Part One

227777Just on a whim, this morning I entered the phrase “male spirituality” into Google.   The quotation marks are explicit, so that Google would search for the phrase rather than the two words.  What came back was an interesting potpourri of links that I had only the time to skim the very surface of, much like a water-skeeter dances across the surface of a pond without breaking the surface tension.  If she stops (I believe water-skeeters, like bees, are female), she drowns.  There is almost no subject in the contemporary universe of discourse where there is as much danger of drowning is as in discussing sex, gender, and the relationship between the sexes.  So I’m going to try to keep things as light as possible, to avoid breaking surface tension, to avoid drowning.  For this reason, I start with a question, and it is not rhetorical.  I am open to wherever the investigation leads.

About a year ago, someone asked me point blank in an email if I believed that men and women were equal.   Because I didn’t really want to engage with this person and because the probability of mutual respect and civil discourse was minimal, I responded ‘Of course.  What’s your point? ‘  It was cowardly on my part, I guess, because I don’t even believe men and men or women and women are equal, or that the same man or woman is equal diachronically.  It got me thinking about our concept of equality.  What does it mean for a man to be equal to a woman?  What does it mean for a man to be equal to another man?  It obviously isn’t the same as identity, or being the same, which is the schoolyard equivalent.   Sameness is more of a function of manufactured things, things made by machine, on purpose, to be as identical as possible.  Variety, diversity is more of a function of nature.   But we live in a time where manufactured equality is crucial.  Among other things, it makes it much easier and much less expensive to repair our cars, build a house, or track a household’s consumption of peanut butter.  Also, we grow from the playground into the courtroom, but we carry our playground concepts with us when we go, and they grow along with us.

Equality, then, has to be something of an abstraction.  We have to consciously disregard differences if we are going to treat two things as equal.  I am a Trinitarian Christian, and therefore I can be neither a holist nor a reductionist.  Neither the similarities nor the differences between men and women are absolute.  The prevailing sentiment is that the differences between men and women should be minimized, that they are culturally defined, and these differences should never enter into consideration when a man or a woman is considering a course of action.  Biology will have her tribute, though.  Barring a technology that I can only imagine as infernal, men will never give birth, and a trained female mixed martial arts fighter would be suicidal to enter the Thunderdome against her male counterpart.   These are differences of the body, of the human being considered as a physical object with all of its quiddity and measurability.  A toaster and a grandmother dropped from Galileo’s tower will both strike the pavement simultaneously, but no one on this side of madness would consider them equal because of that.

But what happens when we leave the body, as we suppose, behind?  What happens when we move into the realm of the spirit, of that indefinable something that differentiates the grandmother from the toaster, indeed, even from a birch tree, sea snail, or a Shetland pony ?  Surely we leave the distinctions of the body behind.  Now, I am not a trained theologian, but I can follow theologians when they talk, and that is a useful skill.   What I want to do is examine evidence both for and against the idea of gender-specific spirituality and leave aside the urgency of coming to a conclusion.  Especially, I don’t want to be railroaded towards a conclusion.  I may as well mention the Manosphere, especially its Christian “branch”, whose meticulously ground and deeply resentful axes will find plenty of timber upon which to assay purchase.

soefiI lean by temperament and upbringing to believe that men and women will respond to God differently.  I am not alone in thinking so.  Very soon after becoming a conscious disciple of Christ I was assailed by a group of married Christian women who wanted me to ‘evangelize’ their husbands.  It was thought that, being a man, it would be easier for me to encourage them to participate in churchly activities.  I was a dismal failure at this.  I am a transplanted Yankee.   Their husbands were Southern good ol’ boys.   Church was, for them, something that it was fitting for women and children to be involved in, and Yankees, who don’t much care for NASCAR and whose football loyalties were tied to Big Ten teams with highly suspect ground games.  “Men are too proud for church.  Their masculine pride won’t allow them to accept any help, even from the Lord”, one wife complained to me in the presence of our pastor.  This pastor  had been on the ground at Guadalcanal.   I don’t think anybody could accuse him of a lack of masculinity.  Yet the fact remained, men were scarce in our church.   They were scarce in the Pentecostal Church, in the Baptist Church, in the Methodist Church.  They were less scarce in the PCA Presbyterian church, but they tended to be bookish and intellectual.  If they were aggressive, it was usually with a lawyerly kind of aggression.

The Orthodox church doesn’t have this problem.  If anything, it has too many men.  It is said that Orthodoxy attracts and retains men because it is “challenging”.    The rules are more stringent in Orthodoxy than they are in other precincts of Christendom.  The fasting rules are strict.  The Orthodox faithful are vegan some 40% of the year, and often at inconvenient times.  Services are long and you are expected to stand for most them.  Prayers are interminable, and no quarter is given to the flesh.  It remains that many people believe that Orthodoxy has a “heroic ethos” that “attracts men”.  The less charitable accuse us of being the last bastion of the He-Man Woman Haters Club that used to be coterminous with Christendom and has been reduced in these enlightened times to a diminishing circle of Slavic waggons, and THAT is what attracts men, and you are welcome to them.

A thousand words in, and I haven’t even quoted a Bible verse.  I’ll do that next time.  Actually I think the venerable Auld Booke is more egalitarian than I am, but that for next time.


For the Monday after Pentecost, commonly known as The Day of the Holy Spirit in the Calendar of the Eastern Church


fireplace, fireO Heavenly  King, the Most Gracious Comforter and Spirit of Truth, even before the ages do You proceed from the Father and rest forever in the Son!  O inexhaustible source; of the endowments of Godliness Who divides them unto whom-so-ever You will; for thereby have we unworthy ones also been sanctified, as they were signed upon us on the day of our baptism! Take regard then for the prayer of Your servants, come to us, dwell among us, and cleanse our souls; that we may be made ready as dwelling-places of the Most Holy Trinity!

Yes, O Most Gracious One! Be not reviled at our impurities and wounds of sin, but cleanse them with the total healing of Your chrismation. Enlighten our minds that we can comprehend both the vanity of the world, and of those which are in the world; vitalize our consciousness, that in never being silent it will advise us to work at eliminating those things which demote us; direct and renew our heart, that it will no longer be a source of evil thoughts and unfit desires; and, extinguish the flames of our passions with Your dew-bearing breath, that the blessed image of the Divine will not be darkened within us.

