A true theologian...

Auntie Joanna has picked up on this excellent quote of Pope Benedict XVI in the Faith Magazine:

"...we proclaim Jesus of Nazareth Lord and Christ, Crucified and Risen, Sovereign of time and of history, in the glad certainty that this truth coincides with the deepest expectations of the human heart..."

The Holy Father never ceases to amaze me. He is verily a theologian in the all-encompassing sense of that term. What he has just said is rather reminiscent of what Tolkien said of the Blessed Sacrament in my previous post too.

Oremus pro beatissimo Papa nostro Benedicto, ut Deus et Dominus noster, qui elegit eum in ordine episcopatus, salvum, atque incolumen custodiat Ecclesiae suae sanctae, ad regendum populum sanctum Dei.

Liturgical Musings on ''Pastoral Theology.''

My blog is over a month old now! I am pleasantly surprised that I didn't run out of things to say, that may or may not be useful to my readers, within a few days - a consolation amidst other cares and griefs.

This short ''essay'' does not aim at completeness; it is not academic or anything other than personal reflections. Its length will, I hope, give some indication of my interest in the matter. Some things that I have said may be useful, or at least quaint or interesting. I earnestly hope that someone takes the trouble to read it. I expect that many of my readers will be Catholics of a traditional mould - that is well. However, since others will be less so, I apologise in advance if you are irritated by the tone of many of my criticisms. But I am sure that we are all aggrieved by the current liturgical crisis; and so I hope this short piece provides you all with a kind of sensus fidelium, if that helps anyone at all, that is.

I have decided to follow up on my previous post about change and how it is sometimes needed, and more often than not, isn't. For change, as I have said before, is inevitable in this life whether we like or accept that, or we don't. As someone very ''peculiar'' (lets put it that way), I don't like change much. As I said in my previous post, meaningless changes (such as the priest turning his back on the East in the Liturgy) anger me; they proceed from inadvertent minds, with little or no understanding of how I see things, and what my personal needs are. That may sound selfish, but I am sure that my needs are just as agreeable as the next person's; and they are probably consonant with a lot of other people’s needs too. And changes introduced for ''pastoral'' reasons seem especially pertinent to discuss.

This aversion to change characterises my personal perception of the Sacred Liturgy of the Church. Liturgy is naturally something I take a great deal of interest in, as I am (at least I like to think that I am) a homo religiosus. It is a vast and fascinating subject, but though I have at times thought about the Liturgy, I have not studied it. I do not intend to either; that is the province of men like Dom Prosper Guéranger, and of course, the Holy Father Pope Benedict XVI. I am a layman, and therefore I think it would be presumptuous and somewhat impertinent of me to delve too deeply into the province of more competent and learned men than I. Interestingly, as an aside, this is one thing that J.R.R Tolkien objected to about C.S Lewis - making a spectacle of himself as a theologian and amateur apologist! Apologetics being the province of theologians and not laymen. However, it is worth saying a few words on my part, even if they just serve to exhibit my ignorance.

I cannot quite understand the reasons for change - radical change - articulated in a so-called ''pastoral'' context. Of course, this principle applies to other aspects of the Church's life quite apart from the Liturgy (although in a sense, since the Liturgy is the source and summit of the Church's life, they can never be quite separated). For what do they mean exactly? What is ''pastoralism,'' and who decides that? So far as I can see, it is just some fantastic notion that doesn't warrant its accustomed place among the other theological disciplines within the broad spectrum of Catholic Theology. Not so much about the Shepherd’s care for the flock anymore (this has always been a pertinent point, and a very ancient one, as old as the Church herself), as I understand the term ''pastoral,'' but a kind of new philosophy with this former connotation a mere shadow or red herring. I shall try to explain.

Pastoral Theology has its origin in the Enlightenment. In an excellent article for the Pastoral Review, Fr Richard Price articulates the history of this novel discipline, and traces it to the University of Vienna in 1774. I need not tell all that here, it may suffice to mention just a few interesting points. In 1773, Pope Clement XIV dissolved the Jesuits. Before this, they had run education in Austria, and so now there was a situation where education could be ''reformed'' (I am always suspicious of that word) and so the Austrian government entrusted this to the abbot of two Benedictine monasteries - a certain Franz Stephan Rautenstrauch. He rapidly devised a completely novel programme for priests - in order to correspond, as he put it, to ''the stage of Enlightenment in which we now see ourselves.'' I will not belabour the obvious parallel with that ghastly concept aggiornamento, but it is interesting to see that in its origins Pastoral Theology is inimical to both the old Scholastic methods, and of course the Religious Life. Indeed, the discipline seems better suited to Protestantism than to the life of the Church.

And so, skipping a few centuries, we find ourselves at Vatican II and the years immediately before and after it. Following the Enlightenment ideals of understanding (it was, afterall, the age of Reason), activity (the Rationalists couldn't stand Religious life, because of its emphasis on contemplation over activity), and the modernist principles of Ecumenism (I am not strictly against Ecumenism, that is, understood to mean the genuine desire of the reunion of all sincere self-professed Christians, doctrinally and liturgically, into the One True Church of Christ) and aggiornamento (which was, as you know, explicitly condemned by Blessed Pius IX in his famous Syllabus of Modernist Errors), the likes of Bugnini - the man who dared to say that genuflections, or any traditional liturgical inclinations, were tiresome anachronisms and externals! - and his accomplices on the Consilium, began to do things that weren't in the least bit enlightened. They began to deform and dismantle the Liturgy, and drew up (quite literally) a fabricated liturgy, passing it off as the traditional Roman Rite, with a few alterations here, and a few obsolete rubrics done away with. Good grief! And I am sure that these changes were introduced and explained by enthusiastic Bishops, Priests and eager new rubricists in so condescending a manner, in tones that implied: ''we know better than you, so just get on with it; this is the new Catholicism whether you like it or not'' - kind of like my own experiences as a child, persistently telling my father that I didn't like jam sandwiches, only to be told: ''yes you do!'' Is being told what is good for me in such a way ''pastoral'' - no it isn't, it is impertinent; almost a grotesque calumny.

