Random Thoughts
Michael Davies
MY COLUMN this month will be more random than thoughtful. The reason is twofold. Firstly, my series on the Church since Vatican II has been pretty "heavy," and I think that those who made the effort to plough through it deserve something a little less demanding. The second reason is that this month (of March) I have been stricken down by a particularly virulent variety of flu which has left me without any physical or mental energy. This has rendered me incapable of submitting anything but gossip, chit-chat, and items of "human interest."
On Sunday, March 3, I fulfilled a longstanding ambition. I visited the University Church of St. Mary's in Oxford where John Henry Newman preached some of his greatest sermons. Those who are devotees (fans, buffs) of Gilbert and Sullivan (can there be anyone who isn't?—alas, in the times we live in, anything is possible!) will be aware that this month marks the centenary of The Mikado. They will also be aware that Koko rose to the office of Lord High Executioner by a set of curious chances. The chances which resulted in my visit to St. Mary's were equally curious. I had been invited to speak at a debate organized by the Oxford Newman Society on the topic: "Vatican II: Blessing or Disaster?" I will award no prize to readers who guess that it was my intention to prove that the Council had been a disaster, but surprise, surprise (or, perhaps, not such a surprise), no one could be found to defend the proposition that the Council had been a blessing. The chaplain to the Society was somewhat disconcerted as, I gather, he is among those who do consider the Council to have been an unmitigated blessing. But his enthusiasm for all things conciliar did not extend to standing up in a public debate and explaining why Vatican II was such a jolly good thing. No, the zealous chaplain acted in the true spirit of Vatican II and cancelled the debate, which was hardly necessary as it is not possible to have a debate without two speakers.
Despite the cancellation of the debate I was still able to visit Oxford as some of the students had decided that they would have a lecture instead. Not so, said the chaplain; someone as subversive as myself would not be allowed to sully the hallowed precincts of his chaplaincy. Very well, said the students, the lecture would take place elsewhere. On the day of the lecture the chaplain struck back; although our currency is weak, our tenacity isn't. He informed those present at the chaplaincy Mass that there would be no Newman Society meeting that evening, which was, I thought, a little bit naughty. Be that as it may, the lecture took place and was well received—too well received as there were hostile questions from only one person, which made it rather dull. The person in question was a young lady who spoke to me later and said that she was broadly in sympathy with much of what I had said, but that she had found me too negative and thought that there must be something good about the Council. She was unable to specify what it was at that moment, but has promised to communicate with me if she discovers what it is. Should she do so I will certainly pass on her discovery to readers of The Angelus. It occurred to me later that I ought to have mentioned the positive aspect of the Council which I referred to in Pope John's Council, i.e., the philatelic dimension. The Vatican Post Office issued some very beautiful commemorative stamps.
The high point of my visit to Oxford was the time I spent in St. Mary's Church, where I saw, and touched, the pulpit from which Newman preached so often and so eloquently. Wilfrid Ward included a most moving description of the Oxford sermons in his life of the Cardinal. The account had been written by Principal Shairp, who did not follow Newman into the Catholic Church, but recognized his greatness. Ward relates the awe with which Newman was regarded by the undergraduates:
In Oriel Lane light-hearted undergraduates would drop their voices and whisper, "There's Newman," as with head thrust forward and gaze fixed as though at some vision seen only by himself, with swift, noiseless step he glided by. Awe fell on them for a moment almost as if it had been some apparition that had passed…. What were the qualities that inspired these feelings? There was, of course, learning and refinement. There was genius, not, indeed, of a philosopher, but a subtle and original thinker, an unequalled edge of dialectic, and these all glorified by the imagination of a poet. Then there was the utter unworldliness, the setting aside of all the things which men most prize, the tamelessness of soul which was ready to essay the impossible. Men felt that here was:
"One of that small transfigured band
Which the world cannot tame."Of the ever-memorable sermons and of the evening service at St. Mary's at which they were delivered, Principal Shairp writes as follows:
"The center from which his power went forth was the pulpit of St. Mary's with those wonderful afternoon sermons. Sunday after Sunday, month by month, year by year, they went on, each continuing and deepening the impression the last had made…."The service was very simple—no pomp, no ritualism; for it was characteristic of the leading men of the movement that they left these things to the weaker brethren. Their thoughts at all events, were set on great questions which touched the heart of unseen things. About the service, the most remarkable thing was the beauty, the silver intonation, of Newman's voice, as he read the Lessons. It seemed to bring new meaning out of the familiar words. Still lingers in the memory the tone with which he read: But Jerusalem which is from above is free, which is the mother of us all. When he began to preach, a stranger was not likely to be much struck, especially if he had been accustomed to pulpit oratory of the Boanerges sort. Here was no vehemence, no declamation, no show of elaborated argument, so that one who came prepared to hear a "great intellectual effort" was almost sure to go away disappointed. Indeed, I believe that if he had preached one of his St. Mary's sermons before a Scotch town congregation, they would have thought the preacher a "silly body." The delivery had a peculiarity which it took a new hearer some time to get over. Each separate sentence, or at least each short paragraph, was spoken rapidly, but with great clearness of intonation; and then at its close there was a pause, lasting for nearly half a minute; then another rapidly but clearly spoken sentence, followed by another pause. It took some time to get over this, but, that once done, the wonderful charm began to dawn on you. The look and bearing of the preacher were as one who dwelt apart, who, though he knew his age well, did not live in it. From the seclusion of study, and abstinence, and prayer, from habitual dwelling in the unseen, he seemed to come forth that one day of the week to speak to others of the things he had seen and known. Those who never heard him might fancy that his sermons would generally be about apostolical succession or rights of the Church or against Dissenters. Nothing of the kind. You might hear him preach for weeks without an allusion to these things. The local, the temporary, and the modern were ennobled by the presence of the catholic truth belonging to all ages that pervaded the whole. His power showed itself chiefly in the new and unlooked-for way in which he touched into life old truths, moral or spiritual, which all Christians acknowledge, but most have ceased to feel—when he spoke of "Unreal Words," of the "Individuality of the Soul," of "The Invisible World," of a "Particular Providence"; or again, of "The Ventures of Faith," "Warfare the Condition of Victory," "The Cross of Christ the Measure of the World," "The Church a Home for the Lonely." As he spoke, how the old truth became new! how it came home with a meaning never felt before! He laid his finger—how gently, yet how powerfully!—on some inner place in the hearer's heart, and told him things about himself he had never known till then. Subtlest truths, which it would have taken philosophers pages of circumlocution and big words to state, were dropped out by the way in a sentence or two of the most transparent Saxon. What delicacy of style, yet what calm power! how gentle, yet how strong! how simple, yet how suggestive! how homely, yet how refined!
"To call these sermons eloquent would be no word for them; high poems they rather were, as of an inspired singer, or the outpourings as of a prophet, rapt yet self-possessed. And the tone of voice in which they were spoken, once you grew accustomed to it, sounded like a fine strain of unearthly music. Through the silence of that high Gothic building the words fell on the ear like the measured drippings of water in some vast dim cave. After hearing these sermons you might come away still not believing the tenets peculiar to the High Church system but you would be harder than most men, if you did not feel more than ever ashamed of coarseness, selfishness and worldliness, if you did not feel the things of faith brought closer to the soul."
Such were the feelings kindled even among those who dissented from his theology by the man who was the central figure in the Oxford of 1838. "Those who by early education and conviction were kept aloof from the peculiar tenets of High Churchmen," (writes Shairp) "could not but acknowledge the moral quickening which resulted from the movement, and the marvellous character of him who was the soul of it." That year was the summit of Newman's life to which he ever wistfully looked back, a time of hope, of confidence, of influence, when his one inspiring ideal, to work for God and for religion, was satisfied, and tokens of success daily multiplied.
"High poems they rather were, as of an inspired singer or the outpourings as of a prophet." The outpourings as of a prophet—this was the impression I received when I had the good fortune to obtain a set of Newman's Parochial and Plain Sermons. Although they were all written while he was an Anglican many appeared to have been composed specifically for Catholics living in the epoch of the Conciliar Church. Those who know me, particularly my wife, will assure anyone who might be interested that I am always coming up with crazy ideas. When I read the Newman sermons I was possessed immediately with the totally crazy notion that a selection of them should be printed to inspire and reassure traditional Catholics in these troubled times. Anyone who knows anything about publishing, and the risks and costs involved, will know that this idea was not just crazy, but what is probably known in the United States as "super-crazy." And yet, believe it or not, and you'd better believe it because I can prove it, I was brought by a set of chances so curious that Koko himself would have been dumbfounded, into contact with a super-crazy American publisher, Neil McCaffrey, at that time President of Arlington House.