Drive away from us the spirit of boastfulness, of melancholy, of ambition and of vain talk; endow us with a spirit of love and patience, a spirit of meekness and of humble wisdom, a spirit of purity and of righteousness; that then, our feeble hearts having been set aright, we may progress along the path of Your holy commandments without laziness:

cozyfireSo then, having toppled every sin and worked in total righteousness, we may be accounted an end that is peaceful and without shame; to enter into the heavenly Jerusalem, and  to worship You together with the Father and the Son, as the Trinity That is One in Essence and Indivisible, unto the ages of ages.


Translated by Subdeacon David Fritz of Wilkes-Barre, PA.  May his memory be eternal.

To speak about Progressive Rock these days is to talk about passion, and the love of music [for it’s own sake]. The days of deep industry and commercial success during the 70s are long gone. The current progressive music movement is underground, honest, small and vibrant.  Rock Progresivo Peru – Giusseppe Risica Carella

BritanniaForty five years ago a friend loaned me an album and insisted that I listen to it.  The name of the album was The Court Of The Crimson King by King Crimson.  It ruined our friendship, because I played the record until I ground the grooves out.  The music on that album was a quantum leap over other music I was listening to at the time.  It was more complex and required stricter attention.  I sought out more music like it, and stumbled across Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma and Renaissance’s self-titled debut.  Another friend recommended Time And A Word by another English band called Yes, whose singer hit higher notes than I believed possible for a man.  A guitar playing friend introduced me to the man he called the guitarist’s guitarist, John McLaughlin.  There was also a group called Genesis that turned out music that was better than it should have been, since their lead singer wore a dress, and sometimes dressed like a flower.  Ian Anderson and Jethro Tull were everywhere on the newly significant FM band.  Finally, there was an outfit called Gentle Giant whose stuff I never liked on first listen but which grew on me as I listened.  Records by these artists and many others entered my collection and defined my musical tastes, at least in popular music.  The embryonic music press called it “symphonic rock” or “art rock”, but eventually settled on the appellation “progressive rock”.

Progressive rock morphed into big business by the late seventies.  Pink Floyd in particular became one of the largest draws in the music industry, and I was able to hear Yes at one of their concerts at about this time.  However, the more complex bands like King Crimson or McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra never achieved a similar level of popularity but enjoyed a high reputation among people “who knew a lot about music”.  Bands like Styx, Journey, and Kansas took the “progressive” formula, simplified it [Kansas less so, Journey more so, Styx in the middle] for mass consumption, and made bank, filling stadiums around the world.  Then suddenly, from about 1982 on, the whole scene just disappeared.  Punk rock happened, and popular music moved back to a simpler, earlier paradigm.  People wanted to dance, and nobody could really dance to the odd rhythms and jarring time signature changes that progressive rock offered.  One of my favorite bands, Genesis, became a pop/disco band after their vocalist and guitarist left to embark on solo careers.

I appreciated a lot of the new music.  “New Wave” it was called, and it was everywhere by the mid-eighties, thanks to a concurrent fashion movement and a very risky media gamble called MTV.  It wasn’t long before New Wave was replaced by a plethora of confusing genres, “post-punk”, “dreampop”, and of course “grunge”.  I married and started having children, and could no longer afford the time to keep up with an increasingly fractious music scene.  Nevertheless, I found that nothing could get me into a nostalgic early 70s groove than putting Selling England By The Pound and reading Ursula Le Guin’s Wizard Of Earthsea.  Don’t ask me why, but fantasy literature of the Tolkienesque variety and progressive rock seem to blend very well. Before the advent of Peter Jackson’s movies, progressive musicians had a reputation for creating Tolkien soundscapes, or for using names like “Gandalf” or “Silmaril” for their band names.

When it became possible to download music on the Internet in the late 1990s (first on Usenet, then on Napster), I decided to renew some old acquaintances,  I found out that a band I cared very much for in the height of the progressive era, Renaissance, whose female lead singer had an operatic range, put out one of their best albums long after I stopped listening.  I was able to sample music from obscurer bands like Finch, Wally, and Gryphon whose works I had missed back in the 70s.  I discovered that just at the time progressive rock went out of style in the UK and the USA, the Italians took it over and carried it to new heights.  I learned about Banco del Mutuo SoccorsoPremiata Forneria Marconi and Le Orme.  Most importantly, I found that new music was being made in this style and finding an audience.  I became acquainted with Marillion, Spock’s Beard, IQ, Echolyn, Citizen Cain, Clepsydra and many others.  It was at this time that I first heard of the best Christian music nobody was listening to.   I don’t know if that’s fair to Iona, who has always had a small and vocal fan base in the US, to say that nobody listened to them.   They should have been much more popular than they were.  They were a Celtic/progressive/folk-rock band with astounding musicianship and deep meditative lyrics.

If the CCM community’s failure to properly appreciate Iona was disturbing, that same community’s almost complete ignorance of Spock’s Beard frontman Neal Morse is almost criminal.   Spock’s Beard was probably the best, and certainly the most commercially successful, of the new breed of progressive rock bands that arose in the 1990s.  Neal converted to Evangelical Christianity somewhere around 2002  and started kicking out albums as quickly as Prince ever did.  Starting with Testimony, he issued a series of Christian based CDs that contained the most earnest Christian message since Keith Green.  OK, maybe since Rich Mullen.  I don’t know why he never cracked the Positive Hits barrier.  His music is light years ahead of the current Coldplay and Beyonce clones that populate the K-JOY playlist.  Maybe it’s because he’s not easily digestible like Mercy Me and he isn’t ironic and faux-edgy enough for the Fair Trade and Soul Patch brigade.  Come to think of it, I’ve never heard Iona, Over The Rhine, or Dirt Poor Robins on K-JOY either.  It’s been two decades since I’ve heard Keith Green, and I haven’t heard Rich Mullins lately, either.  Well, more’s their loss.