When I was little, my parents and grandparents told me how when they were younger, the Mass was ''all in Latin.'' Years before I knew the Old Rite, before I began to research the Second Vatican Council, I thought that the Ordinary and Propers (not that I generally experienced Propers as a child - one great stain of ''creative'' liturgy) of the Mass were merely translated into local languages for pastoral advantage. And so, decidedly bored with the New Rite (in English), I went to a Latin Mass in the New Rite at Westminster Cathedral. What difference did it make, you may be wondering? Quite honestly, none whatsoever! I was just as easily bored and perplexed by it all; the priest came out, a lonely figure, ascended the Altar (made no reverence by the way) and turned to us and began addressing the Congregation (not God, well what does He have to do with it afterall?) in a language that none of us understood. One objection to the use of Latin in the Liturgy is that it is not generally understood, being the province of Classicists and academics. But the Mass is one of the chief mysteries of our Faith. I wonder whether Mary at the foot of the Cross, or your average peasant or serf who attended Mass in the Middle-ages, fully ''understood'' the mind of God in this pouring out of His Grace into our hearts? No, of course not, and why should they? Such an understanding has nothing whatsoever to do with the Liturgy. It lusts after the Faith, trying to dominate it, which is inordinate. I remember a Scripture that says: ''At that time Jesus answered and said: I confess to thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them to little ones. Yea, Father: for so hath it seemed good in thy sight.'' (St Matthew 11:25-26). Similarly, this is the correct frame of mind and heart in which we must approach the Liturgy, which comes from God and is directed back to Him - very much like Aristotle’s concept of the Prime Mover’s love which is thrown forth from him, and comes back to him. All of us, wise and unlearned, must be, in the presence of God, of the utmost reverence and humility - to be as little ones, as Christ said.

Another thing wrong with the New Rite is it's impoverished ceremony, and gross want of beauty. I think it was Hilaire Belloc who said that the Catholic Church was the world's most ''complicated'' religion. Naturally! And since the Liturgy is ordered to a supreme Good, naturally it ought to be ordered with complex ceremonies. These ceremonies reflect and contain 2000 years of devotion and piety - and only a reprobate mind would call them anachronisms, or mere ''externals'' (who knows, this attitude to ''externals'' may reflect some interior doubts about the inherent ''goodness'' of Creation on the part of the Reformers, perhaps a new form of Manichaeism or some heresy, old or new, which is inimical to the Catholic Faith). Remember that on the liturgical rites, the sacrosanct Council of Trent said that they contain ''nothing unnecessary or superfluous.''

Antipathy towards ritual, images etc is nothing new in the history of the Church. Iconoclasts, the Lollards, Protestants to name a few groups all propounded the same arguments; that the Church flies in the face of the Decalogue, that the veneration of images is idolatry, that ceremony is superstition. I can honestly say that I am even less convinced by them when articulated by men in the Vatican - who are supposed to defend the Church’s traditions, not sell them out. Images and Ritual are two necessary parts of the Catholic faith. On the subject of Beauty in the Liturgy; that is pretty self-explanatory really, and is explained by men better than I. I can really only repeat what I said in my previous post on the Veni Creator Spiritus - that Liturgy ought to of its living beauty evoke that peculiar response in us that is joy, penance, sorrow for our sins - almost as the little children that ran to embrace Christ. I refer readers to Uwe Michael Lang’s recent article in L’Osservatore Romano where he treats this very subject. Its very good. He reminds us that the ‘‘sapiential tradition of the bible acclaims God as "the very author of beauty" (Wisdom 13:3), glorifying him for the greatness and beauty of the works of creation.''

The changes brought about in the Liturgy by the Modernists, with fierce impetuosity, during the 1950s and 1960s, seems to me to betray the very principles of Pastoral Theology. For I expect that the question of how to be a pastor to one’s flock, particularly pertinent for a parish priest, is as old as the hills. Indeed, it probably reflects (however dimly, depending upon the priest) the very words of Our Lord Himself as recorded in the Gospel of St John: ''I am the good shepherd: and I know mine, and mine know me.'' (St John 10:14). Now, I always understood knowledge of Our Lord in a sacramental and liturgical sense. We can only know God through His works, and the chief of His works as manifest in any (decent) church is the Sacred Liturgy. Now, the voice of God as It is heard in the Liturgy seems to me to have been muffled by puffed up liberals in their drastic re-designing of the Designs of the Creator, the supreme Author of Liturgy. The Liturgy, which is the greatest treasure of the Church, has lost all familiarity. These are very complex questions of pastoral needs, but my own needs seem inextricably linked up with familiarity. A Proper Mass in the Old Rite, where the texts have significance and meaning for the liturgical season, would seem to me to be far more ''impressive'' (and pastoral) than yet one more extempore prayer-service, which is called audaciously ''liturgy,'' with more folk-choirs and rather meaningless Scripture lessons thrown in, where a ''parish council'' (yet more grotesque reflections of that tendency, all too easy to find these days, to treat the Church as in someway subject to political trends) decides: ''oh we haven’t had Colours of Day for a while, I think we’ll have that at the Offertory. Oh and Father, do make sure the girls tie back their hair this week, the Communion wine had one floating in it last week.'' I shudder to write things like that, but these things do happen, and are more widespread yet than the venerable Old Rite. Of course, such churches are completely inappropriate and make a farce of the Liturgy.