Neil McCaffrey is America's Number One Newman Fan. I put my crazy idea to him, and he told me to send the sermons over as we had a "go situation." There was one sad condition. In order to cut out the cost of typesetting, he wanted me to send him the original texts of the sermons from my collection. Booklovers and buffs among Angelus readership, prepare to weep with me! Can you imagine it? I had to sit down with my beautifully bound set of nineteenth-century books and cut out the twenty-five sermons I had selected. The memory of that dreadful evening still makes me shudder.
And now, the plot thickens, or the curious chances multiply. Take your choice.
One of my many faults (or few virtues, depending on your outlook), is that I have a terrible cheek. It is probably due to my Welsh ancestry and can be put down to Celtic impetuosity. If Newman's sermons are going to be republished, I said, then they should be introduced by a leading Newman scholar. I therefore wrote to Monsignor Philip Flanagan, who, to the best of my knowledge, was the leading Newman scholar in Britain. I explained to him that the theme governing my selection of sermons was Newman's opposition to religious liberalism. This was the motivating factor of his life as an Anglican and a Catholic. Monsignor Flanagan's response was to produce an introduction to the sermons which has been acclaimed as possibly the best exposition of Newman's thinking on liberalism yet written. The book was eventually published jointly by Arlington House and the Augustine Publishing Company in England. It is a beautiful hardback edition, and the typography is superlative as a result of the great sacrifice I made. I have received more satisfaction at the part I played in getting these sermons printed than in anything that I have ever written. As far as I know, The Angelus Press is now the only bookseller in the U.S.A. with copies of this book. Once they have been sold I fear that it will never be reprinted. Neil McCaffrey is no longer President of Arlington House and super-crazy publishers are at a premium. My advice to you is to take out your checkbook and order a copy at once—the price is $10 per copy.1 (I had better point out that [unfortunately] I am not getting a kick-back for putting in this plug for The Angelus Press!)
Well, I promised a column of light-hearted chit-chat, but it's all been pretty heavy so far. Let's try again.
I was very pleased to see one of the answers given by my good friend Father Carl Pulvermacher in last month's issue. It is an understatement to describe Father Carl as a good friend—I consider him to be one of the half-dozen best friends I have. There are many reasons for this and I will give some of them in a few paragraphs of genuinely unheavy chit-chat. But before doing this I will explain why I was so pleased with this particular answer. I am not always totally enthusiastic about Father Carl's answers. He is far more intransigent or "hard line" than I am. There are quite often items in The Angelus which I would find it hard to endorse. For example, I found the Declaration by Archbishop Lefebvre and Forty Catholic Leaders which appeared in the January issue somewhat negative and pessimistic. On the other hand, I know that some readers find me too "liberal" and would not be heart-broken if nothing of mine ever appeared in the journal again. Another good friend of mine, Hamish Fraser, considers that a review which does not irritate at least a third of its readers with every issue might as well close down. I have been saddened to note the extent to which many traditional Catholics read traditionalist journals only with the object of finding their current opinions reinforced in them. There is little point in those with such an attitude reading any publication whatsoever. If they know all the answers to begin with they are in the happy position of never needing to read anything.
The answer of Father Carl's which pleased me so much concerned the subject of fasting and abstinence, and disciplinary matters in general. Father Carl observed that neither the Society, The Angelus, nor himself wished to impose rules which bound Catholics more seriously than the rules imposed by the Church. I agree with him completely. I know of some priests claiming to be traditionalists who state that the faithful must fast from midnight before receiving Holy Communion, or that all the weekdays of Lent are days of fasting and abstinence. They are quite entitled to recommend these practices, but they have no right whatsoever to impose them under pain of sin. We are perfectly entitled to question the prudential judgment of recent popes in relaxing the Church's disciplinary regulations. We are perfectly entitled to adhere to the former discipline, and doing so in the right spirit must certainly be meritorious. But what no individual bishop, priest or layman is entitled to do is to arrogate to himself powers that belong only to the Pope, and to condemn fellow Catholics who decline to submit to him as the newly-appointed supreme authority in the Church. There is a word which describes such people perfectly—Protestants. It can also be applied to those who refuse to accept the liturgical reforms of Pope John XXIII or the Holy Week reforms of Pope Pius XII.
