real, local history and the history of country churches. Unfortunately, he embraced Unitarianism and we became estranged as a result. I could not conceal my disdain for his new found religion any more than my contempt for his pastor. He cut all ties recently. Oh well. I suppose, if you bite into a soft centre you can't put it all back in.

You might say that this article illustrates my profound and fantastical inability to keep friends. Or that the word "friend" has been largely misapplied here and that few of them really were friends in any meaningful sense. Having spent a number of years reflecting upon them, I now realise that most of them were interested in one thing; sex. But real friendship is supposed to transcend all that. There is a real crisis about friendship in our times because of promiscuity and easy recreational sex. It seems that everybody is looked upon as a potential bed-fellow and it's becoming increasingly difficult to draw the line between platonic friendships and stimulants of sin. Of course, my thoughts here illustrate my own significant interpersonal problems and a complete lack of discretion. In one case I do not repent at all of what I have said, even if I know that it has been read (fortunately unlikely). In others, most others actually, I regret sincerely that things ended as they did. But are you surprised by it? Perhaps it is my doom to go through life with few real friends. I am an intolerant person and after a time certain things about people, whether it be their lifestyles or personal beliefs, tend to eat away at me until silence becomes unspeakably irksome. It is not in my nature to keep silent. Where I have offended good people, much better people than I could ever hope to be, I am deeply sorry. A shame, for me anyway, that any of us could be so sundered in these latter days; since I value friendship more than I can say.

Memoirs...

For Hinge & Bracket fans, the memoirs of Dr Evadne Hinge, entitled The Naked Doctor, are now available on Lulu. I checked Amazon but as yet it appears to be only available on Kindle. I do not own a Kindle and have no intention of buying one. Buy your copy to-day!

Gregory VII and the Rationale...

"Since your excellency has asked that we would allow the divine office to be said among you in Slavonic, know that we can by no means favourably answer this your petition. For it is clear to those who reflect often upon it, that not without reason has it pleased Almighty God that holy scripture should be a secret in certain places, lest, if it were plainly apparent to all men, perchance it would be little esteemed and be subject to disrespect; or it might be falsely understood by those of mediocre learning, and lead to error. Nor does it avail as an excuse that certain religious men have patiently suffered the simple folk who asked for it, or have sent them away uncorrected, which, after Christianity had grown stronger, and when religion was increasing, were corrected by subtle examination. Wherefore we forbid what you have so imprudently demanded of the authority of St Peter, and we command you to resist this vain rashness with all your might, to the honour of Almighty God." From an epistle of pope Gregory VII to Vratislaus II of Bohemia; text from the Patrologia Latina, Migne 1844.

Pope Gregory VII wrote this letter in A.D 1079. Two centuries later Durandus, rector of the theological schools in Paris, composed the famous Rationale Divinorum Officiorum with the express wish of dispelling ignorance of scripture and the divine offices where the Roman pope wished to maintain it! In the preface we find:

"But what shall we say of our own times, if scarcely or not at all there may be found any man who understands what he reads or hears read, or who truly perceives what he sees done or does himself? We must lament with the prophet, etc."

It's interesting that the popes so often esteemed by the Traddies have actually been some of the most arrogant and destructive men in ecclesiastical history. The content of pope Gregory's epistle is reminiscent of his treatment of the Mozarabic Rite in Spain and so expressive of the general tendency of popes to deliberately obscure and manipulate the scriptures themselves to uphold a plethora of abuses. I daresay one could argue for almost any moral position or doctrine from the scriptures when they are not interpreted properly! Nevertheless, this attitude, maintained throughout the Middle Ages, was strikingly at variance with the apostolic labours of such men as St Bede, who translated portions of the Bible into Old English for the edification of the simple folk.

This subject has been done to death, I fear, but what interests me is the change. In mediaeval times vernacular translations of the Bible and vernacular liturgy were too often associated with heretical sects like the Waldensians or Lollards. Literate persons knew Latin anyway. When Erasmus wrote in favour of popular reading of the Bible in 1527 the University of Paris called him rash and impudent and cited a three hundred year old "decree" of Innocent III condemning the matter. Sixty years later and the Rheimish New Testament was published and now bears the Baronius Press hallmark. Why the change? Rise in literacy? Pressure from the Protestant reformers? Counter Reformation missionary zeal, manifestly the Jesuits?

