There's something deeply reassuring about the gentle rhythms of the liturgical cycle. Singing the Te Deum on New Year's Eve and the Veni Creator Spiritus on New Years's Day is a reminder that no matter what changes or challenges the past year has brought, or the coming year will bring, we will, Deo volente, once again offer praise and thanksgiving when this infant year draws to a close..
The blog has been quiet for a while: there have been many changes in my (and my family's) life and the orchard I once gazed over from my kitchen window has been replaced by a seascape of muted greys and blues. Our new home is full of packing crates crammed with our worldly possessions and it will take some time for these to be organised... In the meantime I intend to resume blogging but have one small query: my nom-de-plume was the common name of a large apple tree in my former garden. Shall I change it, or shall I remain an apple tree at the seaside?
In the meantime, here's a jolly singalong to practice for next year:
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Friday, 2 January 2015
Sunday, 23 March 2014
Saturday, 25 January 2014
Vandalising the Rosary
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| Photo credit: Vintagethisretrothat on Flickr |
Apparently it wasn't just the Mass of Ages that the vandal Bugnini intended to demolish in the name of ecumenism and "noble simplicity" (a.k.a.Brutalism): the most Holy Rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary was also in his crosshairs. A fascinating article on Venermur cernui (a new-to-me blog from Dallas, Tx., well worth a rummage through) describes what can only be called Bugnini's evil masterplan to destroy reform the Rosary including only allowing one "Our Father" per five decades and removing everything after the word "womb" in the Hail Mary. This is all detailed in Bugnini's Reform of the Liturgy which I haven't read but am now sorely tempted to - if only to raise my (usually too low) blood pressure! The whole article is worth a read, you can read it here.
My first thought after reading this was about the children at Fatima. As I remember, one of the very first actions of Our Lady in her apparitions was to teach the three children to say the Rosary properly: until then they had rushed through it, simply saying the first words of each prayer: "Our Father, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Hail Mary, Glory Be..." etc..
...and if Our Blessed Mother thinks that saying the Rosary properly is both important and necessary, then who are we to argue?
That the Rosary is recognised as a particularly efficacious prayer against evil makes any attempted sidelining or attempted vandalism even more sinister. I'm thinking specifically of its use as a tool in prayer campaigns outside abortuaries against the slaughter of innocents and towards the conversion of the hearts of those involved in the grisly business of abortion.
Being a post Vatican II baby, I ran a reasonably high chance of never encountering the Rosary. It wasn't until I was an adult that met anybody who prayed it, apart from my grandparents; sadly I never saw them praying although I am positive that their prayers for me are in large part responsible for my return to the Faith in my late 20s. For that I remain ever-grateful.
As a child in the 1970s, I remember my grandmother had sending me Rosary beads. I asked my parents what they were for. "Oh it's a lot of Hail Mary's and you're supposed to think about other things as well" was the gist of the answer. The message was clear: it's long and boring and we're not going to do it. I loved my Rosary beads though and tried to make up what I thought the Rosary might be, although rather unsuccessfully.
About 10 years ago, having been back in the arms of Mother Church for some time, I decided I to find out more about the Rosary. At first I only said one decade, at night, usually as I nursed a baby to sleep in bed. At the time a decade -- a whole decade! -- seemed like a lot. Sometimes I would even fall asleep before I finished. It took some time for me to remember the different decades of the different mysteries, and I read various books, various approaches. In time, and as the children were a little older, I suggested to my husband that we pray a decade together as a family before bedtime at night. It was awkward and a bit clumsy the first few times, but we could feel the graces flowing and soon it was a habit that we wouldn't dream of breaking for any reason. Around the time of the Papal Visit we decided to graduate from our nightly decade a whole Rosary including the Creed and the prayers for the Pope and we built our family night prayers around this. My husband leads our prayers, but we each take turns to lead a decade of the Rosary, with parents helping the youngest children. This has been a great blessing for our family -- a time of calm contemplation before bed. When we have Catholic guests, we share our night prayers with other families. Reading through the description of Bugnini's proposed truncated version of the Rosary, I wonder whether, had his vandalism been accomplished, I would have had a chance to know Our Lady's Rosary, let alone witness the great graces that flow from it to my family, to all who pray it, and to the whole world. If you haven't tried praying a regular Rosary - do. It will, literally, change your life.
Our Lady of the Rosary, Ora pro nobis,
Friday, 30 August 2013
Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Please join me in praying for the repose of the soul of Seamus Heaney. I spent much of my pre-children life studying 20th C Irish writing and his work was central to my PhD research. I was fortunate to have met him on numerous occasions, some formal, others less so. I will fondly remember drinking Guinness with him in a small dark Belfast pub after an impromptu reading he gave to a small group of post-graduate students. He was not an overtly religious man, and had expressed an uneasy agnosticism over the years, but his poetry often articulated an innate sense of the divine in our lives and the nuances of the Catholicism that was indelibly imprinted upon the Ireland of his youth. He came from a humble family, the eldest of 9 children but despite being a famous poet by the time I met him in the early 1990s he was modest in his demeanour and generous with his time: truly one of nature's gentlemen. I pray that he will experience the joy of the beatific vision before long.
Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace. Amen
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Biretta
Like Gaul, the biretta was divided
Into three parts: triple-finned black serge,
A shipshape pillbox, its every slope and edge
Trimly articulated and decided.
Its insides were crimped satin; it was heavy too
But sported a light flossy tassel
That the backs of my fingers remember well,
And it left a dark red line on the priest's brow.
I received it into my hand from the hand
Of whoever was celebrant, one thin
Fastidious movement up and out and in
In the name of the Father and of the Son AND
Of the Holy Ghost... I placed it on the steps
Where it seemed to batten down, even half-resist
All the brisk proceedings of the Mass -
The chalice drunk off and the patted lips.
The first time I saw one, I heard a shout
As an El Greco ascetic rose before me
Preaching hellfire, Saurian and stormy,
Adze-head on the rampage in the pulpit.
Sanctuaries. Marble. Kneeling boards. Vocation.
Some made it looked squashed, some clean and tall.
It was as antique as armour in a hall
And put the wind up me and my generation.
Now I turn it upside down and it is a boat -
A paper boat, or the one that wafts into
The first lines of the Purgatorio
As poetry lifts its eyes and clears its throat.
Or maybe that small boat out of the bronze age
Where the oars are needles and the worked gold frail
As the intact half of a hatched-out shell,
Refined beyond the dross into sheer image.
But in the end it's as likely to be the one
In Matthew Lawless's painting, The Sick Call,
Where the scene is out on a river and it's all
Solid, pathetic and Irish Victorian.
In which case, however, his reverence wears a hat.
Undaunting, half domestic, loved in crises,
He sits listening as each long oar dips and rises,
Sad for his worthy life and fit for it.
Seamus Heaney (13 April 1939 - 30 August 2013)
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| Matthew Lawless, "The Sick Call", National Gallery of Ireland |
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mid-Term Break
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
Seamus Heaney (13 April 1939 - 30 August 2013)
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Little Acts of Kindness
It's funny how a small thoughtful gesture can brighten the most banal day. Last week I accidentally left my house-keys behind at the home of a lovely family whose parents also happen to be my youngest son's God-parents. We had been celebrating St George's Day (somewhat belatedly, as it was Tuesday) and had been tucking into the remains of the giant dragon cake with the help of all our children. When there's cake about, it's easy to forget about things like house keys...
My husband popped by to collect my keys yesterday and discovered a small addition: a beautiful leather cross had been added to the keyring. The father of the family is a master shoemaker and, I assume, had cut the cross from an offcut of leather.
I've smiled every time I've used my keys today, and it's been a salutory reminder that small and simple acts can be a real gift to their recipients.
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Honoured guests
One of the great joys of blogging is seeing where readers come from: in addition to the Blogger stats page I also use the free version of Site Meter which gives much more detailed location information about visitors. I love it when I see a reader from a small town that I know well in France or Canada or Ireland, and equally am fascinated to think of somebody up in the Scottish highlands or Texas or Indonesia reading my words.
This evening, however, I had the location to trump all locations: a reader from the Holy See. I'm sure that my favourite priestly bloggers have entire delegations of internet visitors from Vatican City, and that more serious and longstanding bloggers can get a bit blasé about this sort of thing, but for me the novelty of somebody within a few hundred meters of the Holy Father reading my blog is seriously cool. So I'll drop any pretence of being cool myself (cool is way overrated) and say "Salve visitor from Vatican City and welcome! I hope you found something worth reading and please do come back: it would make my day!"
| Domain Name | vatican.va ? (Holy See (Vatican City State)) | |||||||||||||
| IP Address | 212.77.0.# (Holy See - Vatican City State) | |||||||||||||
| ISP | Holy See - Vatican City State | |||||||||||||
| Location |
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| Language | Italian it | |||||||||||||
| Operating System | Microsoft WinNT | |||||||||||||
| Browser | Internet Explorer 9.0 Mozilla/5.0 (compatible; MSIE 9.0; Windows NT 6.1; Trident/5.0) | |||||||||||||
| Javascript | version 1.3 | |||||||||||||
| Monitor |
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| Time of Visit | Apr 3 2013 6:00:11 pm | |||||||||||||
Sunday, 6 January 2013
What my car's contents say about me...
Having one's car (or, in my case, van) stolen is a strange thing psychologically: often when I'm out and about now I think I spot our stolen van. I've actually stalked a couple of vans after initially thinking that they could be ours. That way madness lies, and I've accepted that ours has probably either been [a] broken down and sold for parts, or [b] shipped off to Africa or Asia, or [c] living a new life with false plates as a taxi somewhere several hundred miles away. The police seem think that any of these is equally plausible.
The admin after an event like this is a major hassle: particularly dealing with insurance companies. I've had to try to remember every item that was in our van in order for the insurance company to value the contents. Thanks burglars: it's not like I have anything better to do with my time. Given that I have four children, and very often have several other people's children along for the ride as well, our van is very fully of stuff. Add to that the fact that we home educate, so that some children are often waiting for others in the van outside music or gymnastics or tennis lessons, and you a recipe for a vehicle full of books and trinkets and toys.
They say that the contents of a woman's handbag says a lot about who she is; there's even a pseudoscience called "bagology" (no joke) that claims to accurately analyse personality based on handbag contents. My handbag is usually pretty sparce, but reading through the list of our van's contents I reckon that you could get a reasonable picture of life chez Annie-Elizabeth and family. So for no other reason than that, I've cut and pasted this list (minus boring details) which is very possibly unique in the history of insurance claims.
