I write frequently in this space about the sheer illogic of contemporary Catholic thought, rhetoric and leadership. The determination to emphasize the present and the new and to detach us from the past, which is somehow irrelevant now. A stance which runs contrary to Catholicism, frankly, but is also quite often an exciting-sounding cover for political maneuvering and power grabs.
My basic message: Put on your Skeptical Hat when someone blows in to inform you that if you don’t get on their Very Special New (or Old!) Thing Bus you are bad because you are obviously blocking the working of the Holy Spirit.
I mean, they might be right. Or they might be a megalomaniac gaslighting grifter. You just gotta be careful and think things through and be honest about human nature.
So, again, I return to the continuing, sadly never-ending disputes over “new” and “old” in Catholic Land 2021, particularly as the concepts relate to liturgy.
As I wrote before – in this post – and this one – without taking the ebb and flow of the Liturgical Movement into consideration – which most normie Catholics in 2021 do not – those who seek to suppress the celebration of the Traditional Latin Mass have a hard argument to make when these normie Catholics are encouraged to dig deep and benefit from every single spiritual treasure of the past 2000 years – saints, spiritual writings, devotions, art, architecture and music – except the Traditional Latin Mass, celebrated as the Mass, but listening to it in concert – maybe even in a church building! – or while drinking your morning coffee is okay, sure, have at it.
Being immersed in the history of the period, as well as in the current policy stances, I understand, and I can explain it from those perspectives. But that doesn’t mean it makes sense and can’t be picked apart for logic and consistency as it’s being presented and discussed now , among other things.
It is the continual tension that emerges as we try to situate ourselves in the midst of human experience and history.
We are so different, it seems. Our lives are radically different.
Aren’t they?
Yes? No?
I maintain, fundamentally, no. Fundamentally. Of course our external circumstances impact us profoundly. I’ve long believed that widespread relative prosperity and mobility have had a deep impact on the way that human beings understand themselves and the spiritual journey. Carl Trueman’s The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self takes on these changes from a different perspective, and I largely agree with his assessment. Me, sitting here in Alabama, knowing that if I wanted to spend the money, could get on a plane and fly across the country – and then be back home tomorrow and can instantly communicate with friends around the world – is a life quite different from the woman of the past who might never have left her own village.
So yes! The externals have changed, the framework has changed, the assumptions have shifted.
But
Also no.
And that no is the reason we can read two-hundred year old novels, four-hundred year old philosophical works, eight-hundred year old plays and three-thousand year old epics and still see ourselves.
It is a shock to the system, really, the first time a young person reads the first book of Augustine’s Confessions and sees such a wildly familiar landscape, even in the strangeness of it all: she sees parents who don’t understand, parents who don’t get along, career expectations, temptations succumbed to for unknown reasons, other temptations succumbed to that leave one empty in the end, ways to waste time, education that becomes less vital the more it’s required, and of course, questions. Question after question after question.
That brings me to the topic of this post, which I thought was going to be brief. Oh well.
We’ve been reading medieval British literature in the homeschool, and have (finally) finished up this past week, discussing Julian of Norwich, Margery Kempe, the mystery plays, Morte d’Artur and Everyman – the iconic morality play which you can read here.
And how interesting it is that despite the fact that this is not a literary form we produce today – the allegory with such obvious allusions – and is as far away from TikTok or prestige television in form as ox-carts are from jets – the theme and final message is easily grasped and still unchallengeable, at least from the Christian perspective.
You can’t take it with you.
And the only thing that you can keep as you are lowered into the grave, and in fact, that you can’t shake, are your Good Deeds. Nothing else will remain, no matter how strongly you’ve clung and how much energy you’ve put into nurturing their presence in your life: not Beauty, not strength, not even knowledge.
What must I do to attain eternal life?
And even if you’re not concerned about eternal life, Everyman, its clunky preaching perhaps seeming to be from a different world than your 21st century clunky relativism, still offers food for thought. How am I spending my time on earth? Facing the grave, what will have been worth valuing?
I have written before that as a teacher – both in the classroom, at home, and in my writing – I have long taken it as my responsibility – and great pleasure, in fact – to help students and readers dig through the initial strangeness of history, of literature, of theology and spiritual writing, of the lives of the saints, and indeed, of Scripture itself – to understand what is essentially and even eternally true there and to see that the questions posed in these works and traditions are, indeed, the same questions they grapple with. They are not alone. They are not the first to wonder. Which should, indeed, come as a tremendous relief, and a moment of yes, communion across space and time.
So the question – yet another question – remains, stubbornly. And I would pose it regularly, if I could, in person.
Why is it permissible to reflect on and benefit from the wisdom, truth and beauty in every corner of the history of the People of God and even outside of its boundaries – except in the ancient liturgical prayer of the Church, actually being prayed?
Charlotte was Both 