I'd be interested if any readers with better knowledge of this would comment with their thoughts on this matter. Because, as in so many other matters, the constancy of the Roman church has proven less fast than previously imagined.

Mugs of beer...

To-day I thought I'd share with you a passage from The Lord of the Rings. Quite at random, really; I opened book I at chapter IX and found this:

"They were washed and in the middle of good deep mugs of beer when Mr. Butterbur and Nob came in again. In a twinkling the table was laid. There was hot soup, cold meats, a blackberry tart, new loaves, slabs of butter, and half a ripe cheese: good plain food, as good as the Shire could show, and homelike enough to dispel the last of Sam's misgivings (already much relieved by the excellence of the beer)."

It makes a pleasing change to narrate a more homelike (to borrow the phrase) passage than to go on about such weighty matters as kingship with constancy. It is Tolkien's genius to warm the heart with such passages, particularly at times of fear, to remind us of our kinship with hobbits, and that the Sun of Middle-earth sets over our own fields too. I don't have book IV to hand (do I go back upstairs..?) but there is another where, upon their meeting in the fields of Calenardhon, Éomer asks Aragorn whether a man can walk open-eyed in the broad light of day amid so many wonders. The Prancing Pony Inn, blundering Butterbur and his plain food illustrate that you can. The inn is situated in an atmosphere of fear and suspense; with ruffians stalking the woods about the town, the memory of the Old Forest, ill-favoured men, not to mention the Black Riders. It's almost as if plain, hearty food and drink are the tonic for all that. It brought a smile to my face anyway.

Cuthbert's letter...

Tempus est, si sic Factori meo videtur, ut ad eum modo resolatus e carne veniam, qui me quando non eram ex nihilo formavit. Multum tempus vixi, beneque mihi pius Iudex vitam meam praevidit. Tempus vero absolutionis meae prope est, etenim anima mea desiderat Regem meum Christum in decore suo videre.

Five years ago I produced a translation of St Cuthbert's epistle on the death of St Bede. It is a profoundly moving piece and its Latinity is exquisite. Here is a portion:

In such exaltation we passed the fifty days even unto the day hitherto mentioned, and the same rejoiced greatly and rendered thanks unto God that he had merited to be thus infirm; and oft said he: ''God chastiseth every son whom he receiveth'' [Heb. 12:6], and that sentence of Ambrose: ''I have not so lived, that to live among you shameth me; but neither do I fear to die, for we have a good God'' [Paulinus, Life of Ambrose, xiv.43]. However in those days there were two small works worthy of memory, with the exception of those daily lessons which we received from him and in the chanting of the psalms, which he strove to complete, that is, from the beginning of the Gospel of blessed John even unto the place where it saith: ''But what are they among so many?'' [John 1:6] he translated into our tongue, to the profit of the Church of God, and certain selections from the Book of the Wheels [that is De Natura Rerum] of bishop Isidore, saying: ''I do desire that my boys read falsehood, and working on this after my death without fruit.''

But when the third feria had come before the Ascension of the Lord his breathing was with great travail, and a small swelling appeared in his feet; but all that day he taught and dictated happily, and sometimes among other things he saith: ''Learn with haste, for 'I know not how long I shall survive, and if after a short while my Maker takes me' [Job 32:22]''. To us however he seemed that he knew well when his end should be. And so he passed the night vigilant in the rendering of thanks, and in the first light of morning, that is of the fourth feria, he gave instruction that the writing, which we had begun, should be finished quickly. And we did so even unto the third hour. From the third hour, however, we walked in procession with the relics of the saints, as the custom of that day required.* And one of us was with him, who saith unto him: ''There is still one chapter from the book, which thou didst dictate, missing, and it seemeth to be difficult for thee to ask more.'' But he saith: ''It is easy. Take up thy reed pen and mend it, and then write quickly.'' And so he did. From the ninth hour said he unto me: ''I have certain precious things in my small box, that is, pepper, napkins and some incense. But hurry quickly, and lead the priests of our monastery unto me, that I may distribute such gifts as God hath given me to them.''