What does it tell you about us?
***************************************************************************
On dashboard / in dashboard compartments:-Copy of "The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis" vintage 1952 edition, intact slipcover
-Ladies' Sunglasses, tortoiseshell brown
-Silver Miraculous Medal: sterling silver on chain.
In glovebox:
multi-phone charger - fits all phones with different ends
several CTS edition biographies of English Martyrs including:
Five Mantillas : Two white ones, three black ones. These look like lacy scarves.Copy of Magnificat (December 2012)Mason-Pearson large brown natural bristle hairbrush
Britax children's booster seat
Under passenger seat (there's a "hidden compartment" inside the seat: Two sets of jump leads 1 x large format spiral map of Greater ManchesterA-Z large format spiral Kent Street AtlasA-Z large format spiral London STreet Atlas
A-Z normal format London
A-Z normal format Liverpool and the Wirral
Large detailed map book of France - was either AA or Michelin European 2012 European map book - AA Fold out map of Northern Italy / AlpsAA Great Britain Road Atlas - 2012
Various miscellaneous items - pens, screen wipes, ice scrapers, etc.
Around the SECOND ROW OF SEATS:
2 x Children's Car seats of which:
1 x Maxi Cosi Rodi in Black Reflection - exactly the same
1 x Maxi cosi Priory XP in Leopard Skin print
2 x storage boxes under seats
Children's books:
Mini Boden boy's winter coat - age 3/4 kakhi green thick army style twill
Ladies winter ski jacket
On floor in front of second row of seats:
---------------------------------------Items in and around the THIRD ROW OF SEATS:
Two Maxi-Cosi Rodi car seats
2 x storage boxes
Books: on back seat and in storage boxes under side back seats:
Millets "camping survival kit" in green cylinder with lid
In the boot:
Savic dog cage: "Savic Dog Residence" - medium sized cage
2 striped picnic blankets
Two large plastic storage boxes:
Safety equipment - 2 x flourescent tabard / jackets, 1 x Triangle, etc.
<ENDS>
The admin after an event like this is a major hassle: particularly dealing with insurance companies. I've had to try to remember every item that was in our van in order for the insurance company to value the contents. Thanks burglars: it's not like I have anything better to do with my time. Given that I have four children, and very often have several other people's children along for the ride as well, our van is very fully of stuff. Add to that the fact that we home educate, so that some children are often waiting for others in the van outside music or gymnastics or tennis lessons, and you a recipe for a vehicle full of books and trinkets and toys.
 |
| Happier days: before some misreant broke into our house, stole the keys and drove off in it. |
They say that the contents of a woman's handbag says a lot about who she is; there's even a pseudoscience called "bagology" (no joke) that claims to accurately analyse personality based on handbag contents. My handbag is usually pretty sparce, but reading through the list of our van's contents I reckon that you could get a reasonable picture of life chez Annie-Elizabeth and family. So for no other reason than that, I've cut and pasted this list (minus boring details) which is very possibly unique in the history of insurance claims.
What does it tell you about us?
***************************************************************************
Car
contents: I have written these down according to the section of the
car they were in.
Front
of car:
On dashboard / in dashboard compartments:-Copy of "The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis" vintage 1952 edition, intact slipcover
-Ladies' Sunglasses, tortoiseshell brown
-Silver Miraculous Medal: sterling silver on chain.
In glovebox:
multi-phone charger - fits all phones with different ends
several CTS edition biographies of English Martyrs including:
- Edmund Campion
- John Fisher
- Thomas More
- Margaret Clitheroe
- John Southworth
Five Mantillas : Two white ones, three black ones. These look like lacy scarves.Copy of Magnificat (December 2012)Mason-Pearson large brown natural bristle hairbrush
Britax children's booster seat
Under passenger seat (there's a "hidden compartment" inside the seat: Two sets of jump leads 1 x large format spiral map of Greater ManchesterA-Z large format spiral Kent Street AtlasA-Z large format spiral London STreet Atlas
A-Z normal format London
A-Z normal format Liverpool and the Wirral
Large detailed map book of France - was either AA or Michelin European 2012 European map book - AA Fold out map of Northern Italy / AlpsAA Great Britain Road Atlas - 2012
Various miscellaneous items - pens, screen wipes, ice scrapers, etc.
Around the SECOND ROW OF SEATS:
2 x Children's Car seats of which:
1 x Maxi Cosi Rodi in Black Reflection - exactly the same
1 x Maxi cosi Priory XP in Leopard Skin print
2 x storage boxes under seats
Children's books:
- DK "Touch and Feel Kitten"
- Saint Jean Vianney Book - hard cover
- A few other younger children's books but we can't remember the titles unfortunately
Mini Boden boy's winter coat - age 3/4 kakhi green thick army style twill
Ladies winter ski jacket
On floor in front of second row of seats:
- 20kg sack of chicken food
- 15 kg Sack of Rabbit food
---------------------------------------Items in and around the THIRD ROW OF SEATS:
Two Maxi-Cosi Rodi car seats
2 x storage boxes
Books: on back seat and in storage boxes under side back seats:
- Enid Blyton: Five get into a fix (Famous Five #17)
- Enid Blyton: Five go to Demon's rocks( Famous Five #19)
- The Hobbit 70th Anniversary Edition (hardcover edition in slipcover; was Christmas present)
- The Three Musketeers early 20th C edition, red board covers.
