A day in the country...

We had beautiful weather in southern England to-day, a marked difference to the ferocious storm we had over false Easter. Having had to run mundane errands in my home town this afternoon, I decided to take advantage of the fair weather and go deeper into Kent for the first time in ages. I left the car and went for a vigorous walk up a beaten track beyond bypass roads and urban developments into a countryside that could have been painted by Constable (if you could see past the barbed wire, that is). I feel renewed, despite everything, every time I go into the country for the first time in the Spring, almost as Frodo did when his eyes were uncovered at Cerin Amroth. During the next hour or so I passed a field of growing hops, an handsome country house, an old bridge, a beautiful mill and many a charming cottage, of flint and timber wrought, with actual, significant names as opposed to numbers. I sat by the river and listened for a while. The wind in the trees and the swift-flowing river brought the angelic chorus to mind as I tried to conceive of celestial melodies, countless choirs singing with voices, and the primeval liturgy unstained by traditionalists. Magna opera Domini!

As you can see, I'm going for a sort of Dr Evadne Hinge look with my hair.

Lefebvrism a pagan cult...

May my words and our thoughts be in the Name of God.

I've been told, by someone who knew him, that my attitude towards Marcel Lefebvre is glib. "You're too young to have known him," quoth he. Well, I am too young to have known Joseph Stalin as well but that doesn't make my opinion of the man of less weight or authority. Please allow me to explain.

Religion has, unfortunately, ever been the forum for those already apt to evil; cynical opportunists, charlatans, and other money-grabbing sybarites. It's not hard to understand why. People concerned about death, the soul, or just leading a good life in some cultural way, which are quintessentially religious provinces, are easy prey for the crafty and manipulative. Joseph Smith and Brigham Young were two such evil men. So too is John Zuhlsdorf. But what about Archbishop Lefebvre? How did he fit into this grotesque catalogue of credulity and manipulation?

I had said that Archbishop Lefebvre was a charlatan. Maybe that is unfair and I am too hard on the man. Perhaps a more accurate picture would be that of a man, not very remarkable as ecclesiastics go, mediocre, a typical Pacelli appointee and perpetually compromised, in what conviction he had, by his diplomatic experience. That is not to say that he was without guile. His tyrannical and unloving way of dealing with, erm, let's call them "conscientious objectors" in the $$PX is well documented. He was unjust and indecisive, and clearly wallowed in the adulation of being, in his view and the view of the credulous, the sole saviour of the Church. His Ultramontanism, little more than a relic of his having been reared in a French monarchist household and certainly helpful in his rise through the hierarchy, was also, in my view, an inherent flaw. That he disdained Paul VI and held him to blame for many of the present ills of the Roman church is also well known, even if people choose to overlook the fact that his quasi-Sedevacantist views from the Society's inception until at least 1979 had more to do with this personal animosity than theological insight. It's more than obvious that Lefebvre swooned in John Paul II's presence, who, according to Rev. Anthony Cekada, gave him a "bear hug" at their first meeting and promised to treat the irregularity of the $$PX personally. One wonders what Lefebvre would have said to Wojtyla's frequent visits to synagogues and those scandalous Assisi gatherings. Would he have reverted to his old thoughts on neo-Modernist Rome or would he have just brushed the scandal aside, as a charlatan might? Who knows? As the Steward of Gondor said: "such ifs are vain."

It seems terribly fashionable in certain circles within Roman Catholicism to revere the late Archbishop, and to hold his contemporary followers in esteem; almost a litmus test of loyalty to the traditionalist cause. Why is this? Who sets this fashion? Where are the unseen party whips and why don't they make their purposes known? I find this invisible, insidious influence and unquestioning support for the Lefebvrists among traditionalists very frightening. Very tribal, very myopic, very superstitious. And this has less to do with the liturgical books of 1962 than my detractors care to think. It seems an almost pagan manifestation, a frenzied tendency in which people summarily abandon reason in exchange for a feeling, however fleeting, that they are involved in something profound, something universal that confers solidarity. Call that what you will; adherence to "tradition" (a point of view); resistance to "modernism" (an obsolete term); or, for the lesser minds, the ability to feel smug and important, which might obviate other social or sexual failures.