And this I did with trembling. And being present spake he unto them and everyone, advising and imploring that they make masses and prayers for him diligently. And they willingly promised unto him so. But they did mourn and all wept, but greatly in the word which he saith, that his face would not be seen much more in this world. But they rejoiced about this which he saith of him: ''It is time, if it seemeth so to my Maker, that released from the flesh I should come to Him, which, when I was not, formeth me out of nothing. I have lived much, and the pious Judge has provided well for me all the days of my life. Forsooth, the time of my absolution is near, and indeed my soul longs to see Christ my King in all His beauty.''

Having spoken thus and not a few other things to our edification, he passed his last day in joy unto the evening. And the aforesaid boy, with the name Wilberht, saith again: ''Sweet Master, there remains still one sentence not written.'' And he saith: ''Write it.'' And after a short time saith the boy: ''It is written so,'' but he saith: ''Good, it is finished. Thou hast told the Truth. Take thee my head into thy hands, for it pleaseth me much to sit nigh to the holy place in which I was wont to pray, that, sitting there, I might call upon my father.'' And so, upon the floor of his cell, chanting: ''Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost,'' and the rest, he breathed his last; and without any doubt it is to be believed by us that, for him he had laboured here always in the praise of God, his soul was carried by Angels into the joys of the heavenly longings. But all who heard or saw the death of blessed Bede our father, said that never had they seen another man end his life in such great devotion and peace, for as ye have heard, do long as his soul was in his body, he sang the ''Gloria Patri'' and other songs to the glory of God, and spreading out his hands he ceased not to give thanks unto God.

But it behoves you to know that much could be told and written concerning him, but now the unlearnedness of my tongue cutteth short my words. But I purpose, in time, with God's help, to write a fuller account of him, which mine eyes have seen and mine ears have heard.

Here endeth the letter of Cuthbert on the death of the venerable priest Bede.

*This undoubtedly indicates that the community at Jarrow were following the Gallican practice of the Rogations in the days preceeding Ascension Day. This custom developed in Gaul in the fifth century and was not practiced in Rome. This indicates a strong influence of the Gallican church on the English Church and certainly detracts from the myth of Ultramontane Anglo-Saxon England.

Innovations and Abrogations...

A Vogue cover from 1962. That's Grace Coddington before she looked like a skeleton.

Inspired by the interview given by the Saint Lawrence Press Limited about the history of the Ordo Recitandi, I publish again my post on the abrogation of the 1962 Missal by Paul VI and the dominion of liturgical falsehood built up and maintained by such traditionalist organisations as the Society of Pius X and the Latin Mass Society. Be not deceived!

This is an expansion and analysis of my rather frugal thoughts the other day on the important pastoral and canonical questions of abrogation of the 1962 missal.

The motu proprio Summorum Pontificum of Benedict XVI presents a number of significant innovations in canon law and liturgy which have potentially adverse consequences for the unity of faith. I say potentially but I have seen the fruits of Summorum Pontificum myself in Blackfen; disaffected parishioners of many years standing being forced out, others into sullen fear; the parish priest even forcing communicants to receive the Sacrament on the tongue at the altar rail despite the disposition of the communicant and the general discipline of the Latin Rite. But the usus antiquior, latterly constituted an "extraordinary form" of the one Roman Rite parallel to the reformed missal promulgated by Paul VI, was introduced at Blackfen and many places beside because, we are told, the 1962 missal "was never juridically abrogated and, consequently, in principle, was always permitted." Neither the motu proprio itself nor the accompanying letter to the bishops offers any proof of this; instead, it's just stated as a "fact" to be accepted at face value. So, why should we believe it? Either the pope is mistaken, which, given the nature of this matter, calls into serious question the fallibility of the magisterium, or it is categorical falsehood in which case its implementation anywhere is a grotesque affront to Christ's faithful, whatever the intention.

