CHRISTOS ANESTI! ALETHEOS ANESTI!

WE CALL THIS FRIDAY GOOD

The Ruthwell Cross

On Good Friday, I often put up the relevant section of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets. But this time it occurred to me to share the Anglo-Saxon "Dream of the Rood" attributed to Cynewulf. I found a translation by my old Oxford tutor in Old English, Richard Hamer, and reproduce it here, with belated thanks to that admirable guide. It looks a bit long, but is easy to read, and very powerful.

Hear while I tell about the best of dreams
Which came to me the middle of one night
While humankind were sleeping in their beds.

It was as though I saw a wondrous tree

Towering in the sky suffused with light,
Brightest of beams; and all that beacon was
Covered with gold. The corners of the earth
Gleamed with fair jewels, just as there were five
Upon the cross-beam. Many bands of angels,

Fair throughout all eternity, looked on.
No felon's gallows that, but holy spirits,
Mankind, and all this marvellous creation,
Gazed on the glorious tree of victory.
And I with sins was stained, wounded with guilt.

I saw the tree of glory brightly shine
In gorgeous clothing, all bedecked with gold.
The Ruler's tree was worthily adorned
With gems; yet I could see beyond that gold
The ancient strife of wretched men, when first

Upon its right side it began to bleed.

I was all moved with sorrows, and afraid
At the fair sight. I saw that lively beacon
Changing its clothes and hues; sometimes it was
Bedewed with blood and drenched with flowing gore,

At other times it was bedecked with treasure.
So I lay watching there the Saviour's tree,
Grieving in spirit for a long, long while,
Until I heard it utter sounds, the best
Of woods began to speak these words to me:

"It was long past - I still remember it -
That I was cut down at the copse's end,
Moved from my root. Strong enemies there took me,
Told me to hold aloft their criminals,
Made me a spectacle. Men carried me

Upon their shoulders, set me on a hill,
A host of enemies there fastened me.

And then I saw the Lord of all mankind
Hasten with eager zeal that He might mount
Upon me. I durst not against God's word

Bend down or break, when I saw tremble all
The surface of the earth. Although I might
Have struck down all the foes, yet stood I fast.

Then the young hero (who was God almighty)
Got ready, resolute and strong in heart.

He climbed onto the lofty gallows-tree,
Bold in the sight of many watching men,
When He intended to redeem mankind.
I trembled as the warrior embraced me.
But still I dared not bend down to the earth,

Fall to the ground. Upright I had to stand.

A rood I was raised up; and I held high
The noble King, the Lord of heaven above.
I dared not stoop. They pierced me with dark nails;
The scars can still be clearly seen on me,

The open wounds of malice. yet might I
Not harm them. They reviled us both together.
I was made wet all over with the blood
Which poured out from his side, after He had

Sent forth His spirit. And I underwent

Full many a dire experience on that hill.
I saw the God of hosts stretched grimly out.
Darkness covered the Ruler's corpse with clouds
His shining beauty; shadows passed across,
Black in the darkness. All creation wept,

Bewailed the King's death; Christ was on the cross.

And yet I saw men coming from afar,
Hastening to the Prince. I watched it all.
With sorrows I was grievously oppressed,
Yet willingly I bent to those men's hands,

Humbly. They took up there Almighty God,
And from the heavy torment lifted Him.
The soldiers left me standing drenched with moisture,
Wounded all over with the metal points.
They laid Him down limb-weary; then they stood

Beside the corpse's head, there they beheld
The Lord of heaven, and He rested there
A while, tired after the great agony.

The men then made a sepulchre for Him
In sight of me. They carved it of bright stone,

And set therein the Lord of victories.
Next, wretched in the eveningtide, they sang
A dirge for Him; and when they went away,
Weary from that great Prince, He stayed alone.

Yet we remained there weeping in our places

A good long time after the warriors' voices
Had passed away from us. The corpse grew cold,
The fair abode of life.

                                       Then men began
To cut us down. That was a dreadful fate.
In a deep pit they buried us. But friends

And servants of the Lord learnt where I was,
And decorated me with gold and silver.