As such, the traditionalist movement seems such a mob to me. Why do men lose control of their faculties in crowds, riots, demonstrations and populist movements when they might otherwise be quite reasonable? I've been in conversation many times with traditionalists, who have told me in different ways: "Yes, Patrick, you're right. The 1962 missal is a load of old rubbish. Signum Magnum, Joe the Worker, Holy Week, all those things; they are an aberration of the Roman Rite." But they can't (or won't) admit the shallowness of their position. And this is, I think, largely because of the influence of Marcel Lefebvre, John Paul II and Benedict XVI on the traditionalist movement. Since 1984 traditionalists have assumed two external identification tags: one is the 1962 Missal, the other is the Society of [St] Pius X, so, if you like, one in space, the other in time. As a result, they are extremely sensitive to any suggestion that there might be criticism of either. This reinforces my belief that there is a demonic undertow to the traditionalist movement; a primitive, pre- or post-Christian ethos with little room for that sublime Pauline maxim: Prove all things; hold fast that which is good.
I have felt it myself. I was ever conscious of the pressure beating upon me from outside when I was involved in the traditionalist movement, and took part in events organised by The Latin Mass Society. This is chiefly why I gave it up; I was in fear for my mind, more than anything else! "One of us! One of us!"

To conclude these thoughts I would observe the most salient points. Traditionalism, be that schismatic or obedient, is what happens when a tradition has died. The liturgical books of 1962 are defective, and an aberration of the Roman Rite, and these are what have been enshrined in positive law and promoted by the $$PX. Marcel Lefebvre was a schismatic, dissident bishop who rejected an ecumenical council of the Roman church. He illegally consecrated four bishops, assisted by the openly Sedevacantist De Castro Mayer (despite the purge of the $$PX of nine priests, ostensibly on charges of Sedevacantism in 1983). If Lefebvre was praiseworthy, these things seem far more grave than aught else he might have said or done. And one last thing: his followers, particularly the four recently rehabilitated bishops, leave a lot to be desired. The lifting of the excommunications conspicuously did not apply to Lefebvre himself, and not one of them stood up for Lefebvre and objected to this. Their attitude seems to have been: "I'm all right, Jack. We're back in the club now." Not very good, not very episcopal. Why, then, are people so fascinated by these renegades?

Who does this man think he is?

I am pleased that "Archbishop Cranmer" picked up on this as I had. The difference is, I didn't watch Mr Cameron's "Easter message." I have absolutely no interest in what he says about Christianity, which is mostly lukewarm, cynical, and politically-correct rubbish. Maybe I'm too old fashioned and live in a world of make-believe but I thought Her Majesty The Queen spoke to the people about such things? She is a sincere Christian for one, and it is not for naught that she is Supreme Governor of the Church by law Established, which might be a joke but is at least some relic of Christ at the heart of this nation. No, Mr Cameron can sod off with his silly rhetoric. I'd rather hear of God's lively oracles from His anointed than some elected, careerist politician.

Cuba...

The first thought that came to me when I read that pope Francis had tried to prevent a Rolling Stones concert on Good Friday was: "here we go, the ugly papal head is reared from mediaeval times to thwart the will of princes." I mean, it's quite rich coming from someone fanatically in favour of a fixed date for Easter to worry about Christian sentitivities on Good Friday. But there's more. You can't expect people to respect your religion when you go about presenting a version of Christianity that is completely unattractive, and divorced from your own patrimony. In a nutshell!

The party line...

The silence, censorship and obdurate, bone-headed conviction with which my, utterly correct, view of Marcel Lefebvre has been treated reminds me of the end of one of the late Sir Christopher Lee's best films, The Wicker Man. In a howling wilderness, beset by silent, deluded foes with vacant expressions, the sergeant implored them, tried to explain with reason the shallowness of their religion, and he was burnt at the stake anyway. I daresay if the unholy Inquisition still existed that would be my fate too, for loving truth rather than party lines.

Cut flowers...

