IN THE BREACH

In reaction to the events in Israel, we feel intolerably weak, helpless, and uncomfortably near to despair. Yet, thinking of this in the small hours, I was drawn to contemplate the Carthusians. If we believe, as several Popes have said publicly, that the contemplative orders have an important part to play in the life of the Church, we must recognise that that function can only be based on the power of prayer. Their sole business is to pray for the world; given that fact, the combined force of 450 professional prayer generators (to count only the number of Carthusians at present in the world) must be enormous. And if we add to that all the other orders for whom prayer is their central occupation, we arrive at a vast concentration of power. Such power is of the utmost importance when the hounds of Hell are loosed upon the world. The media speak of counter-offensives upon the battlefields in Ukraine; in the chaos unleashed in the Middle East military and propaganda weapons cancel each other out and atrocities are joined and compounded by vengeance. At such times diplomacy is an indispensable component; but, like all adult acts of civilisation,  it is slow to start and almost imperceptible in its successes.

A Godless world has no more to offer and no other remedies to try. But faith has armies reason knows not. Legions of angels, to be sure; but while they are mentioned in Scripture, they have not often been perceived in earthly action. No; as St Teresa of Avila said, we need to remember that God has on earth no hands, no eyes, no ears other than ours. This may be enough for what is known as humanitarian aid; but there is more. For there is in this world a vast army that works and fights in alliance, in joint command, in communion, with the forces of Heaven: the immense, international, millions-strong army of prayer. And of this army, the contemplative orders are the commandos, the special forces, the shock troops. 

What can we do to support them? We are their reservists, their Territorials, their National Guard. We pray for them, we study them, we make them known, we help them, we do some recruiting for them: they do none for themselves. 

And finally, let us not forget that Jews, Christians and Muslims worship the same God, a God who singled out this tiny out-of-the-way planet in His vast creation for a special environment of shalom, salaam, peace, and a malkut, a kingdom, a reign, of love between Himself and the humanity He drew out of its oceans. A God Whom we, as a race, repeatedly drive to hot tears of near-despair; but a God Who never gives up on us as long as prayer – the language of love He taught us in our infancy – persists and thrives.  

  

 

OUTLINE FOR A PERSONAL CATECHISM

 

What is a personal catechism, and why make one? In the Roman Catholic Church, and for all I know in several other churches, one is emphatically not encouraged to define the elements of one’s faith individually. Criticisms of “smorgasbord Christianity” prevail: one is told that it is bad to pick and choose among the truths and dogmas of one’s religion, and that one should accept the lot both intellectually and in one’s manner of living. 

            This is a principle, and perhaps even admirable; but it is not a reality. I gravely doubt whether even the Pope and his closest advisers truly accept and follow everything contained in the Catholic Church’s dogma. For example: Pope Leo XIII formally proclaimed Anglican priestly orders to be null and void. From this, it follows that every Anglican priest is a charlatan, and that every time he or she gives Communion, he helps a soul to damnation. Were the Catholic hierarchy actually to believe this, they would refuse all contact with the Anglican Communion. In reality, relations between Canterbury and Rome are perfectly friendly, and conducted with mutual respect. 

            I posit that in reality all Christians (Catholics, Protestants and Orthodox) who are serious about their religion work out for themselves the elements of their faith, and give considerable thought to the reasons for such belief. In other words, all of us have, inchoate or detailed, a private catechism. Such a catechism is necessarily an elaboration of the basic Creed: virtually all Western churches accept the Apostles’ Creed as the foundation of their faith (though many individuals, if pressed, will confess to being quite unsure of several of its bits).

            In view of all this, I have been working out the elements, the building-blocks, of a personal catechism, which I here share with others who may be pondering such things themselves. 

 

1.     There is nor was a beginning. God is, was, and ever shall be, in His own dimension, which we neither know nor would comprehend. 

2.     God did decide to create our Universe. (There may be others.)

3.     Within this Universe, either we are alone, as a planet with intelligent life, or there are others.

4.     If there are others, God will have acted there in, perhaps, different ways, which we do not (yet) know about.

5.     If we are alone, it is reasonable to assume that God chose Terra as an experimental unit.

6.     Upon this planet, He let life grow and eventually produce something like humans, who had in common a growing potential of thought and action, and a sense of a/the Divine. (And yes, they also had in common a capacity for badness.)

7.     At a certain point, just as He had chosen one planet, upon that planet He chose one people, for the next stage of development: Israel. 

8.     With them, He conducted a long experiment of relationship, in the key of Law and Obedience, rebellion and salvation.

9.     At a certain point, He went to the next stage and gave them His Son as the Meshiach, to initiate them in a new relationship, of fusion with Him in sonship.