And it is all quite criminal too. For Bugnini’s (apparent) reasons for liturgical changes, aggiornamento, pastoral needs, and paradoxically, to return the Liturgy to the ''noble simplicity'' of the Fathers (as if this is a guarantee of value, as Tolkien said at the time of the Council; and the Novus Ordo is sufficient evidence to show that Bugnini knew nothing whatsoever about the Fathers, liturgically or otherwise), then making any criticism of the New Rite seems unjust and unreasonable. It is quite genius, one would almost say, devilish. For criticism of the New Rite often comes across as an ad hominem attack on Bugnini himself, or worse, an attack on the Church, or the Mass. But these apparent reasons were stinking red herrings. Bugnini himself admits that it was his intention, in his conquest of the Catholic Church, to sap from the Liturgy anything that was a ''stumbling block'' to Protestants. Why should we moderate our beliefs to suit them? (That is assuming such an attitude to Liturgy were legitimate in the first place!) And he executed this foul design ingeniously. Virtually everything in the New Rite smacks of ambiguity. The Liturgy of the West has become a rather piteous and shadowy hodgepodge of half-remembered traditions and mutilated prayers, where once it was venerable and wonderful. The New Rite has certainly assumed a somewhat Protestant character. What was once reverenced and defended by the Church’s beloved Confessors and Martyrs is now scoffed at by puffed up liberals - the article (''Beyond Language'') published in The Tablet on the Old Rite on the publication of Summorum Pontificum is sufficient to show this.

It has long been alleged that Annibale Bugnini was a Freemason. Now, whether you believe this or not is up to you - I do, as did celebrated author Michael Davies; but what is sad is that the Liturgy has been deformed beyond all recognition largely because of him - he was, even if he was not a Freemason, a rather disgraceful and dubious man. Isn’t it ironic though, that the man whom Modernists champion as a great pioneer of pastoral liturgy spent virtually no time at all in his life tending to the needs of any flock! It is highly unlikely that Pastoral Theology will be done away with - at least any time soon. However, we can take the questions posed by this novel discipline - at least the only one that warrants serious consideration, namely, how to be a good pastor to the flock - and gear it towards liturgical catechetics. How is it best to integrate the misguided laity (and in many cases, clergy!) into the riches of the Church's old liturgical tradition? How can we accustom the laity to the use of the Latin language? And many others beside.

I have spent some days writing this, and I am now somewhat barren of things to say; and so I shall end with two pertinent Scripture quotations: ''Beware lest any man cheat you by philosophy and vain deceit: according to the tradition of men according to the elements of the world and not according to Christ.'' (Colossians 2:8); and ''Therefore, brethren, stand fast: and hold the traditions, which you have learned, whether by word or by our epistle.''

J.R.R Tolkien on the Blessed Sacrament

Today is the Feast of Corpus Christi, the greatest gift of Almighty God to His Church. It took me ages to find this first passage in Tolkien. I had intended to put it up with other stuff, but until this very moment, by a special Grace of the Blessed Virgin Mary, I haven't been able to find it! Tolkien's personal piety was simple, Confession before Mass, Mass everyday (until the unfortunate changes of the 1960s, when Mass attendance became a ''bitter trial'' to use the expression of Evelyn Waugh), and Rosary before bed. The sole ultimate focus of his devotion was the Blessed Sacrament. I produce here the conclusion of a very moving letter he wrote to his son Michael in 1941:

''Out of the darkness of my life, so much frustrated, I put before you the one great thing to love on earth: the Blessed Sacrament.....There you will find romance, glory, honour, fidelity, and the true way of all your loves upon earth, and more than that: Death: by the divine paradox, that which ends life, and demands the surrender of all, and yet by the taste (or foretaste) of which alone can what you seek in your earthly relationships (love, faithfulness, joy) be maintained, or take on that complexion of reality, of eternal endurance, which every man's heart desires.'' (The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, no. 43).

In another moving letter, written 22 years later to the same son, Tolkien writes:

''But I fell in love with the Blessed Sacrament from the beginning - and by the mercy of God never have fallen out again: but alas! I indeed did not live up to it...Out of wickedness and sloth I almost ceased to practice my religion - especially at Leeds, and at 22 Northmoor Road. Not for me the Hound of Heaven, but the never-ceasing silent appeal of Tabernacle, and the sense of starving hunger. I regret those days bitterly (and suffer for them with such patience as I can be given); most of all because I failed as a father. Now I pray for you all, unceasingly, that the Healer (the Hælend as the Saviour was usually called in Old English) shall heal my defects, and that none of you shall ever cease to cry Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.'' (Ibid. no. 250).

Have a solemn and blessed Feast and Octave of Corpus Christi all readers...and pray for me, I am sorely in need of it...

The above image is of Our Lady with the Sanctissimum; I thought the customary picture of an Ostensorium would be used by just about everyone else. Also, I was told by my parish priest, that Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament began as a Marian devotion.

Another example of post-Conciliar Iconoclasm...

When my grandparents were on Pilgrimage in Spain in the early 1970s, they came to a certain church. The parish priest was carrying a lovely and unique Crucifix - an image of a miracle-working Crucifix in another church - and my grandmother asked what he was doing with it. The priest told her that he was going to throw it away because it reminded parishioners too much of the Passion of Christ and did not focus upon His Resurrection. And so, my grandfather suggested that instead of throwing it away, they take it home with them. Surprisingly, the priest acquiesced and it hung near the front door of my grandparent's house until they retired and moved back to Ireland. That is when they left it for me. Naturally, I fell in love with it when I first laid eyes upon it.