Just last year, though, I found out that progressive rock had hit a new high water mark.  While my attention was elsewhere, English progressive rock band Big Big Train released a series of CDs that equal anything Genesis, Yes, or King Crimson was making back in the 70s.  I sampled Big Big Train in the early 2000s, on their CD Gathering Speed, but I wasn’t impressed. On a whim, though, I purchased a download for the EP they issued in 2010,  Far Skies Deep Time.  It was 99 cents.  From the very first track, all the elements were there; the Peter Gabriel-like vocals, the soaring melodies, the elegiac lyrics, and above all the overarching and interpenetrating sense of Englishness.  By the time the EP finished 44 minutes later (of course a prog EP would be 44 minutes long with only 5 songs), I was in tears.  A quick review of some music-oriented websites confirmed my suspicions, progressive rock was roaring back.    Brand new bands with names like Sihouette, Life Line Project, and Fright Pig were making unconscionably great music, and neo-progressive veterans like the Flower Kings, Shamall, The Enid, RWPL, and Glass Hammer were making the best music they had ever made.   One enthusiastic  critic  called 2012 the best year in progressive rock ever.

Yet, the resurgence seems to be primarily artistic.  I never hear it on the radio, even on the college station I listen to most often.  They have a progressive rock program but it’s mostly obscure stuff from the 70s with a lot of Frank Zappa-inspired freeform jazz-fusion.   My children’s friends aren’t listening to modern prog rock.  My son  likes Japanese noise artists like Boris or Merzbow, and my daughter is addicted to Korean pop music, which is slightly disturbing considering that K-pop is subsidized by the South Korean government and is a significant export for the South Korean economy.   Maybe all this great music is like Colin Maloy and the Decemberists, who put out the best Jethro Tull album since Heavy Horses.  My son tells me all his friends’ dads like the Decemberists too.  It’s Dad-rock for nostalgic, disaffected dads.   Still, it could be worse.  It’s nice to have the musical universe indulge you one last time.

PS – If The Decemberists’ The Crane Wife is the best Jethro Tull album since Heavy Horses, then Big Big Train’s The Underfall Yard is the best Genesis album since Wind And Wuthering, and it just gets better and better  Just sayin’.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent for Western Christians.   Eastern Christians have been celebrating Lent since Monday, known as Clean Monday.

My head is a little dizzy, but my body feels strangely light and responsive.   It is a good time to pray:

O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth, despondency, lust for power and idle talk.
But grant unto me, Thy servant, a spirit of chastity (integrity), humility, patience and love.
Yea, O Lord and King, grant me to see mine own faults and not to judge my brother. For blessed art Thou unto the ages. Amen.

May it be so with us.

Screen Shot 2014-02-24 at 11.37.41 AMTolkien proposed to the love of his life, Edith Bratt, as soon as he was legally able to do so; at midnight on his 21st birthday.   They married three years later and remained married until her death in 1971.  They had four children.  Looking for references to sex in Tolkien’s Legendarium is a tedious task for those accustomed to  modern salaciousness.  The Elves and Men in his narratives are monogamous and well-behaved, seeking glory on the battlefield rather than in the boudoir.  

CS Lewis was a celibate academic until late in life.  My suspicion is that “Jack” Lewis had something of a thing for the ‘Bad Girl’.  It surfaces from time to time in his fiction (most transparently in The Magician’s Nephew), and I certainly think Joy Davidson scratched that itch admirably.

Owen Barfield married the beautiful and gracious Maud Douie.  They had two children of their own and fostered a third.  His devotion to Rudolf Steiner’s Anthroposophy was a thorn in her side throughout their lives together.  Barfield is interesting in that he contemplates sex in his philosophical works at a time when the Sexual Revolution of the 60s and the 70s was just beginning to gather momentum, and he already had the advantage of a long memory and could discern it in seminis in the works of Swinburne and Lawrence.

Charles Williams, among the Inklings, is the most interested in developing a theology of sex, erotic love, and marriage.  According to many, he is not a pristine fountain from which to draw water;  his own marriage was troubled, he had dalliances with younger women who were drawn to his circle, and he held some heterodox opinions about the role of sex in the Early Church.

Nevertheless, Williams remains almost alone among Christian thinkers in investigating erotic desire from a theological perspective.  This essay of his I  lifted from a copyrighted sources which I believe is either out of print or so obscurely marketed as to amount to the same thing.  I reproduce it here for the benefit of Williams fans and other people who may find it useful.  It pulls together several strands in his thinking; the hermetical or occult, the Poetical, and the Christian.  It is a remarkable essay and a true tour-de-force.


From the ‘Dublin Review,’ July 1942

IN the Prelude (book viii, 11.279-81) Wordsworth wrote:

the human form

To me became an index of delight, 

Of grace and honour, power and worthiness.

The most important word there is index. There are moments in all poetry when the reader has to ask himself whether a word used by the poet is accurate not only for the poet’s universe but for the reader’s own. It is a secondary decision, since the first must be only of the poetic value, but it is sometimes important. That is so here; the word index, pressed to its literal meaning, is a word which demands attention, and afterwards assent or dissent.

It is true that Wordsworth himself did not develop the idea; he is speaking generally, and in other passages his genius suggests that the index is to a volume written in a strange language. This is no weakness in Wordsworth; it was, on one side, his particular business.  Thus the image of the Leech-Gatherer in Resolution and Independence is drawn at least as inhuman as human; so is the Soldier in Book IV of the Prelude who is the cause of such terror, and the other wanderers; the woman with the pitcher, and even Lucy Gray, are of the same kind. They are on the borders of two worlds, which almost pass and repass into each other. Wordsworth, of all the Romantics, came nearest to defining and mapping that border-land.

There are, of course, also his more exclusively human figures- Michael, for instance, in the poem of that name. Here the human form suggests to him the grandeur of the moral virtues; it is the suffering and labouring spirit of man which he sees. That may have been what he had chiefly in mind in the passage I have quoted: man as ‘a solitary object and sublime’, but man also ‘with the most common; husband, father’, who

suffered with the rest

From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear.

But the passage is capable of another reading, and one which proposes to us a real, if less usual, sequence. It is that reading which I wish now to discuss, and the word index is the beginning. The question proposed is whether we shall take that word seriously as a statement of the relation of the human form to.’grace and honour, power and worthiness’. The human form meant, to Wordsworth, the shape of the shepherd seen among the hills. There it was high and distant.  It was a whole being significant of a greater whole-which is, in some sense, the definition of objects seen romantically. But the lines might be applied to the same shape, seen near at hand and analytically. They might refer to the body itself; it is that which can be considered as an index.

