Stories from Ireland 1

 Maura: So you were in this house? 

  Da;  So yes, and Bridie used to be on, she was about this old couple that lived near--I never knew the people at all--but she was trying to tell me who they were, and at the time she says they'd go to Mass and that time, you know, you'd hear a pin drop in Mass; there'd be no talking, or shuffling, or anything, and she says the husband and wife she says, when the husband would sneeze (they always had colds she said) when the husband would sneeze, he'd always go "Aaa aaa aa a SHKITTER!" like shkitter, right? and when the wife would sneeze, she'd go "Aaa aaa aaa ARSHOLES!" 

Maura: Whaaaat? 

Da: (imitates sneeze again) AAAARSHOLES!

Ma: Ahhhh now who told you that! 

Da: ah, Bridie Gilroy was telling me about this couple

Ma: But who were the couple?

Da: Ah, I don't know who they were. 

Ma she probably made it up!

Da:  Well, she was telling me about them, and 'twas funny, because you see, she'd be telling this story, and she'd be adding on oul bits and pieces, and she'd be great for the dramaticising something you know? 

Maura: You mean dramatisng?

Da: Did i say dramatisicing? 

Maura: Yeah, you did.

Da: Is that the wrong way?

Maura: Yes, it is. 

Da: Dramatising...you know, when we were young; I remember now: we used to have 2 dogs on the mantlepiece; there was one dog looking left, and one looking right. 

Maura: Oh, like these ones? Kinda like this? 

Da: Yes. 

Maura: Those are very valuable nowadays.

Da: I think they were beagle dogs. 

Maura: Really? 

Da: I was just looking at at Billy now as he looked in at me, and I thought, is that what we had on the mantelpiece? We had those on the mantelpiece, one on each side.

Maura: With the ears like that? Agnes used to have those too. 

Da: Yeah, they were like made out of chalk-

Maura:  China! 

Da: China? Well, something breakable. And everything disappeared out of that house. There was a lot of stuff in that house that was valuable. My father--people used to come in and swindle it, I guess. But, ah, yeah, funny stories. But I used to laugh so much with Bridie, she was very very funny, Ah. she loved telling stories. She'd spend the whole friggin' night there telling you stories, and yarns, and oh, God be good to her. 

Ma to the dog: Come on, up ye get! 

Finding A Sock On An Autumn Evening

Whose sock this is I do not know; 

I found it in my dresser though. 

I’ll say I thought it very queer, 

This garment of somebody’s toes. 

I had a feeling, quite like fear  

When it did suddenly appear; 

I must confess, I did quite shake, 

And yet, I did not shed a tear. 

One sock does not a good pair make, 

So I must ask someone to take 

This sock; for it I will not keep, 

It coming to me by mistake. 

The night is cold and dark, and deep, 

So I’ll go, woolen socks to seek, 

And pairs to match before I sleep, 

And pairs to match before I sleep. 

The Seamless Garment

A maiden flax upon her spindle spun,

The thread she spun was finest in the land;

The coat she’d make was for her only Son,

Who soon was off to walk through desert sands.

She wove the coat, and wonderful to see,

It was one piece, and stitches there were none;

A sorrow pierced her; no longer here He’d be,

He set off then, and for three years was gone.

When next they met, and saddest for to see,

His coat was gone, and He was wounded sore;

His back was bowed beneath a weighty tree;

All this, to save all people evermore.

Below for seamless cloth the guards threw dice:

Above he traded His death for our lives.

Brideshead Revisited: Charles Ryder's Journey To Faith

              



     There is much to talk of in Brideshead Revisited, but I will focus on one thing: the journey of Charles Ryder to the faith and what led him there.

     Charles is brought to Catholicism by the beauty of the things he loved before he found belief, much like the progression of love posited by Socrates in Plato’s Symposium. In the Symposium, Socrates reflects on the teachings of the priestess Diotima, and how love for temporal things can act as a ladder to the love and contemplation of the ideal form of beauty, which as we understand it is God Himself.