Now you may understand, dear warrior,
That I have suffered deeds of wicked men
And grievous sorrows. Now the time has come

That far and wide on earth men honour me,
And all this great and glorious creation,
And to this beacon offers prayers. On me
The Son of God once suffered; therefore now
I tower mighty underneath the heavens,

And I may heal all those in awe of me.

Once I became the cruellest of tortures,
Most hateful to all nations, till the time
I opened the right way of life for men.
So then the prince of glory honoured me,

And heaven's King exalted me above
All other trees, just as Almighty God
Raised up His mother Mary for all men
Above all other women in the world.

Now, my dear warrior, I order you

That you reveal this vision to mankind,
Declare in words this is the tree of glory
On which Almighty God once suffered torments
For mankind's many sins, and for the deeds
Of Adam long ago. He tasted death

Thereon; and yet the Lord arose again
By his great might to come to human aid.
He rose to heaven.

                                  And the Lord Himself,
Almighty God and all His angels with Him,
Will come onto this earth again to seek

Mankind on Doomsday, when the final Judge
Will give His verdict upon every man,
What in this fleeting life he shall have earned.
Nor then may any man be without fear
About the words the Lord shall say to him.

Before all He shall ask where that man is
Who for God's name would suffer bitter death
As formerly He did upon the cross.
Then they will be afraid, and few will know
What they may say to Christ. But there need none

Be fearful if he bears upon his breast
The best of tokens. Through the cross each soul
Nay journey to the heavens from this earth,
Who with the Ruler thinks to go and dwell."

I prayed then to the cross with joyous heart

And eagerness, where I was all alone,
Companionless; my spirit was inspired
With keenness for departure; and I spent
Much time in longing. Now my hope of life
Is that I may approach the tree of triumph

Alone more often than all other men,
Honour it well; my wish for that is great
Within my heart, and my hope for support
Is turned towards the cross. I have on earth
Not many noble friends, but they have gone

Hence from earth's joys and sought the King of glory.
With the High father now they live in heaven
And dwell in glory; and I wait each day
For when the cross of God, which here on earth
I formerly beheld, may fetch me from

This transitory life and carry me
To where there is great bliss and joy in heaven,
Where the Lord's host is seated at the feast,
And it shall set me where I afterwards
may dwell in glory, live in lasting bliss

Among the saints.

                                  May God be friend to me,
He who once suffered on the gallows tree
On earth here for men's sins. Us He redeemed
And granted us our life and heavenly home.

Hope was renewed with glory and with bliss

For those who suffered burning fires in hell.
The Son was mighty on that expedition,
Successful and victorious; and when
The one Almighty Ruler brought with Him
A multitude of spirits to God's kingdom,

To bliss among the angels and the souls
Of all who dwelt already in the heavens
In glory, then Almighty God had come,
The Ruler entered into His own land. 

The Vercelli Codex, fol. 104v

ANGLICANS, ROME, AND SEX

A couple of years ago, a group of Anglican priests went over to Rome to join something called the Ordinariate, created especially for them. I was asked what I thought of the matter, and of the reasons for their going, and of Anglican positions thereon. So I put up the following on my old blog. I repeat it now because, with a change of Popes, there are new urgings for Rome to change on some issues, and the old arguments still hold. 

[Spoiler alert: those whose hackles rise at the word or concept "religion" should read no further, while those who feel that women priests are an abomination probably should.]

In my French Catholic newspaper La Croix, the news that five Anglican Bishops had joined the Church of Rome was given a half-page spread, complete with photograph of the ceremony with the five 'flying bishops' prostrate before the altar in Westminster Cathedral.

There had been a few previous mentions of the Anglican Ordinariate proposed by the Vatican, and the rumblings within the Church of England; but by and large Anglican matters are not much reported across the Channel.

What caught my eye was a little sidebar explaining that the bishops in question, and indeed any other Anglican priest following their example, would have to be re-ordained according to the Roman rite, as Pope Paul IV had declared Anglican sacraments null in 1555 and this had been upheld by Pope Leo XIII in 1896. A Belgian canonist, interviewed on the subject, explained with what seemed like faint embarrassment that this was a purely juridical matter, and that in an ecumenical context Anglican sacraments were of course respected.