What then would be meant by the word? Nothing but itself. An index is a list of various subjects, with reference to those places where, in the text of the volume, they are treated at greater length.  But, at least, the words naming the subjects are the same; and a really good index will give some idea of the particular kind of treatment offered on the separate pages. Some such idea, Wordsworth’s lines suggest, the body and even the members of the body may give of the delight, grace, honour, power, and worthiness of man’s structure. The structure of the body is an index to the structure of a greater whole.

I am anxious not to use words which seem too much to separate the physical structure from the whole. The fact of death, and the ensuing separation of ‘body’ and ‘soul’, lead us to consider them too much as separate identities conjoined. But I hope it is not unorthodox to say that body and soul are one identity, and that all our inevitable but unfortunate verbal distinctions are therefore something less than true. Death has been regarded by the Christian Church as an outrage-a necessary outrage, perhaps, but still an outrage. It has been held to be an improper and grotesque schism in a single identity-to which submission, but not consent, is to be offered; a thing, like sin, that ought not to be and yet is. The distress of our Lord in His Passion may perhaps not improperly be supposed to be due to His contemplation of this all but inconceivable schism in His own sacred and single identity. If our manhoods were from the first meant indivisibly, how much more His!

It is one of the intellectual results of the Fall that our language has always to speak in terms of the Fall; and that we cannot help our language does not make it any more true. The epigrams of saints, doctors, and poets, are the nearest we can go to the recovery of that ancient validity, our unfallen speech. To treat the body as an index is to assume that, as in an index the verbal element-the word given-is the same as in the whole text, so in the physical structure of the greater index the element-the quality given-is the same as in the whole structure. Another poet, Patmore, put the thing in a similar light when he wrote that

from the graced decorum of the hair,

Ev’n to the tingling sweet

Soles of the simple earth-confiding feet

And from the inmost heart

Outwards unto the thin

Silk curtains of the skin,

Every least part

Astonish’d hears


‘The spheres’ there are likely to mean, first, the outer heavens. This idea is practically that of the microcosm and the macrocosm: the idea that a man is a small replica of the universe. Man was ‘the workshop of all things’, ‘a little world’, mundus minor exemplum majoris mundi ordine, filius totius mundi. It is a very ancient idea; it was held before Christianity and has been held during Christianity; it was common to Christians, Jews, and Mohammedans; and, for all I know, the scientific hypothesis of evolution bears a relation to the union of the two. Into that, however, I am not learned enough to go. The idea went through many changes, but its general principle remained constant: that man was the rational epitome of the universe. It led, of course, to many absurdities, and (if you choose like any other idea) to some evils. Some writers catalogued painstakingly the more obvious fantasies: hair was the grass or the forests; bones were mountains; the sun was the eyes, and so on. Astrology, if not based on it, at least found the idea convenient; however we may reject that ancient study, it had at least this philosophic principle mixed up with it-that each man, being unique, was a unique image of the universe, that the spatially Dante_and_beatricegreater affected the spatially lesser, and the calculable influences of the stars were only calculable because each man represented and reproduced the whole. Astrology then was a high and learned science; it was forbidden for good reasons, but it was not fatalistic. It did not say ‘this will certainly happen’; it said: ‘Given these stellar and individual relations, this result is likely.’ But the will of God and the wills of men were allowed much freedom to interfere with the result.  Sapiens dominabitur astris. The paragraphs in our papers today bear as much resemblance to the science as texts lifted up on boards outside churches do to the whole dogmas of the Church. The paragraphs are, I allow, more likely to harm; the texts, on the whole, are innocuous.

Beside, or rather along with, this study went the patterns of other occult schools. The word ‘occult’ has come into general use, and is convenient, if no moral sense is given it simply as itself. It deals with hidden things, and their investigation. But in this case we are concerned not so much with the pretended operations of those occult schools as with a certain imagination of relation in the universe, and that only to pass beyond it. The signs of the Zodiac were, according to some students, related to the parts of the physical body. The particular attributions varied, and all were in many respects arbitrary. But some of them were extremely suggestive; they may be allowed at least a kind of authentic poetic vision. Thus, in one pattern, the house of the Water-carrier was referred to the eyes; the house of the Twins to the arms and hands; the house of the Scorpion to the privy parts and the sexual organs; and the house of the Balances to the buttocks.

It will be clear that these four attributions at least had a great significance. It will be clear also that in such a poetic (so to call it) imagination, we are dealing with a kind of macrocosmic-rnicrocosmic union of a more serious and more profitable kind than the mere exposition by a debased astrology of chances in a man’s personal life.  It may be invention, but if so, it is great invention; the houses of the Zodiac, with their special influences ruling in special divisions of the spatial universe, may be but the fables of astronomy; it must be admitted that few certain facts support them. But they are not unworthy fables. They direct attention to the principles at work both in the spatial heavens and in the structure of man’s body. Aquarius is for water, clarity, vision; Gemini are for a plural motion, activity, and achievement; Libra is for that true strength of balance on which the structure of man depends.

With this suggestion, we are on the point of deserting the spatial heavens for something else. The like regions of the spheres, of which Patmore spoke, here begin to be transferred to the spiritual heavens. ‘As above, so below’ ran the old maxim, but even that dichotomy is doubtful. The houses of the Zodiac, in this, do but confuse the issue, except in so far as they, like the whole universe, exhibit the mystery by which spirit becomes flesh, without losing spirit. Perhaps the best verbal example is in the common use of the word ‘heart’. Even in our common speech the word is ambiguous. To call Hitler heartless means that he seems to be without the common principle of compassion. It is said that Tertullian (but I have not found the reference) said that ‘the supreme principle of intelligence and vitality’, ‘the sovereign faculty’ of man, resided ‘where the Egyptians taught- Namque bomini sanguis circumcordialis est sensus, the sense of man is in the blood around the heart’. At least the pulsating organ presents, for man, his proper physical rhythm in the whole mundus minor exemplum majoris mundi ordine. As our meaning – physical life or compassionate life – so the word heart. Compassion is the union of man with his fellows, as is the blood. The permitted devotion to the Sacred Heart is to the source of both. The physical heart is, in this sense, an ‘index’ to both. Gerard Hopkins wrote, of the Blessed Virgin:


If I have understood

She holds high motherhood

Towards all our ghostly good

And plays in grace her part

About man’s beating heart,

Laying, like air’s fine flood,

The death dance in his blood;

Yet no part but what will

Be Christ our Saviour still.