This is all very irritating! Every time I try to indulge in light-hearted chit-chat, I get diverted into something heavy! Let me get back to why I consider Father Carl to be one of the half-dozen best friends I have.
Next year, Deo gratias, I shall reach the age of fifty. The older I get the happier I am as all my hopes are focussed on the magic age of sixty-five when I can retire and write full-time for The Angelus. If my wife were to give me permission to have a fiftieth birthday party and to invite anyone I wish (which she definitely won't), Father Carl would certainly be on my guest list. I fear that one of the reasons will enhance neither my reputation nor his among some of the more pious readers of The Angelus.
Many years ago, at least it seems many years ago now, Archbishop Lefebvre had been invited to come to St. Mary's, Kansas. In order to insure a liturgical welcome worthy of so great a prelate, David Read had been invited to come over from London to direct the choir. I happened to be at St. Mary's at the time and was asked to meet David at Kansas City Airport, together with his charming wife, in company with Father Carl. It was no doubt considered that the sound of a British accent at the airport would help David to bridge the cultural gap of what, I believe, was his first visit to the U.S.A.
Back to the airport—or not quite. As readers of The Angelus will be aware, or ought to be, we British are very reserved and reticent. At least one hour after the arrival of David Read's plane, we had still not departed for the airport. My anxiety was such that I overcame my inhibitions to the extent of suggesting to Father Carl that perhaps we ought to be thinking about leaving. He replied with a burst of very hearty laughter. When I inquired as to the cause of his amusement, he explained that David would be arriving by Braniff. Not knowing who or what Braniff was, and not wishing to let the old country down by appearing either naive or ignorant, or both, I replied, "Ah!"—in the tone of one who knew.
We eventually arrived at the airport about two hours after the official time of arrival, to be greeted by the news that the plane would not arrive for another two hours. "Golly gosh," I thought, "by jiminy, what happens now?" I looked with apprehension at Father Carl's massive rosary. (I hope that all pious readers have stopped reading this article by now!) I know what's coming, I thought, he will suggest that this gives us a wonderful opportunity of saying fifteen decades—several times! He didn't. "What's your favorite mixed drink?" asked Father Carl. "What's a mixed drink?" I replied. Father Carl turned white. It was as if I had produced a book by Martin Luther or Hans Kung from my pocket. Father Carl expressed his incredulity at my reply. An English translation of his response would be: "I say, old chap, are you actually asking me to believe that you don't know what a mixed drink is?" An American translation of my reply to him would be: "You are right on the button!" Be that as it may, as the hours passed and the Braniff flight did not arrive, I made my first acquaintance with the delights of the Manhattan, the Screwdriver, the Whiskey Sour, and other equally delightful concoctions. The barman, whose expertise had contributed in no small way to what was proving to be one of the most delightful evenings of my life, eventually informed us that he was Episcopalian. I had reached the stage where I thought that this was yet another alcoholic concoction, but it seems that it is an American variety of Protestant. He added that it was nice to be living in ecumenical times where we all go on so well with each other. My mood was such that I would have given the sign of peace to the Ayatolla Khomeni if he had been around—which he wasn't. Even Father Carl, despite his hard-line attitudes, grunted non-commitally. The barman remarked that he could mix us a drink which would be new even to Father Carl. Father Carl expressed skepticism at this suggestion, and challenged our new-found Episcopalian friend to do so—which he did. The Episcopalian barman concocted a drink called "Tootsie-roll Pop." Father Carl had never heard of it, but gave it his imprimatur—as I did.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, the Braniff flight was eventually cancelled. Poor David and Ann Read had to spend the night in Chicago; which, I understand is a fate worse than death, and Father Carl and I set out for St. Mary's. We got onto a freeway and drove for several hours. If my memory serves me correctly, which it probably doesn't (for a Tootsie-roll Pop too many can be too much), we saw a sign which said "Los Angeles—100 miles." "I think we missed our turn," said Father Carl. "Jolly good show!" I replied. It would seem that this was not the response Father had desired. He drove right across the freeway, and returned in the direction from which we had come. Soon after this I fell asleep, and did not wake until we had arrived at St. Mary's. I felt that there had been something profoundly significant about the entire evening, but what it was I have never been able to deduce.