It is rather shameful that such a beautiful dimension of Catholic piety as sorrowful contemplation upon Our Lord's Passion has been largely discarded since Vatican II. But here it is, all these years later. This Crucifix was solemnly blessed at my parish church on the Feast of the Invention of the Holy Cross.

The Great Battle of the Powers

I have not posted about The Silmarillion of late, so it is about time to do so. They are quite easy to write I suppose, its just that they take a while and I am not sure of how familiar my readers are with the text, if at all. I wouldn't want to be giving the plot away! That may or may not be too late by now though...

Anyway, the stage we are at now is this: the Vala Oromë had dwelt for a short while at Cuiviénen, the Waters of Awakening, with the ancient kindreds of the Elves, but must needs return into the West to bring the news to the other Valar. He does so. On hearing the news, the Valar rejoice, but are unquiet amid their joy because of the menace of Melkor who is still dwelling in the North of Middle-earth. And so the Valar and the Maiar hold a great council together, and thither came even Ulmo from the Outer Seas. At this point, Oromë returns to Middle-earth to guard the Elves. The Elder King Manwë then seeks the counsel of God upon the mountain of Taniquetil, and coming back down to Valinor, he summons the Valar to the Ring of Doom where he says: ''This is the counsel of Ilúvatar in my heart; that we should take up again the mastery of Arda, at whatsoever cost, and deliver the Quendi from the shadow of Melkor.''

And so, the Valar prepare to make war once again upon the Diobolus Melkor, albeit with reluctance - and even without real hope of victory (''at whatsoever cost''). You must remember that in the most primeval wars for the mastery of Arda, Melkor could single-handedly drive all the Valar into retreat. Therefore, the war upon Melkor undertaken by the Valar was rather in the hope of distracting his attention away from Cuiviénen, where the vulnerable Children of Ilúvatar yet dwelt. And so, they came from the West in force of war and met the onset of Melkor in the North-west of Middle-earth. The Valar find that they can deal with Melkor's agents piecemeal, and their first victory was swift, and so the servants of Melkor fled before their wrath to Utumno. The Valar then pass over Middle-earth and set a guard about Cuiviénen. Thereafter, the Elves knew nothing of the great Battle of the Powers, except that the earth groaned and shook beneath them, the waters of the sea were moved, and far away to the North there were lights as of many fires. Tolkien writes that:

''Long and grievous was the siege of Utumno, and many battles were fought before its gates of which naught but the rumour is known to the Elves. In that time the shape of Middle-earth was changed, and the Great Sea that sundered it from Aman grew wide and deep; and it broke in upon the coasts and made a deep gulf to the southward. Many lesser bays were made between the Great Gulf and Helcaraxë far to the north, where Middle-earth and Aman came nigh together. Of these the Bay of Balar was the chief; and into it the mighty river Sirion flowed down from the new-raised highlands northwards: Dorthonion, and the mountains about Hithlum. The lands of the far north were all made desolate in those days; for there Utumno was delved exceeding deep, and its pits were filled with fires and with great hosts of the servants of Melkor.'' (The Silmarillion, Chapter III, Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor, p. 48).

The scale of this war must have been huge; even if it was localised to the North of Middle-earth. You know, I often find the location of the primeval dwelling place of the Dark Lord, in the North, a source of significance, and sometimes amusement. At Mass, of course, the Deacon chants the Gospel in the direction of the north (even if not strictly the geographically correct compass direction) because, as the Scriptures say: ''And the Lord said to me: From the north shall an evil break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land.'' (Jeremias 1:14). I wonder if Tolkien had this in mind when he wrote all this? I should know this of course; that is what my parish MC would say anyway! However, the only referrence to the North in relation to the Diobolus that I know in Tolkien is in a (very funny) letter he wrote to his publisher Allen & Unwin on 23rd February 1961, in which he said: ''The placing of Mordor in the east was due to simple narrative and geographical necessity, within my 'mythology.' The original stronghold of Evil was (as traditionally) in the North...'' (The Letters of J.R.R Tolkien, no. 229). Perhaps someone more learned than I can illumine me. At least I should stop thinking about dark lords etc when we line up in the Sanctuary to go and convert the heathen barbarians in the North with the Word of God!

Anyway, back to the subject! After the long and arduous battles, sieges etc before the gates of Hell, the Valar at last break them down and unroof the many pits of Utumno, and Melkor flees into the deepest dungeons to take refuge. This is a rather cogent point; Melkor, who once drove the Valar into retreat, is in his turn driven into retreat. The Valar perceive (and Melkor himself perceives this, from a personal perspective) that Melkor does not himself have sufficient personal force to shield himself from direct assault. The reasons for this are complex and beyond the scope of this post - I shall perhaps do another post dedicated to the concept of ''the Morgoth'' - Tolkien treats this subject in The History of Middle-earth. And so, the account given in The Silmarillion is that Tulkas ''stood forth as champion of the Valar and wrestled with him, and cast him upon his face; and he was bound with the chain Angainor that Aulë had wrought, and was led captive; and the world had peace for a long age.'' And Melkor was brought before Manwë in the Ring of Doom, and he sued for pardon, but his prayer was denied and he was locked away in the fastness of Mandos, where he was doomed to abide for three ages long. Ominously, Sauron was not found by the Valar, nor a great many of the Balrogs, and they waited in the dark pits of Angband that the Valar had not found, awaiting the return of their lord...

I can't find any ''Tolkien art'' that accurately illustrates the Battle of the Valar, so I'll leave that to your imagination.

Why I hate my job...