The visionary forms of the occult schools are but dreams of the Divine Body. All these brief allusions show that there have been some traditions of significance-poetic, occult, religious. Christians, however, may be permitted to press the significance more closely; they may be allowed to ask whether the body is not indeed a living epigram of virtue. There have been doctors who held that Christ would not have become incarnate if man had not sinned; there have been doctors who held that He would. Either way, it is clear that the Sacred Body was itself virtue. The same qualities that made His adorable soul made boorstinHis adorable flesh. If the devotion to the Sacred Heart does not, in itself, imply something of the sort, I do not know what it does imply. The virtues are both spiritual and physical – or rather they are expressed in those two categories. This is recognized in what are regarded as the more ‘noble’ members in the body-the heart, the eyes. But it is not so often recognized as a truth underlying all the members-the stomach, the buttocks. That is partly because we have too long equated the body as such with the ‘flesh’ of St. Paul. But ‘flesh’ is no more that than (as Mgr. Knox pointed out recently in the Tablet) it is ‘sex’. The body was holily created, is holily redeemed, and is to be holily raised from the dead. It is, in fact, for all our difficulties with it, less fallen, merely in itself, than the soul in which the quality of the will is held to reside; for it was a sin of the will which degraded us. ‘The evidence of things not seen’ is in the body seen as this epigram; nay, in some sense, even ‘the substance of things hoped for’, for what part it has in that substance remains to it unspoiled.

It is in this sense then that the body is indeed an ‘index’ to delight, power, and the rest. ‘Who conceives’, wrote Prior,

‘Who conceives, what bards devise,

That heaven is placed in Celia’s eyes?’


Well, no; not so simply as that. But Celia’s eyes are a part of the body which (said Patmore, who was orthodox enough)

Astonish’d hears

And sweet replies to some like region of the spheres.

And those spheres are not merely the old spatial macro cosmic heavens, but the deep heaven of our inner being. The discernment of pure goodwill, of (let it be said for a moment) pure love in Celia’s eyes, at some high moment of radiant interchange or indeed at any other moment, is no less part of the heavenly vision (so tiny and remote as it may be) because it is a physical as well as a spiritual vision. The word ‘sacramental’ has perhaps here served us a little less than well; it has, in popular usage, suggested rather the spiritual using the physical than a common-say, a single-operation.

Eyes then are compacted power; they are an index of vision; they see and refer us to greater seeing. Nor has the stomach a less noble office. It digests food; that is, in its own particular method, it deals with the nourishment offered by the universe. It is a physical formula of that health which destroys certain elements-the bacteria which harmfully approach us. By it we learn to consume; by it therefore to be, in turn, consumed. So even with those poor despised things, the buttocks. There is no seated figure, no image of any seated figure, which does not rely on them for its strength and balance. They are at the bottom of the sober dignity of judges; the grace of a throned woman; the hierarchical session of the Pope himself reposes on them: into even greater images and phrases we need not now go.

It will be thought I labour the obvious; and I will not go through the physical structure suggesting and propounding identities. The point will have been sufficiently made if the sense of that structure being heavenly not by a mere likeness but in its own proper nature is achieved. It is a point not so much of doctrine as of imagination.  That imagination is at once individual and social. The temples of the Holy Ghost are constructed all on one plan: and our duties to our material fellows are duties to structures of beatitude. The relation of the Incarnation to our own mode of generation is blessedly veiled.  But its relation to those other identities of power is not at all doubtful. It is not only physical structures we neglect or damage by our social evils; it is living indexes of life. The Virtues exist in all of them materially, but it is the Virtues which so exist.  Christ, in some sense, derived His flesh from them, for He derived it from His Mother, and she from her ancestors, and they from all mankind.

The Sacred Body is the plan upon which physical human creation was built, for it is the centre of physical human creation. The great dreams of the human form as including the whole universe are in this less than the truth. As His, so ours; the body, in this sense of an index, is also a pattern. We carry about with us an operative synthesis of the Virtues; and it may be held that when we fall in love (for example), we fall in love precisely with the operative synthesis.

Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye;

In every gesture dignity and love;


Is much more a definite statement of fact than we had supposed; footsteps are astonishing movements of grace. That we cannot properly direct and control our sensations and emotions is not surprising; butparadiso-761559 the greatness of man is written even in his incapacity, and when he sins he sins because of a vision which, even though clouded, is great and ultimate. As every heresy is a truth pushed disproportionately, so with every sin; at least, with every physical sin.  But, however in those states of ‘falling in love’ the vision of a patterned universe is revealed to us, the revelation vanishes, and we are left to study it slowly, heavily, and painfully. All that the present essay attempts to do is to present a point of view which has behind it, one way and another, a great tradition-a tradition which, for Christians, directs particular attention to the Sacred Body as the Archtype of all bodies. In this sense the Eucharist exposes also its value. The ‘index’ of our bodies, the incarnate qualities of the moral universe, receive the Archtype of all moralities truly incarnated; and not only the pattern in the soul and will but the pattern in the body is renewed. Or, better, in that unity which we, under the influence of our Greek culture, divide into soul and body. ‘Socrates’, Dr. William Ellis writes, ‘invented the concept which permeates every part of modern thinking, the concept of the twofold nature of man, of man as a union of the active, or spiritual, with the inactive, or corporeal; the concept, in short, of the organism as a dead carcass activated  by a living ghost. Even if we repudiate this idea, we are still half-dominated by it, so deeply does it underlie our pattern of culture.’  I am far from suggesting that this is the proper Christian view. But there is, I think, no doubt that it is not far from the popular Christian view. The fuss that has been made about Browning’s line (not that that was Browning’s fault)-‘nor soul helps flesh more now than flesh helps souI’-shows that. It was repeated almost as a new revelation, though indeed the Lady Julian had said almost the same thing centuries before. We have to overcome that lazy habit of the imagination-the outrage of death notwithstanding. We experience, physically, in its proper mode, the Kingdom of God: the imperial structure of the body carries its own high doctrines-of vision, of digestion of mysteries, of balance, of movement, of operation. ‘That soul’, said Dante in the Convivio, ‘which embraces all these powers [the rational, the sensitive, and the vegetative] is the most perfect of all the rest.’ The rational, or self-conscious, power is indeed the noblest, but we must ask from it a complete self-consciousness, and not a self-consciousness in schism.