And all this, I reflected, not for the first time, took place not because of the Filioque clause, nor because of the Real Presence, nor Ubiquitarianism nor even Utraquism. No, like most current controversies in the Anglican Communion, it is about what we used to call sex and now call gender.

For good and sufficient family reasons, this is not a question I have been able to shirk, and I have many and complex thoughts and feelings on the matter. However, what bothers me is that the public -- and even, I believe, the Anglican public -- is at no time being offered reasoning on the subject at any level that goes beyond the social and the political. The prevailing impression is that since we live in an age where women need to fulfil themselves and society is finally catching up with their justified ambitions, ordaining women priests and bishops is simply in tune with the time.

The result is that those who do not agree can revel in provocative curmudgeonhood and flashily defect to Rome, in the hope of being seen as new Newmans. That their priesthood is not recognised appears not to faze them, though I suspect it must give them second thoughts.

But the Church of England's response to all this has been sadly lacking in theological muscle, confirming many suspicions that its theology is driven by social and political pressures as reflected by the media.

What might the Church of England have done, and what might it still do, to dispel such an impression?

There is a concept, originating in Stoic philosophy but very much revived and developed in Reformed Christianity (especially by Melanchthon), that fits the situation admirably. Here is what the Church of England might, and in my view should, say loudly and clearly to Rome:

'We should like to remind you of the concept of adiaphora, those things which may form part of Christian practice and Christian life, and even of Christian liturgy,  but which are not essential to the Christian's faith in God. Definition of these has differed, and changed, in various times and places. Some Presbyterians, for example, believed that since hymns are not mentioned in Scripture and are not an immediate serious consequence of Scripture, they should not be allowed; but most Presbyterians regard hymns as adiaphora. Most Catholics regard the wearing or not wearing of a biretta by the priest as such.

'We, the Church of England, have decided, after ripe reflection, that the sex of the priest is an adiaphoron, i.e. a non-essential element of the Christian faith. And if you, the Church of Rome, maintain that the sex of the priest is an element essential to the Christian's faith in God, we challenge you to provide the reasons and we are willing to debate this in any venue of your choice.'

To the argument that Jesus entrusted the care of his followers only to men, the answer might invoke other aspects of the Gospel and its world that the Roman Church has not seen fit to perpetuate as essential elements of the faith -- it does not require a council of twelve to oversee the whole Church, it does not insist that the Supreme Pontiff be chosen from among fishermen, nor does it encourage him to dine with hookers and confidence-tricksters -- not to mention 'essential' elements -- dogmata -- not found in Scripture, such as the Perpetual Virginity, (traditional but reaffirmed by Vatican II), Immaculate Conception (1854) and Assumption (1950) of Mary. 

Agreement, clearly, would not be reached; but the disagreement might then be pursued on a higher level, i.e. that of the theology of dogma and adiaphora. It would give new topicality to the old rule 'In necessariis unitas, in non necessariis libertas, in utrisque caritas'; and it would permit the Church of England to provide its lay members with serious arguments which would allow, indeed urge, them to make choices upon considerations other than those of society, politics, and Zeitgeist.

UNFORGOTTEN POETRY

There was a discussion on a Certain Social Medium the other day about the values involved in educating boys. Some would argue that the following applies equally to girls, and well it may. But for those who flounder in the bringing up of young savages and sometimes wonder if there is anything between video games with exploding cars and skulls on the one hand and Milquetoast on the other, I once again put up this admirable poem. We all think we know it, been there, done that, but it is worth reading over again. It's as fresh as it was in 1909, when Kipling wrote it for his son John. A few years later John was dead, in the trenches. (And his father wrote the deeply moving short story "The Gardener", not to be missed.)

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream---and not make dreams your master;
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!

SIDGWICK REDUX

I couldn't resist adding one more Sidgwick treasure: the world's shortest fourteen-line sonnet.
abbaabba cdcdee. Impeccable.

An Aeronaut to His Lady

I 

Through
Blue
Sky
Fly
To
You.
Why?

Sweet
Love,
Feet
Move
So
Slow.