- Jacinta of Fatima: Our Lady's Little Shepherdess (by Fernando Leite)
- Jesus Make Me Worthy - Children's Missal (white cover: First Holy Communion gift)
- Lord of the Rings - all three parts, paperback
- Just William book - not sure which one
- Saint Patrick's Summer: A Children's Adventure Catechism
- Mother Cabrini: Missionary to the World
- Mystery of the Vanished Prince (Five Finder Outers - Enid Blyton)
- "Fetch!" Magazine x 2 = Can't find a way to replace these much to my 8 year old's sorrow.
- Saint Kateri Tekawitha colouring book
- Saint Pius X colouring book
- Saint Dominic Savio colouring book
Millets "camping survival kit" in green cylinder with lid
In the boot:
Savic dog cage: "Savic Dog Residence" - medium sized cage
2 striped picnic blankets
Two large plastic storage boxes:
Safety equipment - 2 x flourescent tabard / jackets, 1 x Triangle, etc.
<ENDS>
Sunday, 30 December 2012
All quiet on the blogging front...
...not necessarily through choice over the past few weeks. We had a rather tumultuous month in November - involving illness, injury and most upsettingly our beloved Bull Terrier having to go back to her breeders forever for reasons that were neither her nor our fault. After much heartbreak the last thing we needed was a criminal drama, but that's what to got in the form of a burglary on the night of 29th November: I was at home alone with the children (Hubby was away on business) and came down in the morning to find the conservatory doors forced, the house ransacked and our van stolen. Every electronic item that worked was taken - including a 12 year old video camera containing old film of our children when they were younger. My laptop with all our family photos from the previous six months (which hadn't been backed up), and the brand shiny new iPad that I used to blog from Rome earlier in the month. I had been using it that evening to refresh the children's memory of the Alma Redemptoris Mater - I had pulled up the manuscript and we had been singing it along with sound files from a monastary and I'd been congratulating myself on being an exemplary mother ;-) Ah, pride and falls...
I can see an end to the admin - detectives, insurance companies, replacing items - and life is starting to feel as though it's back on the track labelled "as normal as it gets around here"...
...so expect the blog to get back to regular irregular posting from here on in.
Belatedly wishing my readers a happy and holy Christmastide,
AE xx
I can see an end to the admin - detectives, insurance companies, replacing items - and life is starting to feel as though it's back on the track labelled "as normal as it gets around here"...
...so expect the blog to get back to regular irregular posting from here on in.
Belatedly wishing my readers a happy and holy Christmastide,
AE xx
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Ecône
It has occurred to me a few times that if Dan Brown had wanted to make his ludicrous novels even slightly believable he would have chosen the [F]SSPX rather than Opus Dei to be his secret society. Think about it - secretive Swiss bunker hideout vs Roman office block: I know which would make a better yarn. Except the SSPX doesn't have a bunker (as far as I know, anyway!), but when have the facts ever stopped a sensationalist novelist?
I've harboured an unhealthy interest in the doings of the SSPX for nearly a decade - I have no truck with the schismatic fringe: if anything I've studiously avoided direct contact with groups outside the authority of the Church because I'm aware that a propensity to rebellion is one of my weaknesses and I can see how, in the words of Ecclesia Dei "while it is true that the participation in the Mass and sacraments at the chapels of the Society of St. Pius X does not of itself constitute "formal adherence to the schism", such adherence can come about over a period of time as one slowly imbibes a mentality which separates itself from the magisterium of the Supreme Pontiff". As a revert to Catholicism, deeply desiring to protect that most precious gift of faith with which I've been entrusted, that's not a path that I want to start travelling.
On the other hand, I've seen some of the greatest treasures of Catholic clergy coming either directly or indirectly from an SSPX milieu, albeit having made the move to full communion with Holy Mother Church and submitted to the authority of the Holy Father. I think this is the key for me - submission to authority. And yet, one could argue that without fuel provided by the SSPX, the brick-by-brick renewal-of-the-renewal ( (C)Fr Z) would not be happening. I think of the wonderful FSSP parishes here in the UK as well as those we visit when abroad, and most particularly I think of that powerhouse of prayer on Papa Stronsay - the Golgotha Monastery of the F.SS.R., formerly the Transalpine Redemptorists who have just this week been given full canonical status, bringing to a close the whole process of reconciliation with, and canonical establishment in the Catholic Church. Deo gratias!
As it happened we found ourselves driving past Ecône as we left Switzerland for Italy a couple of weeks ago. I say "driving past" - we were actually on a motorway that passed the place on the map that had "Ecône" on it and I asked my husband who was driving if we could take the exit that was most likely the closest. Now I've always imagined the SSPX seminary to be a series of old buildings huddled on the edge of a small Swiss mountain town, probably with a baroque church completing the ensemble. I imagined priests in birettas and seminarians in soutanes swarming to and fro in the town beneath the bemused gaze of stout Swiss burghers. I was expecting something hushed and holy and ancient that had T-R-A-D-I-T-I-O-N written all over it.