I don't know if anyone has noticed, but whenever I mention my job, I always mention it in a snide, ''I am above this'' sort of way. Well, there is little to wonder about that. It is quite simply degrading and demeaning beyond my worst nightmare. It gets a bit much when you start to dread going to work on Wednesday on a Monday evening...I was feeling rather more sour about it when I was there on Saturday. I had overslept, and therefore missed the special Ember Day at my parish, and when I got there eventually, I was told off by two people for not abiding by their rather pointless and pedantic rules, deliberately. I am not the only one who hates it there though, one man I used to work with in my previous job was transferred there too, and while he ended up with the more respectable job, he says there is little difference. Some people like it there though - but they tend to be the rather rude people in Personnel and Management, the pedantic ones who enforce the silly rules. Kind of like the Sheriffs in the Shire when the Hobbits came back, telling them all off because they had broken some rule. Would that like Pippin, I could rip them all down. Sometimes I wish the place would blow up or something.

Of course, it doesn't do to complain about one's job in this ''economic climate'' - my mother told me so. ''You ought to think yourself lucky that you have a job'' - well, that is all very well and good, but thats a rather veiled way of saying ''you have no right to complain about it.'' My difficulty lies in the fact that I am an academic under-achiever. When (or if) I get my degree(s), I may be so numbed by my rather monotonous job that I may be of little use to anyone. God help me!

''MCing...''

I attended a Missa Cantata this evening and was Master of Ceremonies. I kind of think that ''MCing'' (there I've just coined a new verb!) is so inextricably linked up with personal judgement under pressure, thorough knowledge of the Rubrics, and anticipation that I am less than competent. At least, however, I remembered to lift the chasuble at the Elevation of the Sacred Host! (even if that Rubric is rather obsolete...)

A peculiar story...

This is a sort of impromptu, ''stop-gap'' post - put up purely for the sake of giving me time to work on more elaborate stuff. But anyway, this story is the first part of Chapter I of a rather academic book of psychology that I have. It is quite a ''nice'' (for want of a synonym) story, but I'll let you decide that. Often, stories like these move me, even if they aren't intented to by the author.

''The door bell rang, heralding the arrival of another guest for Alicia's birthday party. Her mother opened the door and looked down to see Jack, the last guest to arrive. It was her daughter's ninth birthday and the invitation list had been for ten girls and one boy. Alicia's mother had been surprised at this inclusion, thinking that girls her daughter's age usually considered boys to be smelly and stupid, and not worthy of an invitation to a girl's birthday party. But Alicia had said that Jack was different. His family had recently moved to Birmingham and Jack had been in her class for only a few weeks. Although he tried to join in with the other children, he hadn't made any friends. The other boys teased him and wouldn't let him join in any of their games. Last week he had sat next to Alicia while she was eating her lunch, and as she listened to him, she thought he was a kind and lonely boy who seemed bewildered by the noise and hectic activity of the playground. He looked cute...and he knew so much about so many things. Her heart went out to him and, despite the perplexed looks of her friends when she said he was invited to her party, she was determined he should come.

''And here he was, a solitary figure clutching a birthday card and present which he immediately gave to Alicia's mother. She noticed he had written Alicia's name on the envelope, but the writing was strangely illegible for an eight-year-old. 'You must be Jack,' she said and he simply replied with a blank face, 'Yes.' She smiled at him, and was about to suggest that he went into the garden to join Alicia and her friends when he said, 'Alicia's birthday present is one of those special dolls that my mum says every girl wants, and she chose it, but what I really wanted to get her was some batteries. Do you like batteries? I do, I have a hundred and ninety-seven batteries. Batteries are really useful. What batteries do you have in your remote controllers?' Without waiting for a reply, he continued, 'I have a special battery from Russia. My dad's an engineer and he was working on an oil pipeline in Russia and he came home with six triple-A batteries for me with Russian writing on them. They are my favourite. When I go to bed I like to look at my box of batteries and sort them in alphabetical order before I go to sleep. I always hold one of my Russian batteries as I fall asleep. My mum says I should hug my teddy bear but I prefer a battery. How many batteries do you have?'

''She replied, 'Well, I don't know, but we must have quite a few...,' and felt unsure what to say next. Her daughter was a very gentle, caring and maternal girl and she could understand why she had 'adopted' this strange little boy as one of her friends. Jack continued to provide a monologue on batteries, how they are made and what to do with them when the power is exhausted. Alicia's mother felt exhausted too, listening to a lecture that lasted about ten minutes. Despite her subtle signals of needing to be somewhere else, and eventually saying, 'I must go and get the party food ready,' he continued to talk, following her into the kitchen. She noticed that when he talked, he rarely looked at her and his vocabulary was very unusual for an eight-year-old boy. It was more like listening to an adult than a child, and he spoke very eloquently, although he didn't seem to want to listen.

''Eventually she said, 'Jack, you must go into the garden to say hi to Alicia and you must go now.' Her facial expression clearly indicated there was no alternative. He gazed at her face for a few seconds, as if trying to read the expression, and then off he went. She looked out of the kitchen window and watched him run across the garden towards Alicia. As he ran through a group of four girls, she noticed one of them deliberately put out her foot to trip him up. As he fell awkwardly to the ground, the girls all laughed. But Alicia had seen what happened and went over to help him get to his feet.'' (Tony Attwood, The Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome, Chapter I What is Asperger's Syndrome?, pp11-12).

I sincerely hope those girls were asked to leave...The above photograph is of Hans Asperger himself, with one of his ''little-professors.''

Semper Idem...

My ''motto'' (I know that sounds a bit hackneyed, and it doesn't really describe what it means personally, but honestly what other word is there?) is ''Semper Idem'' (idem being in the neuter form, since I use it to refer to most, if not all, areas of life) which means ''always the same.'' As an aside, I believe that Cardinal Ottaviani, one of the good guys at Vatican II, had this same ''episcopal motto.'' I wonder what Cardinal Bea's motto was...!!!