It was suggested that the stress of this imagination may be an incentive to our social revolution. For if the body of our neighbor is compact of these heavenly qualities, incarnated influences, then we are indeed neglecting the actual Kingdom of God in neglecting it. It is the living type of the Arch-typal. We have not merely to obey a remote moral law in feeding and succouring and sheltering it. It is the ‘index’ of power; tear away the index, and we are left without the power; tear away the index, and we are left without the delight. Let the whole to which that index witnesses be as immense as any volume of truth may be, and still the value of that small substance remains. Every student of a learned work uses the index attentively. A good index can indeed be studied in itself.   To study the body so is to increase our preparation for the whole great text.


A Magisterium will always shake the Keys in your face.


The Consistory men came at dawn
to strip the churches bare
to gather all the idols
they said were lurking there

Took they first the Mother
With her beloved Child
And chopped her into kindling wood.
My father said they smiled.

“This is not He!” The father cried
The new one that they sent
“These painted dolls! These wooden sticks!”
Into the fire they went.

There went my patron Anthony
Who fought against the Snake
Dark-eyed Lucy, gentle Claire
And Martin in their wake

Fierce wolves of God, they gnawed the church
Down to her very bone
Even the body on the rood
They did not leave alone

When all was gone that I had loved
They saw me standing by
Very small and very scared
and very soon to cry.

The father stroked my tousled hair
And held aloft a Book
He fixed me with his icy gaze
It was no pleasant look

“Child”, he said, “From this you’ll learn”
“The ways of God above”
“And how he proffers saving faith”
“With His electing love”

I don’t want his nasty Book
But to run and jump and play
And to feel the wind upon my cheek
The cool of night, the warmth of day

He says that this is evil
I must learn to mortify
All that sin that in me dwells
Or surely I will die.

And so I grew from girl to maid
and cut myself away
and feared lest all this useless beauty
should cause my soul to stray

But as I listened to his book
I heard the ancient strain
The palm trees laden with their dates
The flowers after rain.

The eagle in his heaven
The tree beside the brook
The conies in their stoney place
All this was in the Book

“This is also Me” I heard Him say
The voice within the Book
Omnia quia sunt lumina sunt
But you have to learn to look.

The voice was that of a strong young man in his early thirties, with an accent I couldn’t place, but the face was that of the Crypt Keeper.  He had neither hair nor eyebrows.  Eyes and mouth were pulled from their customary positions by leathery, inflexible bands of scar tissue.  This scar tissue was ancient, almost as old as the young man himself.  Indeed, on every place where the young man’s body was visible scar tissue wound across in great cords and cables.

The young man was telling his story.  He was the son of a Nazarene pastor who lived with his family in a village south of Juba in the south of the Sudan.  As happened frequently in that part of the world, raiders from the North set upon the village.  These men butchered his parents, his brother and his sister before his eyes then, almost as an afterthought, threw him into a fire to perish.  He was maybe six years old.

He was pulled from the fire by a woman from his village and washed off in a nearby stream.  He credited this with saving his life.  Along with other survivors of the raid, this woman made her way to a UN refugee camp across the Sudanese border in Uganda, where she deposited him in a camp hospital.  Somehow, his plight caught the attention of someone who had resources and the authority to use them, and he was flown to a hospital in Dubai, then to Europe, and finally to the United States, where he had been adopted by a couple in Minnesota.

The young man continued his story.   He spoke about growing up with dreams of revenge, of rising to a place of political power that would allow him to authorize the use of nuclear weapons on the men who had murdered his family.  He would not only lay them waste, but their whole tribe, and their tribal lands.  He tried to reconcile his need with vengeance with the gospel of forgiveness that his foster family preached to them from their Lutheran faith.  Surely a just God wouldn’t look on in disapproval as he sought redress for this most horrible of crimes, would He?

Then the young man said something that I will never forget as long as I draw breath.  I have already forgotten his name, and the day I heard his testimony in my wife’s church, but I will not forget what he said.  “The Muslim raiders, they burnt me on the outside, but I was burning myself on the inside.  They scarred my face, but I was scarring my heart.  I was doing their work for them.”

At that point, the young man said, Jesus came to him and told him that he must forgive those who had tossed him into the fire so many years ago.  Apparently, the Lord had revealed to him the state of the hearts of the raiders who came to his village, and he said that in that burst of understanding he was able to pity them, and pray for them.   He was seeking now to return to the Sudan, seek out the men who had killed his family, or their families, and forgive them openly.

I thought he had a very poor plan.  If these men decided to finish the job they had obviously left undone twenty-five years ago, what would possibly restrain them, and how could he forgive them then?  Nevertheless, I couldn’t help admiring the young man for wanting to commit such a radical act of forgiveness.  If what he said was true, and I have no reason to doubt him, the Lord had raised this young man to an enviable level of communion with Himself in His own suffering, but not one I was anxious to share.  If the Lord had prayed for His tormentors “Forgive them Father, because they don’t know what they are doing”, then this young man took it to another level, “Father, forgive them although because they know exactly what they are doing, yet they do it gladly”.

I believe that it is a sign of the mediocrity of my spirit that I am not consciously aware of the need to forgive anybody, yet somehow I am seething with a very low level of anger almost constantly.  I was gobsmacked by the young man’s confession of his desire to go nuclear on his enemies, because that had been a perennial component of my daydreams as well.  I could even have advised him as to how to go about it.   Depending on something I have never been able to pin down, I have been at various times in my Walter Mitty-like reveries a fervent commissar in pursuit of kulaks, a Dominican sniffing out Cathars, a Covenanter sergeant cleansing with holy fire every foul root of idolatry and prelature.  I’m certain you have read pastor Martin Niemöller’s eloquent poem:

First they came for the communists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a communist.

Then they came for the socialists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me.

Maybe I am off-base here, and attempting to force the good pastor to address something he never intended to address, but what do you do about the multitudes of people whose most fervent desire is to be one of them, one of clean-up squad who come for everybody else? Did you ever feel that desire, pastor Niemöller?  If you did, how did you get rid of it?  Is there ever anyone who wants to speak for them?  How did you place a desire like that under the heel of Christ?  Who did you have to forgive?  How did you manage to identify them?  Do you stop listening to Fox News and switch on NPR, or vice versa?  Was it as easy as that?