There is, of course, another side to Father Carl. He is a devout and dedicated priest, but if I commented on this aspect of his life he would be very embarrassed (he will probably be embarrassed enough by what I have written so far, but he never reads this magazine until after he has printed it).
I simply must say something about Father Carl, The Printer. I am sure that many readers are unaware of the fact that he prints The Angelus entirely without help each month, in between rushing about to complete a punishing Mass schedule. I think The Angelus should publish a feature on the way it is produced, with pictures of Father Carl in his printing shop, wearing his large apron, his peculiar hat, and a broad grin. I won't even mention the manner in which the typesetting takes place as readers wouldn't believe it. In addition to printing The Angelus, Father Carl also prints books and pamphlets. The number of my own publications which he has produced certainly runs into the hundreds of thousands, which have gone all over the world. The Angelus Press calendar is another of his big tasks, together with Christmas and greeting cards, and a new journal for young people. If he received the union rate for the work he does he would be a millionaire by now, but he thinks of it all as part of his work for Tradition.
The Liberals are Crazy
A good number of my traditionalist friends have told me that sometimes they wonder if, perhaps, they might be crazy and the liberals sane. Perhaps we ought to enjoy seeing clowns and dancing girls in the sanctuary; perhaps we should consider it truly meaningful to kiss and hug each other during Mass; perhaps we should be thrilled to receive Holy Communion from laymen and women while priests sit in their presidential chairs and give us meaningful looks. Those who experience doubts as to whether they are crazy or we are crazy need only read the following quotation to have their minds set at rest. It comes from a publication issued by the Catholic and Anglican bishops of Australia, and is entitled "Travelling Together." It is intended to provide a basis for cozy ecumenical discussions and prayer meetings in every parish in the country.
The "Watergame" is an example of what is supposed to take place. There is a scriptural reading followed by "Group Activity." Please believe that I did not make up what follows as some sort of hoax for April 1st. It really does appear in the book on p. 21, and, presumably the bishops actually envisage adults not totally devoid of intelligence and common sense participating in what I can only describe as an example of group idiocy. There is, however, some method in their madness, as the discussions involve a bunch of wets whose object is to dilute the Faith, which makes their "watergame" highly appropriate. Here is how they play it:
Group Activity:
After the reading, some appropriate music could be played so that people may have the opportunity to reflect upon the reading. During the music, hand each person within the group a paper cup half filled with water. Invite those present to reflect on what water means for them and to feel free to share their reflections with the group at any time while music is playing. At the end of the time you have set aside for reflection (2-3 minutes), draw the reflection to an end with the following (or similar) words:
Leader:
As you hold this water recall the moments in our history of salvation in which water has been central. The waters of Creation in the book of Genesis; the waters of the Red Sea crossed by the Israelites; the water flowing from the rock which quenched the thirst of those lost in the desert.
Consider any moments in your own life, your own history of salvation in which water has been an important reminder of God's love.
At this stage have someone from the group go to each person within the group with a jug so that the water that each person holds can be poured into the jug. Take the jug from the person and hold it out so that all can see it.
As each separate unit of water was poured into the jug, we can gather some sense of the oneness that exists between us in our biblical tradition. Now as a sign of oneness, let us drink from the water of this jug and realize that we are not separate in sharing in Christ's love and life.
The leader now hands the jug to the same person who collected the water and they take the jug to each person half filling each cup with the water. All drink the water together.
As a sign of oneness and as a commitment to our cooperation in this program, let us offer each other a sign of peace.
All that I would be inclined to offer the members of such a group would be the address of a good psychiatrist.
1. Editor's Note: When ordering this book, customers are asked to please include $2.10 for postal delivery in the U.S., and $4.00 for surface mail to other countries. Thanks.
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