The universal consensus of the Roman church until the publication of Summorum Pontificum was that Paul VI, in promulgating the Novus Ordo, had ostensibly abrogated the older rites. That was my own personal understanding as a teenager when I first undertook autodidactory research of the Second Vatican Council; I liked it no more than I liked inter-religious dialogue but such was life. I daresay it was the understanding of the traditionalists themselves, however much they appealed to Quo Primum, until seven years ago! Modern traditionalists maintain, however, with support from their highest authority, that the 1962 missal was never abrogated. Perhaps they are entirely innocent of the process of liturgical reform? We shall see.

Paul VI officially ended the "interim period," i.e: the 1962 missal (which was never intended to be a definitive edition), with his own motu proprio Sacram Liturgiam published on 25th January 1964 (while the Council was still in session) which continued the systematic process of liturgical reform begun by Pius XII - a fact to which even John Paul II defers in the Apostolic Letter Vicesimus Quintus Annus of 4th December 1988. The decree Inter Œcumenici of 26th September 1964, issued by the Sacred Congregation of Rites, introduced further reforms to the rite of Mass, ironically many that the great Dr Fortescue had called for in the preface to the first edition of The Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described, such as bows to the choir, all the irreverent kissing, the psalm Iudica me, etc as general norms until the new Ordo Missae and Ritus Servandus were published the following year. The next decree of the S.R.C, Tres abhinc annos, published with the approval of Paul VI on 4th May 1967, introduced a greater plurality of scriptural texts for the Mass, simplified the rubrics, stipulated that the use of the maniple is now optional and sanctioned the wider use of vernacular tongues for the scriptural pericopes and the (now audible) Eucharistic Prayer. Three new Eucharistic Prayers were approved in June 1968 for reasons of pastoral expediency; Eucharistic Prayer I being the (somewhat reworked) Roman Canon; EP II, deliberately (notoriously) short, based on the so-called Prayer of Hippolytus; EP III (in my experience the most commonly used), of medium length and best suited for use on Sundays alternately with EP I; and EP IV which presents a highly developed and complete synthesis of salvation history. At no time during any stage of these reforms was use of the 1962 missal an option and unless somebody can prove to me that any of the above decrees were defective, wanting in some canonical sense or published illicitly then this is another clear indication that the claim of Summorum Pontificum that the missal of John XXIII was always permissible is builded on sand.

Council Fathers in procession in St Peter's Square. Imagine having colour photographs of an ecumenical council...

Finally, on 3rd April 1969 (which was Maundy Thursday), Paul VI published the Apostolic Constitution Missale Romanum, promulgating the new missal and abrogating the interim, i.e: the 1962 missal. Paul VI used exactly the same style as previous popes in the conclusion in order to make the 1970 Missal definitive:

"In conclusion, we wish to give the force of law to all that we have set forth concerning the new Roman Missal. In promulgating the official edition of the Roman Missal, Our predecessor, St. Pius V, presented it as an instrument of liturgical unity and as a witness to the purity of the worship the Church. While leaving room in the new Missal, according to the order of the Second Vatican Council, "for legitimate variations and adaptations," we hope nevertheless that the Missal will be received by the faithful as an instrument which bears witness to and which affirms the common unity of all. Thus, in the great diversity of languages, one unique prayer will rise as an acceptable offering to our Father in heaven, through our High-Priest Jesus Christ, in the Holy Spirit.

"We order that the prescriptions of this Constitution go into effect November 30th of this year, the first Sunday of Advent.

"We wish that these Our decrees and prescriptions may be firm and effective now and in the future, notwithstanding, to the extent necessary, the apostolic constitutions and ordinances issued by Our predecessors, and other prescriptions, even those deserving particular mention and derogation."