Before it becomes completely incomprehensible, I shall begin a new paragraph! The reason my ''motto'' is Semper Idem is because I cannot abide change (at least change for the sake of change, which is meaningless). The details of this pet aversion are rather complex and personal to elaborate on a blog, but I shall do my best to make them seem less so. Meaningless changes seem to break a kind of personal periphery, they are an intolerable affront, an invasion of privacy, utterly incomprehensible. Almost, I would go so far to say, they are a permanent loss of immediate ''control'' on my part, on my surroundings. Changes in the immediate vicinity, if NOT caused by myself, make me angry as coming from other minds, which work differently from mine and do not understand mine, and my dispositions. I only make changes (to routine, habits, the lay-out of my bedroom etc) if I think they are needed, and they are marked by care, and the conscious effort to make it at least seem like the change is a natural progression from an ''inferior'' state, or at least an obsolete, no-longer-needed kind of state. People who know me, tell me that it is very noticeable! My father once told me that I was like ''clock-work;'' always in at the same time from school, work, college, university etc. because I always use the same routes to those respective places, even to the extent of crossing junctions and roads at the same spots, only getting one bus (even if other buses use the same route) and probably other things that I don't even notice anymore.

Of course there are many ''disadvantages'' to this almost fanatical inability to meet something as inevitable as ''change'' at least half-way in this life. Which is one reason among many that I overslept this morning (and therefore missed the unique Ember Day Mass within the Octave of Pentecost at my parish). We all take turns doing odd, no-one-wants-to-do chores in my house. Last night, it was my turn to wash up. And, inevitably, like most things as dull and monotonous as that (theres a lot of unwanted monotony in my life at the moment), I put it off until I should already be in bed. And since I have a very labour-intensive approach to most any job that I encounter (nothing is easy) it takes me some hours to do a few plates and knives, where it would take my mother, say, 20-30 minutes. Everything has its place, in order of size or whatever (I'm sure the details are tedious to most other people), and so I was still doing it at 3:00am this morning. On hearing the sound of my alarm clock (at 7:30am), I was too shaken and bewildered to know to get up; all I could think of was ''just turn the bloody thing off!'' And so I overslept by some hours. Then I went to work, which is always great.

Sorry if this seems bitter or pointless, or just rather weird...

Namárië

Today is the 50th anniversary of J.R.R Tolkien's Valedictory Address to the University of Oxford, given at the end of his last term as Merton Professor of English Language & Literature. There isn't really much I can say about it, save that it portrays Tolkien's characteristic humility, intelligence...and very dry sense of humour! The audience (the room was filled to capacity) to whom he spoke at 5:00pm in the Hall of Merton College was by no means purely academic or philological. Tolkien entered in full academic dress, shouting Hwæt! (''listen up'') the famous opening words of Beowulf and, as the Oxford Mail reported the next day, ''...the Professor re-fought, with gusto, some of the historic battles of the English Faculty. Even that warlike corner of the learned world has seen few more redoubtable guerrillas, and his resounding denunciation of old errors, alternating with deflating asides, or melodramatic declamation in Anglo-Saxon proved that he takes ample vigour to his retirement.'' (''Tolkien's Farewell,'' p.4).

Truly this was the end of an era for the University of Oxford, and despite what the Oxford Mail reported, Tolkien did not altogether relish the prospect of retirement. As I say, there isn't much to say on this subject, but I shall end this post with a humorous quote from the address. Tolkien began the address thus:

''It might be held characteristic that, though I have occupied two chairs (or sat uneasily on the edge of two chairs) in this university, I have not yet delivered an inaugural lecture: I am now about 34 years behind. At the time of my first election I was too astonished (a feeling that has never quite left me) to gather my wits, until I had already given many ordinary lectures as required by statute, and it seemed to me that an inaugural that would not inaugurate was a ceremony better omitted. On the second occasion, my ineffectiveness as a lecturer was already well known, and well-wishers had made sure (by letter or otherwise) that I should know it too; so I thought it unnecessary to give a special exhibition of this unfortunate defect.'' (J.R.R Tolkien, The Monsters and the Critics and other essays, p.224).

I wonder if Merton College has remembered? It must have been a great privilege to hear that address, and even I, so many years later, am enthralled by the words, but alas! I can only vaguely imagine what it was like.

Crucifixus etiam pro nobis...

This is probably my favourite painting of the High Renaissance period. It is Pietro Perugino's Crucifixion triptych. Shadowed somewhat by the more famous Raphael Mond Crucifixion, I think it is much more worthy. Perugino is, of course, better remembered for his famous fresco in the Sistine Chapel, The Delivery of the Keys. Enjoying a nice piece of Religious art (also marvelling at Ecclesiastical architecture) rather reminds me of Evelyn Waugh's diary entry at Eastertime 1964:

'''Participate' - the cant word - does not mean to make a row as the Germans suppose. One participates in a work of art when one studies it with reverence and understanding.'' (Evelyn Waugh, A Bitter Trial, p.38).

Wednesdays and Our Lady...

I hate Wednesdays...purely because its my longest and most agonizing day at work! But anyway, that aside, I found what I was looking for the other day. Here is a rather beautiful rendering of the Ave Maria into Quenya by J.R.R Tolkien. Enjoy!

On the Origin and Nature of the Orcs

I have ''let the side down'' of late. It has been quite a while now since I posted about The Silmarillion, so I shall do so now (forgive the length of this post by the way!)