Fr Andrew has put up an interesting Q&A over on his blog about the revival of local Western saints in the Orthodox Church. I agree with most of it, particularly his observations (which I have made myself, to my accustomed derision) about the dedication of churches to modern "saints," or even funny concepts such as the "sacred heart." This is evident in Ireland, especially, where dedications to saints like Kevin, Brigid or Colmcille are very rare, and even where there are such churches there is no actual cultus. A small exception tends to be made for St Patrick but his memory is defiled by the tawdry, drunken festival which makes of Ireland a universal embarrassment. As a child I was back and forth to Ireland all the time, mostly to the North where I have family. The first time I visited the South was when I went to an Irish dancing competition in Co. Clare with my mother, circa 1998. I went to the local cathedral for a Mass, which was not very memorable, but what was memorable was going into the cathedral shop afterwards. There I discovered a little green book, on the front of which was a stained glass window depicting my patron, St Patrick, called "Irish Saints." Up to that point the only image I had ever seen of St Patrick was this one (below), which presumably dates to the 19th or early 20th century (does anyone know?).

Even at the age of 10 years I found his green chasuble and benevolent expression rather saccharine and not at all like the author of the beautiful Breastplate. And I knew nothing at all about any other Irish saint. Not till I opened the little green book (which I still have), and read the words: "Ireland, as all her schoolchildren used to learn, was known in the golden age of monasticism as Isola sanctorum doctorumque - the isle of saints and scholars." I begged my mother to buy me this little book, which she kindly did. It was £4.99 (in those days Ireland was still not fully independent of England!). It was from this time that I started to discover the wealth of local saints, and not just Irish ones. My paternal grandparents moved to Cornwall at about this time, and lived in a village called St Teath on Bodmin Moor, named for the 5th century St Tetha the Virgin. There are lots of places in Cornwall named for old, forgotten saints; St Ives, St Austell, St Mawes, and many others that I don't remember. It reminds me of the Christian symbolism of The Lord of the Rings, not sledgehammer subtle like the Narnia stories, but absorbed into the fabric. Just like the memory and former cultus of a local saint is absorbed into the village. Even Barry, the publican of the White Hart Inn in St Teath, could tell me a thing or two about the patron of the village, and went to services in the village church.

This is exactly what I mean by the title of of this post. Orthodoxy in England (and later Ireland) was severed at the Battle of Hastings when the soldiery of the Bastard Duke marched under a papal banner and, after a series of church "reforms," the new prelates cast opprobrium on the old church, her saints and customs and replaced them with the new. But, like cut flowers, the semblance of true religion remained where people were in good faith and confessed the Holy Name of Jesus. Religion may have died, but it was still fragrant. There was still dignity in worship down to the Reformation, there was still faith, there were still lively saints, albeit blended with superstition and excess. The extent to which the people of England and Ireland were Papists was just an accident of history, and place of birth. Remember what Frodo said when he returned to the Shire about the hobbits and the ruffians: "But remember: there is to be no slaying of hobbits, not even if they have gone over to the other side. Really gone over, I mean; not just obeying ruffians' orders because they are frightened." It is precisely because these islands were fortified by the Orthodox faith that Christianity cannot ever, fully die out, and and ever and anon somebody like me, or Fr Andrew, is born and takes an interest in the faith of the fathers. Some of the Anglican divines were undoubtedly crypto-Orthodox. Matthew Parker and Richard Hooker spring to mind. On the Papist side one could well argue (as my own Church history tutor at Heythrop did) that John Henry Newman was also a crypto-Orthodox, somebody born out of time and place and yet hungered and thirsted after righteousness, as the scripture says. These islands were either accursed of God because of the sins of certain high ecclesiastics in faraway Rome, in which case nothing worthwhile can be said of aught between 1066 and the arrival of Greek and Russian immigrants, many of whom, like the Normans, disdained our old saints. Or, and this is my belief, God sent down the Holy Ghost in sundry churches to keep some faith alive, despite the schism and the general waning of knowledge in the westering sun of Orthodoxy. Who can see to the depths of Her Majesty's heart? Pious and reared in princely lore, is she cut off from the Church? No, her patron is St Edward the Confessor, whose relics are enshrined in the heart and foundation of this realm. Westminster Abbey may be England's Valhalla yet it is still a church. So I am wont to disagree with Fr Andrew on this point and tend to think that there was more to St Edward the Confessor than feudalism and his Norman mother.

Possibly the holiest place I have ever visited, this is one of the Celtic crosses in Glendalough, a serene and beautiful place in the Wicklow Mountains. St Kevin's Tower is in the background.