I don't know about you, dear readers, but it doesn't look to me like Paul VI is presenting the Novus Ordo as an option for those who find it agreeable. In promulgating the new missal Paul VI had made the New Rite definitive; he had replaced the interim missal with the new missal; he had abrogated the 1962 missal with exactly the same Petrine authority as Pius V when he published Quo Primum in 1570. As the liturgical scholar J.D Crichton said: "the document concludes as usual in the stylus curiae, but it is important to realize that it enshrines a legal decision formally abrogating the missal of Pius V. What Pius could do, Paul can undo. If the primacy of the Pope does not mean that, it means nothing."

Even more compelling than the abrogatory clause of Missale Romanum is a personal letter written by Paul VI to Marcel Lefebvre on 24th May 1976, which can be read in full here (in Latin pdf, p374), in which Paul VI states unequivocably that the pre-Vatican II rites were no longer permitted (emphasis my own):

"Usus novi Ordinis Missae minime quidem sacerdotum vel christifidelium arbitrio permittitur. Instructione autem edita die quarto decimo mensis Iunii anno millesimo nongentesimo septuagesimo primo provisum est, ut Missae celebratio antiquo ritu sineretur, facultate data ab Ordinario, tantummodo sacerdotibus aetate provectis vel infirmis, qui Divinum Sacrificium sine populo ofierent. Novus Ordo promulgatus est, ut in locum veteris substitueretur post maturam deliberationem atque ad exequendas normas quae a Concilio Vaticano II impertitiae sunt. Haud dissimili ratione, Decessor Noster S. Pius V post Concilium Tridentinum Missale auctoritate sua recognitum adhiberi iusserat." Acta Apostolicae Sedis, 68.

Archbishop Lefebvre himself. Look at the lace! So traditional!

Clearly Paul VI thought that "the Novus Ordo was promulgated in place of the old," and that "use of the new Order of Mass is by no means committed to the choice of priests or Christ's faithful." So, how are we to understand Paul VI's clear invocation of apostolic authority to abrogate the constitutions and ordinances issued by his predecessors in the light of Summorum Pontificum? Well, in all honesty, we can't! Benedixt XVI doesn't treat fairly or honestly with the facts and instead postulates a number of canonical and liturgical innovations, so understanding is negligible. The innovations are such:

Innovation the first: For the first time in the history of the liturgy the Roman Rite has been split down the middle into two "uses," namely the so-called usus antiquior and the usus recentior; this split having come about not by organic growth at parochial or diocesan level over a number of years but administered by the supreme authority in the Roman Catholic church at a single stroke.

Innovation the second: The result of this split has been the re-casting of the Roman Rite which creates a scenario, hitherto unknown in the Roman church, where the Roman Rite can be celebrated in two completely different ways in the same parish; in two languages utterly at variance, different styles of musick and ornament, different scriptural cycles, even different temporal seasons! This can be in the interests of neither the traditionalists, who would sooner replace the new rite altogether, nor the trendy liberals who would see the "old rite" lifted clean out of this world.

Innovation the third: It's strange that such a short-lived tradition, which was never really tradition in a meaningful sense, should be given a new eminence by the pope on account of the Lefebvrists. And this is more important than many people can understand. Marcel Lefebvre, arguably the most aliturgical man of the 20th century, arbitrarily decided upon the 1962 missal in 1983, a decision which caused a splintering of the Society of Pius X itself with the expulsion of four priests in America and five others (the "naughty nine") leaving of their own volition in protest against the bastardised rite of 1962. The Society of Pius V was founded as a result of this. The innovation lies in the fact that the 1962 missal was, as admitted by Paul VI in Sacram Liturgiam, an interim missal, having no more worth than any other liturgical experimentation during the deliberate and systematic reform of the Roman Rite between the years 1951 and 1969. Lefebvre's choice of 1962 had not the faintest liturgical insight; it was chosen because it was promulgated before the Council. And so Benedict XVI, deferring to this arbitrary yet significant year, has succeeded only in making Lefebvre's "twisted ecclesiology" (see Paul VI's letter) credible, even commendable, in the eyes of the contemporary Roman church.