As has been told, the origin of the Orcs goes back to the ancient days of the Quendi when they dwelt yet by the Waters of their Awakening. The most ancient songs of the Elves, of which echoes remain in Elven-home over Sea, told of a dark Rider upon his wild horse that ensnared and devoured any Elf, or small group of Elves, that wandered far from Cuiviénen. When the Elves first met the Vala Oromë, those did not flee from the light of his face told him of the shadow shapes that stalked the woods of Cuiviénen. For with after-knowledge, the Wise have declared that Melkor, ever vigilant, was first aware of the awakening of the Elves, and it was his desire to enslave them (and especially to keep them from any knowledge of God).

The account given in The Silmarillion is that the Orcs were ''corrupted Elves.'' The passage goes:

''But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet this is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves...And deep in their dark hearts the Orcs loathed the Master whom they served in fear, the maker only of their misery. This it may be was the vilest deed of Melkor, and the most hateful to Ilúvatar.'' (The Silmarillion, Of the Coming of the Elves.)

This account is both satisfactory and unsatisfactory on various points. It explains why the Orcs had an apparently longeval span of years. For example, those of you who remember The Choices of Master Samwise, will perhaps recall that the Orc Gorbag remembers the ''Great Siege.'' This is a term of ambiguity, as there were two ''great sieges'' (recorded) in the history of Middle-earth, the Siege of Angband and the Siege of Barad-dûr. It is more likely that Gorbag was referring to the Siege of Barad-dûr, but even that siege occurred some 3000 years before the events recorded in The Lord of the Rings. But the passage does not explore other dimensions in this vast and very complex area of the Legendarium, eg: the correlations between the race of the Orcs and the Dwarves, the Children of Aulë; at least taking into account that only Eru could ''create'' ex nihilo a race of sentient beings, with individual wills, needs etc. Aulë, when he had fashioned the Dwarves, was told by Ilúvatar that the Dwarves would not have individual wills and reasoning powers unless God should approve and bless the work. Orcs seem to have both, although even this may seem dubious given the account of the behaviour of the Orcs when the Eye of Sauron was bent with fierce impetuosity not on the battle before the Black Gate of Mordor but on Mount Doom. In this respect, and in others, we encounter various problems and apparent contradictions which I shall attempt to explore.

Until the mid-1950s, Tolkien's position on the Orcs was that they were corrupted Eldar (this is the solution to the problem cited in The Silmarillion). However, Tolkien's position shifted somewhat after this; their nature and origin requiring more thought. Like the other Ainur, Eru had given Melkor special ''sub-creative'' abilities (indeed, Melkor had been given more than the others) which was the guarantee that what the Ainur created under God (sub-creation) would be given the reality of Creation - naturally, since the Ainur are finite creatures and do not see all ends, with limitations. But since Melkor the Diobolus fell, and wanted creatures under him and to be worshipped as a god, the creatures of his hand would be creatures ''begotten of Sin'' (as Tolkien put it) and naturally bad (not, however, ''irredeemably'' bad, as he assured W.H Auden). Since, however, Tolkien had not conceived of the making of souls as a possible ''delegation,'' he devised an ad hoc solution by presenting the Orcs as having been in origin real beings on whom Melkor had exerted the fullness of his power in remodelling and corrupting them, and nursed with an unappeasable hatred of Creation. What were they, then, in origin?

In Volume X of The History of Middle-earth, Christopher Tolkien explores this problem in a chapter consisting of various manuscripts, scribblings etc gathered together, called ''Myths Transformed.'' In one of the sub-chapters, J.R.R Tolkien explores the question of whether ''talking'' is one of the marks of a rational soul, and whether or not Melkor had instead created ''beasts'' of humanized shape, perhaps blended with a strain of Elves or Men, deliberately perverted into a more close resemblance to Men. These pitiful and disgusting beings would have been like puppets, with words and sentences driven into them, which would be memorized by rote and repeated (very much like a parrot). Hosts of these creatures would then obey every command as with one will, even were it to slay themselves. Were the mind of the Dark Power elsewhere, then perhaps they would be mindless, dull and dumb. This makes the account given of the battle before the Black Gate of Mordor seem more plausible, if you take into account the words:

''From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems and wars his mind shook free; and throughout his realm a tremor ran, his slaves quailed, and his armies halted, and his captains suddenly steerless, bereft of will, wavered and despaired. For they were forgotten. The whole mind and purpose of the Power that wielded them was now bent with overwhelming force upon the Mountain.'' (The Lord of the Rings, Book VI, Chapter III, Mount Doom - emphasis my own).

Contrast this with the account given in Chapter X of Book IV, where the Orc Gorbag wants to desert his post serving in Minas Morgul and to go off somewhere with Shagrat and ''a few trusty lads,'' and an interesting contradiction arises. For Tolkien's theory of the Orcs being in origin humanized beasts seems to fit in nicely with the account of the battle, but doesn't really reconcile well with the latter account. But Myths Transformed is not solely limited to the ''sentient beast'' theory. Another, more radical, theory surrounded the nature of Mankind in relation to the Orcs. Tolkien writes:

''Finally, there is a cogent point, though horrible to relate. It became clear in time that undoubted Men could under the domination of Morgoth [the name given later to Melkor] or his agents in a few generations be reduced almost to the Orc-level of mind and habits; and then they would or could be made to mate with Orcs, producing new breeds, often larger and more cunning. There is no doubt that long afterwards, in the Third Age, Saruman rediscovered this, or learned of it in lore, and in his lust for mastery committed this, his wickedest deed: the interbreeding of Orcs and Men, producing both Men-orcs large and cunning, and Orc-men treacherous and vile.'' (The History of Middle-earth, Volume X, Morgoth's Ring, Part V, Myths Transformed).