My first surprise was that the town of Ecône does not exist. Nor does the village of Ecône. In fact the reason that the place was so difficult to find (if one was to rely on roadsigns as we did) is because Ecône does not really exist. There is a place called Ecône - it's what the French would call a "lieu-dit" or "place called" rather than a place in and of itself. Ecône is simply the SSPX seminary (which was given to the SSPX by a group of wealthy Swiss laymen in 1970 and opened in 1971) and a small power station. And that's it. Nothing else. Electricity pylons, a church , a few buildings (cloister, dormitories, offices) and an empty car park. The view is spectacular - although marred by massive pylons: as I stood there I kept thinking that there was a message in that view, but it would take someone with more poetic insight than me to unpick it.
It was quiet. We parked the van and I walked into the seminary quad. I didn't see a soul. I could hear voices and - incongruously - laughter from an open window. I photographed the statue of Saint Pius X and wandered over to the chapel. Reading the bulletin board outside I was struck by a notice (top left in the photo below) which read:
I liked the fact that the Society referred to something outside themselves as a reference point: I thought the notice showed a combination of humility and humour. Why doesn't every Catholic church have a sign like this?
Inside was a surprise: in the narthex were two round racks with a selection of coloured scarves - silks, voile, cottons - hanging neatly on round hangers. It felt a bit like one of those miniature branches of Tie Rack that one finds in train stations. No excuse for an uncovered head or shoulders then; and not a boring black mantilla in sight. The congregation must be a joyful rainbow of colour.
The inside of the church is (as I remarked in the "guess where this is?" post) surprisingly minimalist whilst being completely traditional. The ceiling timbers are particularly striking: they are intended as a tribute to St Joseph, spouse of Our Lady to whom the chapel is dedicated.
It wasn't the intense, baroque space that I had imagined, but rather a calm and peaceful place saturated with serenity. I knelt and prayed that the SSPX might be fully reunited with the One True Church in obedience to Christ's Vicar on earth and that the ongoing negotiations bear fruit.
Leaving the church I walked back to our van and, after admiring the views one last time, we drove back to the motorway to continue our journey. I hadn't seen a soul the whole time we'd been at Ecône; the whole thing felt rather like a dream.
 |
| The International Seminary of Saint Pius X and Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary - Ecône |
I've harboured an unhealthy interest in the doings of the SSPX for nearly a decade - I have no truck with the schismatic fringe: if anything I've studiously avoided direct contact with groups outside the authority of the Church because I'm aware that a propensity to rebellion is one of my weaknesses and I can see how, in the words of Ecclesia Dei "while it is true that the participation in the Mass and sacraments at the chapels of the Society of St. Pius X does not of itself constitute "formal adherence to the schism", such adherence can come about over a period of time as one slowly imbibes a mentality which separates itself from the magisterium of the Supreme Pontiff". As a revert to Catholicism, deeply desiring to protect that most precious gift of faith with which I've been entrusted, that's not a path that I want to start travelling.
On the other hand, I've seen some of the greatest treasures of Catholic clergy coming either directly or indirectly from an SSPX milieu, albeit having made the move to full communion with Holy Mother Church and submitted to the authority of the Holy Father. I think this is the key for me - submission to authority. And yet, one could argue that without fuel provided by the SSPX, the brick-by-brick renewal-of-the-renewal ( (C)Fr Z) would not be happening. I think of the wonderful FSSP parishes here in the UK as well as those we visit when abroad, and most particularly I think of that powerhouse of prayer on Papa Stronsay - the Golgotha Monastery of the F.SS.R., formerly the Transalpine Redemptorists who have just this week been given full canonical status, bringing to a close the whole process of reconciliation with, and canonical establishment in the Catholic Church. Deo gratias!
View of the SSPX seminary, Ecône
My first surprise was that the town of Ecône does not exist. Nor does the village of Ecône. In fact the reason that the place was so difficult to find (if one was to rely on roadsigns as we did) is because Ecône does not really exist. There is a place called Ecône - it's what the French would call a "lieu-dit" or "place called" rather than a place in and of itself. Ecône is simply the SSPX seminary (which was given to the SSPX by a group of wealthy Swiss laymen in 1970 and opened in 1971) and a small power station. And that's it. Nothing else. Electricity pylons, a church , a few buildings (cloister, dormitories, offices) and an empty car park. The view is spectacular - although marred by massive pylons: as I stood there I kept thinking that there was a message in that view, but it would take someone with more poetic insight than me to unpick it.
 |
| Statue of St Pius X, SSPX Seminary, Ecône |
It was quiet. We parked the van and I walked into the seminary quad. I didn't see a soul. I could hear voices and - incongruously - laughter from an open window. I photographed the statue of Saint Pius X and wandered over to the chapel. Reading the bulletin board outside I was struck by a notice (top left in the photo below) which read:
Appropriate attire is required (trousers for men
Skirts correct length and covered shoulders for women). the
personnel is entitled to refuse entry to visitors not respecting
this rule (Michelin Green Guide, early XXI century)
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| Noticeboard outside Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary - Ecône |
I liked the fact that the Society referred to something outside themselves as a reference point: I thought the notice showed a combination of humility and humour. Why doesn't every Catholic church have a sign like this?