Cut flowers are dead, and soon wither. I wonder what stage we're in now? If only the Orthodox churches of England put away ethnic isolationism and political prejudice they might attract more converts. I have no interest in Slavic culture! But like the crypto-Orthodox of the deep English past I yearn for the sacraments and the communion of the Church. Am I, a sinner with the little green book, to be thrown out to compost with the rest of my countrymen?

A contrast...

Princely dignity, tradition, and the "magic" of Her Majesty The Queen. I can honestly say that she never fails to bring a smile to my face, and not seldom a tear. Long may she reign!

This image reminds me of what Basil Fawlty said about putting out a trough of baked beans for the guests, garnished with a few dead dogs. Arch-heretic and low life Bergoglio in a shew of spurious humility.

25 years...

The number twenty-five certainly has a lot of symbolism this year. No, this is not going to be as insightful and inspiring as the Oxonian Clerk's latest article, qualities for which these days I have no aspiration, just a quick note on the contribution of one man; a Frankish clergyman called Marcel Lefebvre. He died twenty-five years ago to-day and is buried in a converted garage in Switzerland. It's also the anniversary of the 1983 letter of just grievance sent to him by nine priests of the priestly Society, among them the Reverends Anthony Cekada and Eugene Berry who both read this blog once upon a time (and, it's unlikely, but perhaps still do). I encourage you especially to read the Rev. Anthony Cekada's stuff over at www.traditionalmass.org. Apposite for to-day's reading would be the text of the Letter of the "Naughty Nine," and the account (in Pdf) of the four year legal battle between the Nine and Lefebvre over property rights and such things. Even a cursory reading of these documents will shatter the myth of the "saintly archbishop," valiant, unshaken and constant to the end. No! Lefebvre was rather a snake in the grass, a complete fake, and as Ultramontane as most of the French prelates at the First Council of the Vatican. His considerably more hard line position taken from the Society's founding till the early 1980's, a position that could be described as "sedevacantist," can be better explained by his personal animosity towards pope Paul VI (of blessed memory) than genuine conviction. Then along comes a young, charismatic John Paul II, waves his magic wand and just watch as the dissidence and principle melt in a pot of Ultramontane credulity and hyperbole. What a sham! And woe betide anyone who disagreed with him! As Rev. Cekada says:

"Abp. Lefebvre made a regular practice of threatening priests with expulsion or actually expelling them from the Society, and then making no provision whatsoever for their support. By 1983, this was part of the archbishop's standard operating procedure — cross him and you were out in the street with no appeal."

That sounds personally familiar...

Contrary to the version of history made popular by Richard Williamson, aka: the reverend Party Line, this had nothing to do with Sedevacantism. Doubtless some clergy of the $$PX held sedevacantist opinions but this only became an issue in the early-1980's. Before the negotiations with (neo-Modernist) Rome, whose paragon was John Paul II, the $$PX was a very flexible, loose association of priests and lay people held together less by the charisma or will of Lefebvre himself as a common ideal, a common rejection of Modernism in the post-Vatican II Roman church. Liturgically, the $$PX had no real standard (there was no $$PX "charter," the society had no canonical standing). In France, for instance, you would walk into a chapel administered by the Lefebvrists and you would find a kind of hodgepodge of 1962 and post-1962. Contrast this with England and North America, where pre-1956 was the rule. Lefebvre himself seemingly had no preference, celebrating the reformed rites as they were in 1967. What was an issue, for the nine priests and their congregations and seminarians, was the increasing tendency of Lefebvre to change his mind on a whim on some disciplinary matter (and then turn mercilessly on anyone who disagreed with him); his lofty, narcissistic view of himself as if he were pope and magisterium; the validity of the sacraments administered by new priests, of doubtful orders, in the Society; and crucially the liturgical books of 1962. Charges of Sedevacantism were just a convenient means of silencing opposition. As to imposing 1962, Rev. Cekada further explains:

"Now not even the head of a real religious order like the Cistercians has the power to impose new liturgical practices on members — and Abp. Lefebvre was nothing more than a retired bishop heading a priests' association that had no canonical existence. He had no right to dictate liturgical practices to anyone. Apart from the legal issue, there was the principle itself. These liturgical reforms were the work of the Mason Bugnini. They were one stage in his program to destroy the Mass and replace it with the Novus Ordo assembly-supper. Knowing that, there was no way I and my fellow priests would use his Missal."