Sometimes I think it is an easier thing to forgive a harm done to myself than a harm done to someone I love.  My wife often quarrels with women in her church.  She seems to be a very polarizing figure, especially for women.  Many women (and men) in her church love her, but others cannot abide her presence.  To be honest, I don’t much care for the women who don’t like my wife either, and not entirely because they don’t like my wife.   I can tell almost from the beginning that if my wife is serving on a ministry or is attending a Bible study with a particular someone that it is not going to end well.

So she quarrels with these women, and at times she is deeply hurt.  Rumors are spread about her that are just plain wrong, and often even people I respect and admire fall into them.  My wife struggles to forgive these women, and then attempts to move on.  I wonder what I am supposed to do.  I can always hide in my Greek church (which my wife doesn’t attend because, as you guessed, she has quarreled with some women there and she isn’t that interested in Orthodoxy anyway), but I want to attend my wife’s church with her.  It is usually profitable and it makes her very happy.  Invariably, I catch some woman or another giving my wife the stink-eye.  It grinds me up, and then Hulk wants to smash.

What am I supposed to do?  By the outdated code I cling to and live by, I should speak to the woman’s husband and set up a time for the four of us to speak, but my wife shushes me, telling me it won’t do any good.   Ordinarily, if you tell people you forgive them when they are convinced that they are in the right and that you should be asking their forgiveness, it does more harm than good.  So I bluster along resenting and being resented, adding another layer of redirection to the carapace of my soul, as the sands of my life run through towards that final terrible reckoning.


darktower_1After more than five years, with more interruptions than I care to mention, I have finally followed Roland Deschaine of Gilead into the room at the top of the Dark Tower.  I have to admit that I was surprised at how moved I was when he paused at the entrance and recited the names of all of his friends and ka-mates.  It’s odd.  Stephen King was never a favorite author of mine.   Of all the many books he’s written, the only other one I’ve ever read was 11-22-63, his romance about the man who went back in time to stop the assassination of President Kennedy.  I didn’t care for it.  The only other book of his I want to read is The Stand.   People who have read a lot of Mr. King’s books say it is his best, but after slogging through 4250 pages in eight volumes (I read Wind Through The Keyhole chronologically, between Wizard And Glass and Wolves Of The Calla), I am a bit reluctant to give Mr. King another 1100 pages of my attention.  Interestingly, the reviewer who listed The Stand as King’s best book rated the seven canonical Dark Tower volumes roughly as I would have ranked them, so I have reason to trust his judgement.

Roland’s story is a compelling one.  Like The Lord Of The Rings, which is just about the only other work I have read to which I can compare it, The Dark Tower series is both interminable and strangely, over far too soon.   Both of these works create a desire to explore more fully the world the author has created; to know more about its inhabitants, its history, and its geography.   Mr. King includes no maps.  There are no sprawling appendices such as Prof. Tolkien included in The Lord Of The Rings to give you the backstory of Mid-World.  Another characteristic that Mid-World shares with Middle-Earth is that it seems strangely depopulated.  Either that, or the protagonists of both works spent the majority of their time in the parts of their imaginary worlds where the people didn’t live.   This seems to be a common flaw with fantasy.  Narnia was claustrophobic as well, having only three “countries” that really counted.   Earthsea was a collection of islands with, I assume, nothing much larger than fishing villages to house its inhabitants.

The Dark Tower series took Stephen King almost 35 years to write, and it shows.   The biggest divide is between Wizard And Glass, which was published in 1997, and The Wolves Of The Calla, which was published in 2003.  In the intervening years, Stephen King was almost killed in a near-fatal auto accident, and it shows up in the writing.  King himself seems to have felt some pressure to complete the series after his accident.  The last three books, despite their more than 2000 pages, have a rushed feeling that is missing from the parts of the series that he wrote prior to the accident.  By the time he published his Mid-World “inter-quel”, Mr. King had found his rhythm again.  Certainly, even though there are weak parts in the first four books and excellent parts in the last three, I found I preferred the first four to the latter three.

My favorite five scenes from the Dark Tower series were;

1)   Roland and his companions in Meijis – I haven’t read enough King to know how much material he recycled from other his other books in order to tell the tragic tale of young Roland Deschaine and the tragic Susan Delgado, but I suspect it was a lot.  I detected some of The Children Of The Corn, at least.  Nevertheless, as far as raw storytelling is measured, King never approached this level again for the whole 4,000-plus pages of the series.  Even the characters seemed fully-fleshed, and I warmed to Alain Johns and Cuthbert Allgood in a way that I never did to wisecracking Eddie Dean.  The bad guys Eldred Jonas and Roy Depape are more richly drawn than either the Crimson King or Mordred, and even minor characters like Cordelia Delgado and Hart Thorin are alive with life.  Rhea of the Cöos is beyond creepy, and one of the better villains I’ve encountered in any fiction.  Other reviewers gush about the love affair between Susan Delgado and Roland Deschaine, but I found it kind of off-putting.  I know Roland is supposed to be knowing beyond his years, but a 14 year old boy in love with a 16 year old girl does not act the way Roland acts here.

2.  The Drawing Of Eddie Dean – I don’t know if I’m the only one, but I kinda liked Eddie better as a junkie than as the wise-cracking comic-relief he became by the end of the series.  The story of how Roland ended up behind his eyes and managed to extricate him from his tangled web of obligation and addiction in 1980s New York was absorbing.  It was a shame that Eddie very seldom was allowed to rise to the nobility of character he displayed during the gunfight in Balazar’s gin joint.   His “trail marriage” to Susannah was often distracting as well, but in his coming and going, I have to admit that I came to love Eddie Dean.

3. The Massacre At Tull – It has been a long time since I read The Gunslinger, the first volume of the Dark Tower series,   Roland’s methodical massacre of all the inhabitants of Tull, including the idiot child Soobie and his paramour Allie, opened my eyes to just how hard-bitten the series could get at a moment’s notice.   It also presaged just who Roland would sacrifice in order to attain the Tower.   There was a high body count in the Dark Tower series , but this action set the stage for all of the rest.