Inside was a surprise: in the narthex were two round racks with a selection of coloured scarves - silks, voile, cottons - hanging neatly on round hangers. It felt a bit like one of those miniature branches of Tie Rack that one finds in train stations. No excuse for an uncovered head or shoulders then; and not a boring black mantilla in sight. The congregation must be a joyful rainbow of colour.
The inside of the church is (as I remarked in the "guess where this is?" post) surprisingly minimalist whilst being completely traditional. The ceiling timbers are particularly striking: they are intended as a tribute to St Joseph, spouse of Our Lady to whom the chapel is dedicated.
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| Views from the front doors of the Chapel of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Ecône |
Leaving the church I walked back to our van and, after admiring the views one last time, we drove back to the motorway to continue our journey. I hadn't seen a soul the whole time we'd been at Ecône; the whole thing felt rather like a dream.
Saturday, 24 December 2011
ET VERBUM CARO FACTUM EST
... et habitavit in nobis et vidimus gloriam ejus, gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis
May God grant you all a happy, holy and peaceful Christmas.
I will remember all my readers (all five of you ;-) ) at Midnight Mass (solemn High Mass) tonight. (Thanks to automatic publishing I'll be singing carols when this goes live)...
God bless, Annie Elizabeth & family xxx
May God grant you all a happy, holy and peaceful Christmas.
I will remember all my readers (all five of you ;-) ) at Midnight Mass (solemn High Mass) tonight. (Thanks to automatic publishing I'll be singing carols when this goes live)...
God bless, Annie Elizabeth & family xxx
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Prayer to St. Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings
O Raphael, lead us towards those we are waiting for, those who are waiting for us!
Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead us by the hand towards those we are looking for!
May all our movements, all their movements, be guided by your Light
and transfigured by your Joy.
Angel Guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you
at the feet of Him on whose unveiled Face you are privileged to gaze.
Lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of earth,
we feel the need of calling to you and of pleading for the protection of your wings,
so that we may not be as strangers in the Province of Joy,
all ignorant of the concerns of our country.
Remember the weak, you who are strong--you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder,
in a land that is always peaceful, always serene,
and bright with the resplendent glory of God.
Amen.
Baby Raphael, gone back to God after 10 weeks in my womb,
pray for us your family who love you so very much, until we meet again,
under the gaze of our loving Father in heaven.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Rosary
Yesterday we said goodbye to a young Romanian woman who has been living with us for the last four and a half months. She's not Catholic - she's Romanian Orthodox, but (like most young people she knows) very lapsed. Initially she came to Mass with us because we asked her to, but she soon began coming because she wanted to, although not every week. She made Mary's crown for our Parish's Crowning of Mary, and immersed herself in prayer during our EF parish masses. She's also often joined in enthusiastically with our family prayers.
As we said our last goodbyes, I gave her a rosary, a miraculous medal and one of the ACN rosary leaflets. She welled up with tears at the rosary and said that she'd always wanted one, but didn't know where to get one. I think she's going to use it. She said that she's going to try to find a Catholic Church when she gets home.
Please join me in praying that she does.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Countercultural family life
Picture credit: A Catholic Notebook
When I was growing up there was a lot of talk about exams and achievements that were expected, and later on stuff about careers but nothing at all about vocation. No sense that I needed God in order to make sense of what I should be doing with my life. It's probably not surprising that I made a bit of a hash of things: Oh I got the academic laurels and had the glittering career all right, but I squandered more than a decade of my life living a life that was fairly spiritually empty, never sure what I should be doing, constantly trying to fill a God shaped hole, and looking in all the wrong places. I can only say that it's thanks to the workings of the Holy Spirit that I didn't continue barreling down the wrong path.
Clearly the Holy Spirit works in ways that we can not even begin to understand. A very holy priest friend of ours came from an unlikely background: one parent a lapsed Catholic, the other an atheist. The children brought up without even a cursory reference to God. Siblings all went into the hard sciences and are not believers, but the eldest became a priest. How? Briefly - a blinding flash of a conversion in his late teens, followed by a baptism and the sacraments. The atheist father said he'd accept his son becoming a Catholic "as long as you don't become a priest". Not many years later, the son entered the seminary and the rest is, as they say, history.
But this is really the exception to the rule. It's difficult to underestimate the importance of Catholic families who encourage their children to think about their vocation from an early age, so that those children can take on board the idea that God has a plan for each of us, and that our role in life is to try to discern what He wants us to do, and how He wants us to use the talents that we have been given. This applies to the married vocation as much as religious vocations. Thinking about the idea of "vocation" at all is, I think, a very Catholic thing; the idea that we need to discern what God wants us to do with our lives.
One common problem is that many people in their late teens and early twenties tend to take themselves very seriously (it goes with the territory, it's a phase), and if they haven't had a serious spiritual grounding, been given a good sense of perspective, can lose their way very easily in the mire of post-adolescent egotism and cargo-cult spirituality. If, on the other hand, we've understood from a young age that we have a role in God's plan, that we have God-given gifts, talents and skill that we need to use to their best potential in order to fulfill God's work, then we are handed a lifeline during the post-adolescent years.