     In the very beginning of his college years Charles is taken with the materialistic charm of this world. He is given “advice” by his father and Cousin Jasper. Mr. Ryder senior is a rather stuffy old man who counts as the sum of glory success in academic life. Cousin Jasper is very much what Charles’ father would like his own son to become. He is in all the right academic clubs, knows the best lecturers, and is familiar with the things one needs to know in order to get ahead at Oxford. Charles, however, feels that this is not all which Oxford has to offer, but he is still under the influence of his father and Jasper. This tawdry life is flung to the wayside when Charles experiences the charm of Sebastian Flyte.

     Sebastian is like a ray of the sun shining into Charles’ grey life, and Charles eagerly steps out of the shadows, for he was “in search of love in those days, and...full of...the faint, unrecognised apprehension that here, at last, [he] should find that low door in the wall that others had found before him, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city.” Here marks the birthof wonder and grace in Charles’s life; he has entered Eden, that Arcadian paradise. He sees with Sebastian for the first time faith in action; the pair go to Brideshead and visit Nanny Hawkins, holding her worn Rosary and shut in her little domed room decorated around with religious imagery, most notably a picture of the Sacred Heart. They also visit the chapel and Charles dips his fingers into the font and genuflects, following the example of Sebastian.

     From this point on Charles’ existence is richer; “his room had cast off its winter garments, and, not by very slow stages assumed a richer wardrobe.” He experiences a bright and youthful kind of innocence. It is not only the externals that have changed; Charles continues at Oxford, studies for (and passes) his exams; he reads many books but says, “I remember no syllable of them now, but the other, more ancient lore which I acquired that term will be with me in one shape or another to my last hour.” What Charles has acquired through Sebastian’s company is the ability to see beauty; this is most obviously seen when the two are at the Brideshead estate and Charles, at Sebastian’s suggestion, makes a sketch of the Italian fountain. He has always been interested in art, but has never crossed from interest to creation. With the urging of Sebastian he does so, and recalls, “For me the beauty was new-found.” As he sketches the fountain Charles remembers feeling “a whole new system of nerves alive within me, as though the water that spurted and bubbled among its stones was indeed a life-giving spring.” This puts us in mind of the Vidi Aquam antiphon sung after Easter; “I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, and all who came to it were saved.” Charles comes to the water flowing in the Brideshead fountain, but he also encounters the holy water in the chapel. Here also begins Charles’ artistic career, which flourishes first at Brideshead and then beyond. Sebastian has introduced Charles to beauty, and the appreciation of natural beauty is a rung of the ladder to the contemplation of God.

     In regards to Julia it is more simple to see how love, especially physical love, can be a stepping stone towards the divine. When we look at something beautiful we want to possess it; we want to be as closely united to it as possible. The closest way to be united to someone, at least on earth, is by physical love. Charles and Julia start such a physical relationship; both are unhappily married and they decide to divorce their respective spouses and marry one another.

     Julia sees their relationship as a precursor to something greater; she muses that she and Charles were thrown together because they are “part of a plan”. She also mentions that she feels “as though all mankind, and God, too, [are] in a conspiracy against [them].” A touch of this is felt when they are dining at Brideshead with Bridey, who says that he will not bring his new fiancee to meet them there as they are living in sin. This distresses Julia very much. She apologises for her distraught behaviour later, saying to Charles: “I can’t explain.” She seems to have been struck by her sin, astounded by it; her wrongdoing is shameful to her now, and she seeks to cast it off.

     Sebastian is a forerunner to Charles’ love of Julia; he tells her candidly, “he was the forerunner.” Julia replies “perhaps I am only a forerunner too.” Such prophetic words! I think Julia knows. Charles falls into a reverie, and thinks: “perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols…[and we] snatch a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.” Cordelia tells Charles about Sebastian, who is now become a porter in a monastery on the Mediterranean. Charles, thinking of those days in Eden beside “the youth with the teddy-bear under the flowering chestnuts” does not understand how Sebastian would turn so towards God. Later, at night, Charles wakes up and contemplates his lack of understanding; he thinks: “How often, it seemed to me, I was brought up short, like a horse in full stride suddenly refusing an obstacle...too shy even to put his nose at it and look at the thing.” Another image comes to his mind; a warm little cabin with snow heaping up against the door, “until quite soon when the wind dropped and the sun came out...the thaw...would move, slide, and tumble...and the little lighted place would open and splinter and disappear, rolling with the avalanche into the ravine.” He is beginning to doubt his icy heart, frozen fast against God; the sun cannot be resisted for long. Understanding will come.