4. The Manni In the Cave Of The Winds – I enjoyed Wolves Of The Calla far more than I thought I would.  After having Roland and the gang meander around blank open country for more than four volumes, actually, since River Crossing, or maybe even Tull, it was good to get back to settled lands and farmsteads.  Pere Callahan’s negligent Catholic mission made a good counterpoint to the Manni, who i thought were one of King’s better inventions in the series.   It seems kind of a shame that he used them basically as a key to open the door between worlds.  They would have benefited from greater exposition.  

5. Jake and Pere Callahan in the Dixie Pig – I really warmed to Pere Callahan and was sorry to see him depart so early in the seventh book, but boy! did he go out with a flair.  I hadn’t read Salem’s Lot, so I only knew as much of the Pere’s backstory as King revealed in Wolves Of the Calla and Susannah’s Song.  There were a lot of nice touches in the Dixie Pig segment; the Mid-World kitchen boy serving under the taheen cook,  Jake switching bodies with Oy to get past the guardians in the passage to Fedic.  There were also some typical King gross-outs as well, but hey, I could almost smell the meat roasting on the spit behind the curtain.  I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, though.

My five least favorite parts were 1) the lobstrosities – i was so glad when the story moved passed them.  2) the Emerald City sequence with Martin Broadcloak/Randall Flagg. 3) the demon sex that brought Jake into Mid-World, although the bifurcation of Jake and Roland was handled very well.  4) Susannah/Mia “dining” in the swamp.  I nearly lost lunch.  5) basically everything that took place from the Castle of the Crimson King until Roland reached the Tower.  The Dandelo/Patrick Danville episode was pretty anticlimactic after the chiaroscuro of Algul Siento, and the removal of the Crimson King was very cheesy.  I suspect King just wanted to finish by this time.

Something has to be said about how American the Dark Tower series is.  Any American mythopoesis is going to have a lot of the Western in it, because the Western, with the free man remaking himself on the Frontier, is our great myth.  Stephen King took it and ran it out farther than I would have thought possible.  Maybe this isn;t, yet, the Great American Novel,  but it is without any doubt the Great American Fantasy series.  I’m glad I went on this journey.  Thou hast spoken well, may it do ya, gunslinger.  Long days and pleasant nights to you.

Thankee sai, Mr. King

This was originally posted on the old website of the OCA congregation Saint John The Wonderworker in Atlanta, Georgia.  When I returned to their website looking for it, it had disappeared.  St. John’s has been under a lot of pressure recently, having lost their beloved founding pastor this January.  Recently, one of the most prominent lay leaders in that congregation has also been called home.  May the memories of Father Jacob Meyers and John Aldrich be eternal and ever-fresh.  That congregation, though, has not wavered in its dedication to the threatened and harassed poor of Atlanta.  They are actually serving more poor now than they were while Fr. Jacob was with them.  I believe this following piece was written by Fr. Jacob.  It certainly breathes of his spirit.  I wanted to rescue it from the Web Archive before it rotates completely away.

Without the poor we have no hope of heaven.

In the Gospel of Matthew Jesus describes the last judgment when each persons work will be tried by fire. Those that when seeing the poor refused to open their hearts and purses when sent to the left side and dismissed from the presence of God with the words “as you did it not to the least of these you did it not to me.”

Without the poor we have no quick way to lay up treasures in heaven.

He who gives to the poor lends to God. When we put our treasures into the hands of the poor we transfer our goods to heaven. All the gifts given to the poor or those who beg on their behalf are accounted as credit in heaven and since no thieves or moths or rust can diminish the treasure, it is truly secure awaiting our arrival in the Kingdom of Heaven.

Without the poor after we “sell all” that we have, who will we give it to.

Jesus tell the rich young ruler to sell all he has and give to the poor. The Saints from the beginning in preparation for a life in Christ sell all they have or else entrust the distribution of their wealth to a servant as a gift to the poor. Countless Saints and righteous people have taken this step as the first of a life dedicated to God.

Without the poor there is no way to give directly to Christ.

As you have done it to the least of these, you have done it unto me. The hands of the poor are the hands of Christ just as the Church is the body of Christ.

Without the poor we hopelessly deluded by materialism.

The poor by their lives show the rich that God is the source. The poor show the rich that it is possible to live simple uncluttered lives. The poor show the rich that lives without abundance of this worlds good is possible. Our possessions eventually possess us and grow to rule our lives.

Without the poor we have no vision of a simple lifestyle.

As the accumulation of things invades our lives, we forget that real life is found in Christ. The poor give us a view of how little we need to life a calm and peaceful life in godliness and dignity.

Without the poor we cannot learn to be content with what we have.

The household of faith, living true humility, demonstrates being content is key to a true satisfaction. God knows what we really need to live, to ask for more than God provides presumes that God is unaware of our needs or what is best for us.

Without the poor we cannot lend to God.

He who give to the poor lends to God. Saint Nectarios as well as other saints have demonstrated that God repays many times over that money we lend to him by giving to the poor. Saint Nectarios observed many times a hundred fold return on his loans. And further God supplied to Saint Nectarios the money just at the right time in the amount needed.

Without the poor we have no people to thank God for us.

Just as the rich have a responsibility to provide for the poor. The poor have a responsibility to thank God for the rich who provide for their needs. The poor by our continual gifts make mention of us every day.

Without the poor can not learn to be generous.

Only by giving can we learn to be generous and merciful. When we take those first step of generosity we are fearful but we soon learn the joy that comes from giving. Truly Acts 20:35 rightly says “it is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Without the poor we cannot receive from God as we have given.

As you give so it will be given to you pressed down and shaken together. But the first step in giving is find people who can receive our gifts or finding some to deliver out in abstaining from food (that is the beginning) but exercising mercy so we can receive mercy. Consider making the Winter Lent a time to begin to follow the example of Saint Nicholas in giving to the poor.

Without the poor our riches become chains that fasten us to this life and condemn us to poverty hereafter.

The Rich man had everything in this life and Lazarus lacked all things but in the life hereafter the rich man, because he forgot the poor, lives as Lazarus in the life hereafter wishing every for a drop of water.

Without the poor moth, rust and thieves ruin all that we count dear to us.

Where our treasure is there is our heart.  If we neglect the poor all that we lay up as treasure will be just a bunch of rot. The Poor do not need our help. We need to help the poor. The poor have God as their Father and GOD supplies all that they need. If you do not cease your thefts from the poor God will provide for them some other way.


The Dragonbone Chair by Tad Williams