So the family is crucial is vital in providing a perspective that counters that of Society, but the message needs to be imbibed at the breast so to speak, not introduced in adolescence. A child who knows from the time he can lisp his first prayers that God made him to know him, love him and serve him in this life and to be happy with him forever in the next will not find it incongruous at the age of seven or eight to start considering what God's plan for him might be. This groundwork means that the "conversation" is already open by the time that adolescence beckons.
Monday, 8 August 2011
Where are all the Catholic Philanthropists?
Just askin'.
I don't mean the grand-gesture industrial magnates who throw a cool million or two towards a papal visit or a new school. These guys are useful, helpful, and obviously every little penny helps, but the "grand gesture" philanthropists aren't -- or at least shouldn't be - the bread-and-butter of giving to the Church.
When WW2 broke out and Belfast was being hammered by the Luftwaffe, my grandfather, a self-made man, gave away all but one of his collection of six or seven cars to local priests to enable them to visit the sick, injured and dying. Today this seems like a grand gesture, but I don't think that my grandfather saw it as such. He just did what was needed. He gave without counting the cost as an old Parish Priest of ours was fond of saying. Anyone in his position would have done the same, and it was never mentioned in his lifetime; he would have been mortified. He simply did what he could to help, as did many, many other people. For people of that generation it was taken for granted that helping to the best of your abilities or resources is what you did.
In a similar vein - unremarkable then, remarkable now: our former parish church, like many, was paid for entirely by the local population. It was built in the early 20th C, but had extensive additions later on, also paid for by the local population. People saved and gave. I remember reading the history of the parish and wondering whether it would be possible, less than a hundred years later, to have the same thing happen if the church needed to be replaced for some reason. I doubt it, not because local people aren't devoted to their parish, nor because the parish lacks a stable congregation (it doesn't, it's a thriving and much more affluent parish than it would have been a century ago). People's priorities are different now. There's an assumption that somebody else pays. That "somebody" might be a corporate body, or "the Church" (clearly removing ourselves from the equation), or the government, or one of the super-rich, but I don't think that the layperson in the pews sees himself as a philanthropic giver in the way that people used, a few short generations ago.
Reading Fr. Finigan's post about Sacred Heart Church in Limerick and thinking about the money needed for the new ICKSP apostolate in New Birghton Wirral made me wonder about the "whos" and "hows" of funding such projects.
It's entirely up to us: me and you. If we don't take responsibility for the things that matter, then who will? The time is now to give and not count the cost.
I don't mean the grand-gesture industrial magnates who throw a cool million or two towards a papal visit or a new school. These guys are useful, helpful, and obviously every little penny helps, but the "grand gesture" philanthropists aren't -- or at least shouldn't be - the bread-and-butter of giving to the Church.
When WW2 broke out and Belfast was being hammered by the Luftwaffe, my grandfather, a self-made man, gave away all but one of his collection of six or seven cars to local priests to enable them to visit the sick, injured and dying. Today this seems like a grand gesture, but I don't think that my grandfather saw it as such. He just did what was needed. He gave without counting the cost as an old Parish Priest of ours was fond of saying. Anyone in his position would have done the same, and it was never mentioned in his lifetime; he would have been mortified. He simply did what he could to help, as did many, many other people. For people of that generation it was taken for granted that helping to the best of your abilities or resources is what you did.
In a similar vein - unremarkable then, remarkable now: our former parish church, like many, was paid for entirely by the local population. It was built in the early 20th C, but had extensive additions later on, also paid for by the local population. People saved and gave. I remember reading the history of the parish and wondering whether it would be possible, less than a hundred years later, to have the same thing happen if the church needed to be replaced for some reason. I doubt it, not because local people aren't devoted to their parish, nor because the parish lacks a stable congregation (it doesn't, it's a thriving and much more affluent parish than it would have been a century ago). People's priorities are different now. There's an assumption that somebody else pays. That "somebody" might be a corporate body, or "the Church" (clearly removing ourselves from the equation), or the government, or one of the super-rich, but I don't think that the layperson in the pews sees himself as a philanthropic giver in the way that people used, a few short generations ago.
Reading Fr. Finigan's post about Sacred Heart Church in Limerick and thinking about the money needed for the new ICKSP apostolate in New Birghton Wirral made me wonder about the "whos" and "hows" of funding such projects.
It's entirely up to us: me and you. If we don't take responsibility for the things that matter, then who will? The time is now to give and not count the cost.
Friday, 29 July 2011
Are you a Mary or a Martha?
I'm naturally more of a Mary, but God in his wisdom has given me a more Martha-like role to play.
I grew up a creature of the intellect and spirit, and managed to reach my late twenties without knowing how to change a baby's nappy, bake a cake, or even keep a houseplant alive. I was good with animals -- always had been -- but not much good at anything else that didn't involve brain-work. I was thoroughly undomesticated.
The first meal I ever made for the man who became my husband was a green pepper sandwich. Yes, you read that right. He was utterly bemused, not sure whether I was absolutely hopeless in the kitchen, or whether thinly sliced green-pepper on granary bread was a sophisticated delicacy that he'd yet to come across. I was 21 and had no idea how to make a sandwich. None. But I had some bread, and a green pepper in my fridge, and a green-pepper sandwich seemed perfectly logical to me at the time. And no, there was no butter on it.