     This little entrance of doubt into Charles’ resolve opens the door to a different garden; Lord Marchmain comes home to die, and Brideshead becomes Gethsemane. Lord Marchmain says so himself, asking: “Cordelia, will you watch for an hour in this Gethsemane?” His words pitifully evoke those of Christ, begging His disciples to watch with Him. Bridey decides that a priest must be called; Charles is struggling against it, “it’s all tomfoolery, witchcraft, hypocrisy, mumbo-jumbo.” Julia is enraged; “What’s it got to do with you or me whether my father sees his parish priest?” Charles can make no response, he feels that “the fate of more souls than one [is] at issue; that the snow [is] beginning to shift on the high slopes.” The ice of Charles’ unbelief is melting, and he knows this and is afraid. He is beginning to understand.

     And finally, Father Mackay comes. Charles is irate, in that fearful way a child is when he knows he has told a lie and has been caught at it. There is a “wall of fire” between Charles and Julia, and she takes the priest in to her father. As Father Mackay absolves the dying man and Charles sees the sign of the Cross being made, he drops to his knees, praying: “Oh God, if there is a God, forgive him his sins, if there is such a thing as sin.”, and Lord Marchmain sighs and his eyelids flicker. Charles prays then for a sign that the old man accepts the blessing; “So small a thing to ask.” And slowly, Lord Marchmain makes the sign of the Cross. “And then,” says Charles, “then I knew that the sign I had asked for was not a little thing...and a phrase came back to me...of the veil of the temple being rent from top to bottom.”

     Outside the sickroom a few minutes later the priest says cheerfully to Charles: “That was a beautiful thing to see...the devil resists to the last moment and then the Grace of God is too much for him.” And then, later that day, Julia and Charles say goodbye forever. Julia grieves: “Now we shall be alone, and I shall have no way of making you understand.” Charles replies: “I don’t want to make it easier for you; I hope your heart may break, but I do understand.” The avalanche was down, the hillside swept bare behind it; the last echoes died on the white slopes; the new mound glittered and lay still in the silent valley.” The sun has melted the ice, and Charles’ heart is cleansed, whiter than the driven snow.

     Years later, during the war, Charles returns to Brideshead, which is now a temporary military encampment. The old house is changed by the war; the great rooms are rather bare, the family is gone, all scattered far and wide. “The place is desolate, and all the work brought to nothing; quomodo sedet sola civitas.” The only one remaining is Nanny Hawkins, in her little tabernacle of a room up beneath the dome. But the chapel remains pristine; it has been reconsecrated, and Charles prays, “an ancient, newly-learned form of words.” As he makes his way back to his soldiers he ponders what has been brought about by the builders of the old house: “Something quite remote has come out of their work;...a small red flame-a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; the flame which the old knights saw from their tombs, which they saw put out; that flame burns again for other soldiers, far from home, farther in heart than Acre or Jerusalem. It could not have been lit but for the builders and tragedians, and there I found it this morning, burning anew among the old stones.”

Cardinal McCarrick

   

    

       As pretty much everyone knows, within the past few weeks a terrible scandal has reared its head. The Universal Church is rocking with the impact of the actions committed by one of its highest ranking prelates, namely (now ex) Cardinal Theodore McCarrick of the dioceses of New York and Washington.
       The fact that McCarrick abused young people is terrible, but what the mainstream media doesn’t want to talk about is the fact that he abused young boys and men. That his actions were homosexual. That the crisis in the Church is not only a sexual one, but a homosexual one. See, anyone will eagerly seize upon the opportunity to bash the Church. But, when the matter involves a problem with homosexuality, no media outlet (often not even the “Catholic” ones) is brave enough to tackle the issue. The problem is that nobody wants to admit that homosexuality is causing the problems that it is.

Why?