Although this latter quotation does not concern the origin of the Orcs per se, it does shed light on a rather horrid fact about them - the immense diversity among the many ''sub-breeds''of this grotesque race. Those of you who have read The Lord of the Rings will perhaps remember the ''squint-eyed Southerner'' at Bree? There is no proof for this, but my supposition is that the Southerner at Bree was one of the Orc-men bred by Saruman. Also, the ''tracker'' Orc in Mordor seems to pertain rather to the nature of this breed than to the fighting Uruk-hai.

I have not said all that I could, for this is a vast subject. The history of the Orcs goes back to the Lost Tales, where they were spoken of as ''bred by Melko of the subterranean heats and slime,'' and stretches some 56 years of Tolkien's own ''sub-creation.'' I think that in conclusion, I shall venture to say that Tolkien's ''final'' solution to the origins of the Orcs was mixed. My own thoughts are that the Orcs were a rather horrid medley of all of these theories; sentient beasts, corrupted Elves and Men, some were indeed fallen Maiar in Orc-form. But the theory that they were mindless puppets seems too problematic in relation to the race as a whole. My supposition is that the Orcs seen at the Great Battles (most of them) were Orcs with their own reasoning abilities, with their own needs and passions, but were so daunted and enslaved to the Dark Power that they were literally driven by some special demonic force on account of the occasion - they were, indeed, the ''fingers of the Dark Lord.'' Nunc silebo!

Veni Creator Spiritus and the Eucatastrophe

I love the Feast of Pentecost, one of the dearest of all the Liturgical Year. On 8th March 1939, J.R.R Tolkien gave a lecture at the University of St Andrew's entitled On Fairy Stories, in which he argued that the chief purpose of any myth or fairy story was the sudden turn of events that pierced one with joy, which brought about tears. For this concept, he coined the term ''eucatastrophe'' - which means, roughly, ''good-unravelling'' - understood in the classical sense to refer to the conclusion of a drama. You may be wondering what this has to do with Pentecost, but I'll try to explain.

It is astounding how sometimes we believe that we believe what we do not with our whole hearts believe. There is a great difference between mere assent of the intellect to a revealed Truth, and that Faith which with the intellect makes the Soul soar up to God on high (for something better articulated on that matter, read Pope John Paul II's Encyclical letter Fides et Ratio). For years before I encountered the Old Rite, I thought I believed in the Real Presence, the mercy of God, the forgiveness of sins etc. But shortly after my first Old Rite Mass, I heard the Veni Creator Spiritus for the first time (sung beautifully by a professional choir) and the feeling was indescribable, I felt like my heart could have burst or something. The revealed Truths of faith then pierced through the sinews of my whole being like the stabbing of a white light into a dark and narrow place and I felt as though I were left vulnerable in the very presence of God, struck down by that perilous beauty of timeless Tradition. I was moved profoundly, and my attitude to Liturgy was somewhat changed then. (I am loath to say that I cried, but I did!)

The eucatastrophe perfectly encapsulates this sensation. In On Fairy Stories, Tolkien writes:

''It is not difficult to imagine the peculiar excitement and joy that one would feel, if any specially beautiful fairy-story were found to be 'primarily' true, its narrative to be history, without thereby necessarily losing the mythical or allegorical significance that it had possessed. It is not difficult, for one is not called upon to try and conceive anything of a quality unknown. The joy would have exactly the same quality, if not the same degree, as the joy which the 'turn' in a fairy-story gives: such joy has the very taste of primary truth. (Otherwise its name would not be joy.) It looks forward (or backward: the direction in this regard is unimportant) to the Great Eucatastrophe. The Christian joy, the Gloria, is of the same kind; but it is pre-eminently (infinitely, if our capacity were not finite) high and joyous. Because this fairy-story is supreme; and it is true. Art has been verified. God is the Lord, of angels, and of men - and of elves. Legend and History have met and fused.''

The Birth and Resurrection of Our Lord (and of course the descent of the Holy Ghost upon Our Lady and the Apostles) serve as the eucatastrophe (the Great Eucatastrophe) of Salvation History, the history of man's relationship with the Divine Majesty. The peculiar effect caused by the eucatastrophe in us (ie: my reaction to the Veni Creator Spiritus) comes from those depths of the Soul where Joy and Sorrow (another dimension of Catholic devotion is sorrowful contemplation upon Our Lord's Passion) are reconciled and at one; joy becomes qualitatively like sorrow, and sorrow like joy. As Tolkien wrote in The Lord of the Rings, in that beautiful chapter The Field of Cormallen, ''tears are the very wine of blessedness.''

Of course, Tolkien did not see Catholicism as merely a ''fairy-story'' - I expect that approaching our holy religion from this angle was a kind of ''flattery'' on his part; just as Justin Martyr called Catholicism true philosophy centuries earlier. It is certainly interesting to read the line ''art has been verified'' - of course that is what the Liturgy is, the supreme Art form (because it's creator is the Creator), encompassing ceremony, sacred music, mystery, art and of course the greatest mystery of our Faith, the dwelling of God among us, God being truly present, in the Blessed Sacrament. So to those liberals who bring heinous charges against us such as ritualism, aestheticism (beauty for the sake of beauty) I have only one thing to say: it is your loss, not our error. Anything in the Liturgy, even the most trivial-seeming detail, is done for the sake of nothing less than the praise and glory of His name. Which, incidentally, raises the question of the ''need'' for liturgical reform...even for so-called ''pastoral'' reasons...

Dislocated and imperfect though my knowledge of these deep matters is, quia peccator inter peccatores sum, et stultus sum! I have, at least, remained faithful (at least doctrinally, if not always in practice) to the Church. We can only look forward to a time when each individual Catholic's experience of the Liturgy is such that I have had, Deo volente.

Indulge mihi lectores, precor, has balbutiones!

Have a solemn and blessed Octave of Pentecost all readers, with much love and God's blessings from Patricius.