Innovation the fourth: There had been various indults relevant to previous liturgical rites since the promulgation of the new missal. The first of these was the largely misunderstood "Heenan Indult" of 14th June 1971. This was sanctioned by Paul VI before the 1962 missal had any prominence whatever and actually (contrary to the opinion of the Latin Mass Society) stipulated use of the Roman Rite of 1967 and not 1962. The next indult, Quattuor abhinc annos, came on 3rd October 1984 (the year after Lefebvre's fateful choice), published by the Congregation for Divine Worship. This indeed sanctioned the use of the 1962 missal but with many limitations and was decried by the Society of Pius V who continued to use pre-1962 rites. Implementation of Quattuor abhinc annos was hardly generous and so in publishing the motu proprio Ecclesia Dei on 2nd July 1988 (in response to the infamous episcopal consecrations by Lefebvre and de Castro Mayer) pope John Paul II called for a "wide and generous" implementation of Quattuor abhinc annos in order to heal the schismatic effects of Lefebvre's actions. But even so these three, 1971, 1984 and 1988 were "indults," understood canonically as departures from normative law. By contrast, Summorum Pontificum has regularised defective liturgy into the sacramental life of the church, which is something very different. Also of note is the conspicuous absence of any expectation in Summorum Pontificum of adherence among people attached to the 1962 missal to the doctrinal and liturgical integrity of the Novus Ordo...and Benedict XVI wishes to foster unity hereby?

Innovation the fifth: This last is hardly an innovation in the Roman church, having been the norm since 1588, but important nonetheless that a substantial amount of authority, guaranteed under the 1983 Code of Canon Law, for diocesan bishops to regulate the liturgy in their dioceses has been supplanted by the Papacy.

Cardinal Ratzinger, I think in 1988.

Having considered all these things I can think of no reason why use of the 1962 missal should be permitted at all let alone for the benefit of a few renegades. The 1962 missal, having been used in tact for two years maximum, is not protected by bicentenial custom unlike, for example, the Ambrosian or Mozarabic Rites, so can be considered neither antient nor great nor particularly sacred. In any case, you can't heal decades of liturgical abuse by the mere exercise of authority. The problems of the Roman Rite go much deeper than that and are, ironically, inextricably linked to authority. Nor can you with good reason substitute something greater for the rite of 1962 and expect a goodly fruition of liturgical piety; innovation is just going to perpetuate innovation if sanctioned from on high. Perhaps an admission from Rome that this was all an horrible mistake is what the doctor has ordered? It would certainly be an honest, admirable admission and I would not gloat.

Of course, many people have used Summorum Pontificum to introduce whichever edition of the Roman missal they like! Rather hypocritical, actually, to hide behind the shield of authority, accusing others of dissent while being themselves guilty of that. But then most people can't tell the difference anymore than they can understand the language so who's going to stop them?

Lumen Christi! Deo Gratias! Notice the triple candle...

I would be very interested if anybody, perhaps on the New Liturgical Movement blog, would consider writing a response to this post. Naturally, I have been waiting for four years for a response to my previous post on Summorum Pontificum, but I live in hope. Particularly welcome would be empirical proof of the claim that the 1962 missal was never juridically abrogated. I don't suppose we could have expected any proof during the pontificate of Benedict XVI as this was the time of the traditionalist ascendancy. Now that things look brighter under good old pope Francis, perhaps a reappraisal of Summorum Pontificum and Universae Ecclesiae is called for? I entreat you all sincerely.

River Cottage...

I don't often recommend television programmes but I do enjoy watching River Cottage. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's philosophy seems to be one of plain, homegrown English food which I think is admirable. I'm sure Tolkien would too. The series has a website. I may actually go to their Spring Food Fair in May of next year as it has been a while since I have been to the West Country - ten years, in fact.

An Interview...

The Rad Trad has published a succinct and detailed review of the Ordo Recitandi published by The Saint Lawrence Press Limited over on his blog as well as a rare and very frank interview with its compilator, my esteemed friend Rubricarius. I have said so before and I say again that the Saint Lawrence Press Ordo is the most detailed, the most thorough and the best-presented ordo published in modern times for use in the Roman Rite. Buy your copy to-day!