It is a tendency that has been evident throughout the history of the Roman church for a thousand years. A combination of political expediency, aggressive proselytism, modernising, and sniveling Ultramontanism. There were many people in history who knew what side their bread was buttered. Charlemagne was one, Alfonso VI of Castile was another. Marcel Lefebvre was just the latest, at least liturgically. The more "mainstream" a rite, the more a rite is aggressively promoted by Rome, together with the relative native conviction or goodness of the subject, the standard slips as people forget and are, in turn, forgotten. Put simply, as Ultramontanism rises, liturgy plummets. As dissidence wanes, so too does the standard. And this is what we see to-day. Twenty-five years on, what is Lefebvre's legacy? Is it a new liturgical movement, grounded in a burning zeal for truth, constancy and tradition? Is it the reconciliation of an internal schism? No, it's insincere morons like the one I met on the way to St Bede's Clapham Park once holding his 1962 missal and thinking himself so very pious and important. It's those ridiculous pseudo-canons of the Institute of Christ the King Sovereign Priest, draped in blue. It's the scandalous strategy of carrot and stick, with every few years abortive hopes of a reconciliation with Rome. And probably most damaging of all is the infiltration and usurpation of the Traditionalist movement by neo-conservatives (that is, the superstitious types willing to accept the latest Roman defecation but simply "prefer" the "usus antiquior"). This was a process begun in 1984, with Lefebvre's negotations with Rome, and the decree Quattuor Abhinc Annos. Tradition, as a cause, was then cheaply discarded and the Ultramontane orthodoxy of the conservatives took over. These days concern about the bastardized rite of 1962 is dismissed as "liturgical fetishism." Or as Lefebvre himself might have said: "la foi, c'est moi!"

I'm afraid I don't have a good word to say about Lefebvre, a pernicious, lying, devious old queen, now in Hell. If he was buried in England I think I'd piss on his grave.

Formative...

I've always liked Annie Lennox, and Eurythmics. I first saw this music video when I was very little, when it was brand new. I've often wondered why I was so enthralled by it. I think it's because my mother told me that the travesti dancers were men. It seems strange, in hindsight, that she should do this. She went into a rage when she found out that my grandmother was letting me watch Hinge & Bracket, and the day I walked into the kitchen when she was cleaning the oven and asked: "mummy, how do gay men have sex?" she was not too pleased (she bashed her head on the roof of the oven, you see). At the time I was the only male dancer at my Irish Dance academy. And I despise my mother. It's clear to me now that I was ruined from a very young age, and that she had a lot to do with it.

A psychopathic culture...

Opposite my grandmother's house in Ireland is a field. At the end of this field there is a river. Some years ago the local Sinn Féin man knocked at my grandmother's house because there was nobody else about. He needed help because one of his horses had foundered in the river, and was in peril of drowning. If for no other reason that a horse was in danger, she decided to help. She waded into the river to comfort the horse, whereupon the horse got its strength back and climbed the bank, and was saved. Ever since then the Sinn Féin man has been a faithful friend of my grandmother, despite their differences. One day a caravan was parked on the field and was left there. The next day two more caravans came, and the next day two more, and before my grandmother was even aware, four "Traveller" families had settled on the field opposite her house. Now, my grandmother doesn't own the field but she certainly didn't want a lot of "Travellers" tearing it up, making a noise like elephants and plummeting the value of her house. So she besought them to pack up and move on. I think she was told to "feck off." She contacted the Gardai, who wouldn't help. Then one day the Sinn Féin man knocked at the door to ask after her health. She explained the situation, but by no means asked for his help. Nevertheless, the Sinn Féin man went to speak to the Travellers. I think they told him to bugger off too.

One day, when the Travellers were away, some men came and set light to one of the caravans, and waited. When the Travellers returned, one of the arsonists said to them: "if you lot don't move on, the next time you'll be asleep inside!" It goes without saying that the Travellers packed up and left, and haven't returned.