10.  By way of the crucifixion of the Meshiach and His resurrection, this fusion of sonship was a) extended in space, from Israel to all humanity, and b) extended indefinitely in time, recreated and thus accessible in every Eucharist.

11.     The key of this fusion is Love. The sine qua non of Love is free will. Hence the continuing existence of evil and of indifference: God cannot compel man to return His love, because He cannot go against His own nature (the only limit to His omnipotence).

12.     Man’s language for the fusion is Prayer, in three kinds: Petition, Thanksgiving, and Adoration.

13.     God does not micromanage His creation, hence the casualty lists of earthquakes, tsunamis etc. This is particularly hard for us to comprehend and accept. The other such thing is the origin of evil (perhaps a combination of nos. 6 and 11, above). 

FROM WHAT OPPRESSION?

"And now, Lord, what is my hope : truly my hope is even in thee.

Deliver me from all mine offences . . ." (Psalm 39)

This Psalm text illustrates with startling precision the difference between two concepts of the Meshiach current at the time of Yeshua's youth. The first was the image of the new King David, a David returning at the head of an army to rout the Romans, deliver Israel, and institute a new reign of peace, justice, and devotion to the Lord. This was probably the dominant image, and it corresponds to similar dreams in other nations: in Portugal, for instance, there was long a legend of a return of the good King Sebastian, and in England, of the great magician Merlin. 

In contrast to this, Yeshua delivered a new image of the Meshiach: an itinerant rabbi in a remote Northern provice, walking from town to town or arriving by fishing-boat, preaching in small-town synagogues and showing a miraculous talent for healing the sick. Admirable, of course, but in what way could this be The Meshiach? One can see why a number of educated people found it unlikely. Only those who were deeply permeated by the Scriptures yet at the same time of an open mind would have understood. They would have seen that he had based his idea of the Saviour on an eclectic reading of Zechariah, Ezekiel and especially Isaiah and the Psalms. From such a reading he would have deduced that, in the first place, the Meshiach would be a man of deep humility and simplicity, who would arrive riding on a donkey; that his basileia, his kingdom, his kingship or reign, would not be that of a worldly king but in and of some other dimension; and that any liberation he would bring would not be political or involve the Roman occupation. 

If we ask ourselves what, then, that "liberation" would be, what oppressor it would unseat and in what way it would do so, the above text from Psalm 39 gives us a clue. "Deliver me," the Psalmist begs, not from Rome and its armies; not from the Assyrian kings, not from the bulls of Bashan; no, "deliver me from all mine offences". The tyrant, in other words, is Sin; and the oppressed are not just the Jews but all humankind. And so this mild provincial itinerant with his modest program of teaching and healing turns out to be a giant, with a giant's ambition: to deliver the whole of humanity from the tyranny of Sin.

He can do this by taking the Law, that immense gift of God to His favourite nation, and "fulfilling" it. Fulfilling, in this case, means internalising it. I have written a series of posts on the Sermon on the Mount that show this. Concomitantly, the Temple is no longer central: upon Yeshua's death on the Cross, the Temple veil rips apart. Yeshua himself is the new Temple; and he is the Temple not just for the Jews but for all humanity. He contains in himself the Law and the Temple, and fulfils both in an immensity of divine Love that has become immediately accessible to ordinary humans.

This accessibility is confirmed as permanent by his Resurrection; which means that this Meshiach’s liberation is no longer limited to one moment in history but continues to operate even now, just as the Adversary does. Each of us can and does feel the tyrant’s grim presence in our life; but each of us can also pray the Psalm verse above and thus, in being heard, reach safety. 

 

"NOT A SAD TIME"

It’s been too long since I’ve written anything here. But now, at the beginning of another Lent, it may be useful to set down a few thoughts. 

CHEERFULNESS

In his Ash Wednesday sermon, our Franco-Algerian priest reminded us that Lent is not meant to be a time of sadness. Coming just after the Old Testament reading from the Book of Joel where we are told to rend our hearts (not our garments) and to proclaim a public fast and massive repentance in the faint hope that the Lord may spare us His chastisement, this might seem just a little bouncy. 

The Israel of Joel was a community, and religion was its raison d’être and what held it together. Communal, and even more so, national, repentance these days seems scarcely thinkable (except perhaps in the new idolatrous religion of Ecology). If modern communications have done anything, it has been to turn us into individualists, in religion as elsewhere. Our sins, we tend to think, are our own. Hence repentance, if repentance there be, is our own. And, mindful of Jesus’ warning against showing off while fasting or praying, we tend to keep quiet about it. And we are often not quite sure what to do about Lent. Unlike Muslims, who keep Ramadan with admirable consistency, we haver and dither: do we “give up” something, like chocolate, or alcohol, or binge-watching Netflix? And if we do, what relation does that have to our relation to God? 