I was the woman who would break out into a sweat if she saw someone approaching her with a baby, lest they try to encourage me to actually hold it. Holding a baby always resulted in the baby screaming and me handing the baby back with a grimace as pronounced as the one on the tiny wailing face in my arms.
I was most comfortable in international academic conferences, in late-night intellectual debates over port in smoky MCRs, in later years in boardrooms, thriving on competing and winning in a male-dominated industry. I'm not sure if I was the nicest person, though, nor whether I was even a little bit happy.
I said earlier that as a child I'd been a creature of the intellect and of the spirit. This was true until my teens when a lack of spiritual formation lead that aspect of my life to become sidelined by all the things that the world (and my nearest and dearest) told me were important: academic success, a good career, and subliminally the message was that if I was clever and successful then I'd be lovable as well. I was profoundly religious as a young child, particularly in the years after my first communion. I think my family found it a little embarrassing, and hoped I'd get over this stage quickly. I was told that I shouldn't practise saying Mass as I couldn't be a priest, but if I wanted to be religious I could be a nun. When I asked what this entailed, I got a woolly answer ("um, don't know... lots of praying") which didn't appeal to the 9 year old me. I've often wondered if things would have been different if I'd had some spiritual formation at that stage in my life. God only knows.
Oh I rebelled against the high-achieving expectations -- who didn't in their late teens? But the "rebellion" was of the pre-scripted kind. Nihilism, despair, feminism, drugs and rock-and-roll ... a gentle roll down the slope of agnosticism. I wore black, I pierced my nose, I shaved my head, I wore combat boots. Oooh, how very rebellious I was! I read Lautréamont and Jerzy Kosiński and was convinced that mankind was evil and doomed. I thought religion was the opiate of the masses. I thought I was so much cleverer than everyone else. I didn't realise quite what a silly sheep I was.
My conversion came not as a thunderbolt, but as a whisper. A gentle call: persistent, loving. Somehow we began going to Mass, at first occasionally, then more regularly. By the time we were married we were properly back in the fold, but still heading towards the Church's living beating heart, still making up time for all the years we strayed, still learning all the catechisis we missed.
And now? Well we still have several thousand books in the house, most of which are still in boxes from our last move. My life circles around four lovely little people and my husband through whom I've gained an insight into God's unconditional love; five chickens, three rabbits, two cats, a pair of fancy mice and another pair of fancy rats, and two tanks of tropical fish complete the household. I feed and nurture all of these creatures; God has given me the job of looking after them. I've actually become a reasonably good cook -- cakes, soups, stews, jam, bread -- I can tackle it, and it will taste good, unlike that green pepper sandwich of twenty years ago. I can more or less keep order in our home, grow a fair bit of our own food, wrangle a sewing machine well enough to whizz up angel costumes when required or, more prosaically, mend clothes. My intellect and education are being put to better use than I ever could have imagined, educating my own children. I've often wondered why in the eyes of the world it would be OK if I had continued teaching undergraduates - other people's children - at university, but it's a "waste of all that education" when I teach my own. Funny that.
One of my uncles was very sporty and a real outdoorsman in his youth. Then in his mid-20s he was struck down with a debilitating disease that put a stop to all of his physical pursuits. A couple of decades later, I was looking through old photos with him. I asked him how he felt about not being able to mountain-climb and cycle and water-ski. He was glad, he said. He felt that his illness and disability had opened doors that he'd previously not known had existed. A world of art and music and culture more than filled the void left by his sporting activities, and he felt certain that had he not been so "unfortunate" he would never have gained the rich life that he lead.
And so, I'm a reluctant Martha but not so reluctant that I don't rejoice in my apple harvest, dote on my chickens, gain a real creative buzz from cooking and baking, and cherish the time that I spend with my family. I've found a great joy in service - this is something utterly novel to me as it isn't something that I saw modelled as a child. Small tasks, done lovingly, give great satisfaction. In my "Martha" role I've gained more riches than I ever thought would be possible, and God has given me a happiness that I never dared to hope for in my youth. The girl who used to need 9 hours sleep is now the woman who loves it when her toddler sneaks into her bed at 6 in the morning, giggling to himself as he takes her face in his fat little hands and plants a big wet kiss exclaiming "Mummy I LOVE you!"
There is a part of me that longs for order and silence and peace on days that are noisy and chaotic. That longs for mental stimulation on days when laundry and nappy changes seem overwhelming. That fantasises about entering an enclosed order and living a cloistered life of prayer and contemplation. But that isn't my life, and, to be honest, I'm not sure that the reality would suit me. I still read copiously when I can, think far too much, and find as much time for personal prayer as I can in a day that rotates around the needs of others. This blog is just one escape valve for my mutterings. My life has taught me to share -- something I managed not to learn as a child -- and to put the needs of others first. Like my uncle who found new life in his changed life, I'm thriving as a Martha; God took me out of my comfort zone and threw a lifetime's worth of challenges at me, and in so doing opened up spiritual, emotional and intellectual dimensions that I'd never imagined existed. Nurturing my own babies has given me a tiny glimmer of insight into God's boundless love for us all, and family life has taken me from a lost soul who felt that she had to achieve worldly glory in order to be lovable to a contented wife and mother who is beginning to understand that her Saviour's love is boundless and unconditional.
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