       Because everyone is afraid of sounding “politically incorrect”. Better not offend anybody, right? Oh, Father, don’t mention the scandal at the 9 am Mass. Nobody wants to hear about that. Discuss the upcoming parish festival instead (I love being politically incorrect, in case you couldn’t tell).
       It’s true. I have heard scarcely anybody speak about McCarrick. Pope Francis has certainly not issued a statement. I will bring the scandal up in conversation, but people usually haven’t heard about the magnitude of his offences. In the weeks following the news, I have heard only one priest speak of it. This past Sunday at the Latin Mass, a very young priest was presiding. I knew him before he was ordained. When it was time for the homily, he stepped up to the pulpit and, gripping the sides, spoke calmly about the trouble in the Church. He did not mince his words, and yet there was a sense of peace in the way he spoke. At the end of the sermon, he reminded us that although the Church is being attacked from both within and without, we must look to the Holy Spirit, for it is He that guides our ship through stormy waters.
       I was surprised and gratified to hear the scandal being spoken of from the pulpit. So, so many prelates are pointedly not addressing it in their dioceses. Of course, this is understandable. To admit that members of our own dear Church have been found guilty of the most sick and twisted crimes, sins not only against God but against man, is a lot to expect. Imagine the world’s biggest bank admitting that many of its senior members have been printing fraudulent bank notes behind the facade of stability and righteousness? That would not be good for the image of the corporation, so they simply hush it up, admonish the wrongdoers, and soon it’s back to business as usual.
       However, this will not work for us. It didn't work last time, it won't work this time, and next time? There must not be a next time. The ranks of prelates must be cleansed by a flood of righteousness, and this flood must start at the very highest position in the Church of Rome.

Pope Francis Said What?

Among all the ongoing, ever-present media confusion and speculation over literally anything our Pontiff gives voice to, I was at first pleasantly surprised to recently read a couple of promising headlines from major Catholic news sites gushing excitedly: “Pope Francis Affirms Church Teaching on Traditional Marriage” and “Pope Francis Affirms That Homosexual Men Should Not Be Permitted To Enter Seminary”. There were lots of heart reactions in the comments section. 

I say I was only pleasantly surprised at first because shouldn’t it be a normal, run-of-the-mill thing for the Pope, the bishop of Rome and leader of the one, holy, Catholic and apostolic church to be acting in accordance with and voicing his approval of Catholic teaching and doctrines? The more I thought about it the more dissatisfied I felt. The fact that people are surprised and excited to see the Pope agreeing with the Church does not bode well.

In the past, popes have been firm and vocal in their support of doctrine. They have publicly spoken out, with unambiguous language, against the evils attacking the Church. They have condemned sin and lauded virtue. Why has this become unusual? Why are we now used to the Pope and other church leaders and representatives presenting a lukewarm view with no convictions, full of wishy-washy sentiments such as “born this way”, “the Church must change with the times”, etc? When did things get this bad?

I am not against Pope Francis. He is at present the leader of the Church and as such must be listened to, supported, and yes, respected. But when you respect someone you wish to see them doing what is right. If they are not doing what is right then you speak to inform them of their possible mistake.

Not many are speaking beyond the Cardinals who signed the dubia, a few scattered traditional priests, several bishops, and a small but feisty contingent of Catholic writers and bloggers. And those that do speak are often silenced. When I was in Rome I heard it whispered that everyone in the Roman Curia is afraid, and that if any of them are heard to so much as murmur anything even slightly against Pope Francis they are summoned to a private audience and often fired from their positions.

However, no matter how bad this all sounds we must remember that the Papacy was instituted by Christ Himself, and that He promised St. Peter, the first Pope, that the Church would stand strong and that “the gates of Hell will not prevail against it.” Even though the waves of Modernism are breaking hard upon the island of our faith, Catholicism will never be fully eroded. Like the rock on which it was built, the Church will forever stand strong.

The Day I Met Pope Francis

I don't really consider myself a very ambitious person, but as a Catholic coming here to Rome, the heart of the Church, I had one pretty big ambition.

I wanted to meet the Pope.