The Church often tells us not to concentrate on Lent as an accomplishment: “making a good Lent” (which we usually fail at). It would be too much like New Year’s resolutions. In fact, listening to the Church may well help us. As Pope Francis reminds us, Lent is quite simply about three things: fasting, praying, and sharing. 

Real fasting is something very few of us do; traditionally the Church told us to give up meat (“carne vale”: goodbye, meat) and replace it with fish, seafood, or vegetarian meals. This is still one way to fulfil that particular obligation. And with moderation: if you are invited to dinner by unbelievers, you should not refuse to eat their pork roast, as that would be showing off. You can always compensate by skipping lunch next day. 

Prayer, though, is more important than fasting. It is in any case the key to a life of faith. Talk to God; argue with God; weep to God; listen to God; it’s all prayer, and it’s the breath of life. He may not always talk; but He always listens, and He always loves. You. 

And sharing is what used to be called almsgiving. Giving to those who need. Not just money, though some of that is always welcome. No, comfort; kindness; respect; a hug; a smile, even; they are all gifts, alms, sharing. 

To come back to our priest: as he said, Lent is the spring cleaning of the soul. You may sometimes find it onerous (incidentally, who still does spring cleaning in the old way, I wonder?); but you don’t do it grumbling, grouching, and kvetching. Housecleaning the soul should, like the other kind, be thorough – it’s when you finally get at those corners behind the stove and at those spiders’ webs in the corners of the ceiling – but cheerful, looking forward to the celebration of Easter. 

You begin with ashes: yes, we’re all headed for the dustheap. But no: it’s not final. You face up to the shit you have done, said, and been, because we all have, at some time. And you sincerely say, out loud if only to your Abba, your Father, that you’re sorry, that you wish you hadn’t, and that you need help not to do, say, and be that in future. 

And then you get out the mop, the broom, the pail, and get to work. Whistling. 

  

PASSOVER IN A TRICLINIUM

It didn't, probably, look like Leonardo's version.

It was not a seder – the Temple was still standing and in operation. So it was the traditional Passover meal, with sacrificial lamb, bitter herbs and unleavened bread. (The Children of Israel were told to sprinkle the lamb’s blood on their door-posts in Egypt, so that the Angel of Death would ‘pass over’ them: they, too, were ‘saved by the blood of the lamb’.) The lamb was likely served roast and cut, in or with a sauce. The set-up was probably the triclinium, with the diners reclining around a central space with tables and room for serving. Hence John’s position, reclining next to Jesus, in the place of honour. In such a position, a murmured word could be passed confidentially without attracting everyone’s notice.

Jesus’ mood is fascinating, and moving. This is the only time he admits out loud to his disciples that he is scared. There is a sadness, but also a faintly bitter irony – “All very well, and yes, you love me and support me; but I also know that one of you is going to give me up.” It makes me think of the Occupation during WW II. He loves them, he has chosen them, he is going to die for them, but he is under no illusion whatsoever.

I’d always wondered about John’s question and Jesus’ reply. The whole, murmured quietly. “Who is it?” “The one to whom I’m going to give the next piece of lamb.” (Which suggests that Judas was close physically also.) Why, I always wondered, did John then not instantly warn everyone and stop Judas? He appears to do nothing; he even lets Judas leave when Jesus has said, sadly: Go do what you have to do, do it now.

But I think I may have found an answer. If Jesus had murmured this to Peter, Peter would have jumped up, shouted “Traitor!”, and tied Judas up in an instant. But John, I suspect, was the only one (and this was in part why Jesus loved him) who had understood that this had to happen. It had to be played out all the way. After all, Jesus could have stopped it. Many times, say the Gospels, he had simply slid away when a crowd tried to hold him. But he knew it had to happen. And so, I think, did John.

Which accounts also for the fact that he left (‘fled’ say the Gospels unkindly) with the others at Jesus’ arrest, and (unlike Peter) does not appear again until the actual crucifixion, when he is the only one of the disciples present. 

Postscript: Was Yeshua gay, in his human form? It’s of no importance, but it’s not impossible: it might account for the fact that, though a nice well-brought-up Jewish boy, he reached the age of 30 without being married, which surely was unusual. And although in the Jewish religion it was a sin, it wasn’t in the surrounding Roman-Greek world, and one might very well have the bent without living it in practice. I don’t think his relation with John (Jochanan) was a gay one, any more than I think he married Mary Magdalene. He had neither time nor space for such relationships in his life. But I think he loved them both very much, as he loved Mary, Martha and Lazarus (Miryam, Marta, Eleazar).