The reason I have related this story is because I've been reading a lot about Nazis and their policies towards gypsies, travellers and other vagrant types. I could have told you stories from personal experience, about being intimidated and beaten up by "traveller" types on my paper round as a boy, but I thought the story of the kindly protestant lady and the Catholic man, united in their common hatred of these low, thieving scoundrels better illustrates my point. I don't have a good word to say about Travellers. Their loathsome way of life, their culture of ignorance, incest, and bullying, lewd drunkenness and sponging, make me sick to my stomach. They are a blight on every field, they defile every roadside. They are rightly shunned by decent members of society. And yet people react with horror when they read that the Nazis held them in dire contempt too, and forced them into concentration camps. I'm afraid I don't share that horror. I think that if Nazi policies, which in most respects were not very attractive, had any justification at all then dealing with this plague would have my support. You can't tell these vagrants to "move on" indefinitely. They're just going to move to another field, opposite somebody else's house who doesn't want them there, and maybe next time there won't be a handy vigilante type to force them out with petrol and fire. What then? Is the innocent, law-abiding elderly woman supposed to live in fear of burglary and constant menace?

Grandmother's story was so compelling it actually softened my view of Sinn Féin somewhat.

To take my mind off religion...

"And you thought you would like to feel that powerful, withering love that shatters both the body and the soul? You do not answer. Then afterwards came Egypt, Antinous and Adrian. You were the Emperor, I was the slave." Teleny, or The Reverse of the Medal, attributed to Oscar Wilde.

That time of year again...

Pius XII, liturgist!

About three weeks ago I was at a dinner party. It was sensible Christian company, of course, and I remember I intimated the fecundity and profundity of my prayer life to the persons present. "I usually address God," said I: "with impertinent familiarity. I am wont to say, 'you know how it is,' or 'you know the score.'" And that's it! I don't pray the office; I don't believe in liturgical solipsism (a comfortable safeguard against laziness and hypocrisy). I rarely even make the Sign of the Cross, although I sometimes do so over meat if I am not sure of its history from abattoir to the supermarket. I don't follow the liturgical kalendar. I don't fast. I don't give alms. I sometimes read the Bible; I'll recite Psalm 90 every so often, and I sometimes sing hymns to myself. I don't ever go to church and that is because all the churches are apostate or corrupt in some way. Christianity, or more accurately "churchianity," has become so repulsive to me. And to-day is one of the reasons why.

Years ago, I remember very clearly being rebuked by a Roman Catholic woman for my position on the liturgical books of 1962 (which hasn't changed at all), for not "offering up" to God my "sufferings," or sense of scandal, in imitation of Christ (such arrogance!), for the sake of personal loyalty to the Roman church. I can only describe this scenario as looking across a sundering gulf at an alien creature. Her position was, I now understand, entirely superstitious. What was really wrong with the 1962 missal? Surely it was sanctioned by the church? For a woman who loved to quote Ratzinger's pseudo-profound: "truth is not subject of a majority vote," I found her condescending remonstrance hard to accept. She seemed to expect me to abandon my conviction on the liturgical books of 1962 and just toe the party line. Not only is this completely unfair, it makes no sense. The liturgical books of 1962 have absolutely no intrinsic value. They represent a complete departure from the Roman liturgical tradition, and they are objectively an aberration. This is as true as the sky is blue, the grass is green, the bus is red. So why would attendance at services celebrated 1962 fashion be virtuous? Why would participation in something objectively wrong in terms of doctrine and praxis be worthwhile? Is the Church an hospital for the sick? Are the sacraments, the services, the scriptures, the saints not the God-given means by which alone we can become by Grace what He is by nature? Or is the Church some arbitrary correctional facility for suspect persons in which "loyalty" is tested by humiliating regimens in grotesque surroundings? "Swallow this crap, or you're not one of us!"

Leaving aside the question of whether even attempting to imitate Christ's Passion is a noble thing, I just could not get this woman to understand my position, so I gave up trying. "No, I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't share your view," was the only polite way of ending the pointless debate. And not only has nobody ever furnished me with a proof from some lofty Roman decree that the 1962 missal was never juridically abrogated, this woman also conspicuously failed to furnish me with scriptural or patristic proof that this business about "offering up" scandal has any justification. You can't think: "I can see that what I am involved in here is sacriligious, blasphemous and defective," and "offer it up!" What on earth do you say to that? O Lord...

Oh, what's the bloody point?

Photo courtesy of The Saint Lawrence Press.