    It was a little more than just meet the Pope, actually. There is an old tradition that if you present the Holy Father with a zucchetto (the white skullcap he wears) he will either give you his, or put your one on his head and hand it back. Either way, you now have a zucchetto worn by the Pope!

This is what I wanted to do.

    First, I had to buy a zucchetto. It has to be pure white silk, definitely not polyester. I scoured the internet back home, searching New York City for a clerical shop selling such an item, but to no avail.

    I decided to wait until I was in Rome to buy it; I had found the address of the papal tailor, Gammarelli’s, on the Via di Santa Chiara not far from Piazza Venezia.

    So one day quite early in the semester (just two days after Ash Wednesday, to be exact) after morning Confession and Mass at St. Peter’s Basilica, and just after class for the day was done I set out with a good amount of money and a friend to purchase a white silk zucchetto. However, it seemed that we were not meant to get even so far as across the Tiber River; the tram stopped running, we were all ordered off, and it would be a very long walk to Piazza Venezia. We decided to visit a few churches and get some gelato. I gave up my venture for that day.

    As we stood despondently in the sun, enjoying the sweet creamy gelato from del Viale, I saw something approaching us. Tram 8 was running again! We ran towards it, hopped on, and soon were at the Vittorio Emanuele. It was not difficult to get to Gammarelli's but we did make a few wrong turns thanks to my abysmal sense of direction; however, we eventually spotted the storefront with a white zucchetto gleaming softly in the centre of the window display.

I walked up to the door and entered the shop; my goodness, it was fancy! Bolts of richly coloured fabrics covered the walls, ornate chalices shone scintillatingly from shadowy corners, filigreed pectoral crosses could be seen in a glass case towards the back, a headless mannequin was vested in alb, cincture, amice, and the most beautiful chasuble I have ever seen. Priests and seminarians looked at me with raised eyebrows; I was the only woman there and the only lay person present besides the shopkeepers. As I took all of this in, an attendant materialised at my elbow and asked what I was looking for. “I would like a white zucchetto, please,” I replied hesitantly, “for the Holy Father.” The clerk did not bat an eyelid. He bowed, opened a narrow drawer, and carefully lifted out a white cap. He swathed it in delicate tissue and placed it in a heavy white silk box, and put the box into a large bag. I paid and left the shop with a quickly beating heart, a light wallet, and a quest accomplished.

    I told only two other people about what I had done. I honestly had no hopes of this even working; it is notoriously difficult to get the attention of the Pope at a Papal Audience, at which there are thousands and thousands of people in attendance every single week. The number on my ticket was 21086.

    On Wednesday the 21st of March I was at St. Peter's at around 6 am. I'd been awake since 4. I had hardly slept. I was the most excited I had ever been. I had woken up upon every hour the previous night. Did I mention I was nervous?

    It was raining at the Vatican. Perhaps the Pope wouldn't even stop the Popemobile. Perhaps he wouldn't even look at the crowds beyond a quick blessing. Perhaps the audience would be moved inside the basilica and then we wouldn't be able to even see the Pope close up at all.

    As soon as the gates opened and I got through security I sprinted and slipped across the wet cobblestones of the piazza with my umbrella flailing; security guards and Carabinieri waved their arms and yelled hoarsely at me in Italian to slow down. I did not slow down. I needed to be as close to the front and as close to the barrier as possible.

    This was going to be a problem. I was seated on the right side of the centre aisle near the back corner of the front quadrant, an auspicious place to be, but I was about 3 seats away from the barrier.

    Near to me by the barrier was a group of students from a college in England. They were there in Italy on a school trip and had brought picnic lunches of crackers and hummus. They chatted away as we waited for the audience to begin. One of the girls looked up at the faded icon of the Blessed Virgin to the right of the square above the colonnade. “Who is that now?” she mused to her equally clueless friends. “I know she’s someone important but I don’t know who she is.”

    As the rain cleared and blue skies appeared, my mood lightened and I began to look about me for a better spot. I noticed that the couple in the row behind me had barrier seats, and a lot of room too. Holding the zucchetto in my hand and giving my most winning smile, I politely asked if I might stand with them by the barrier as the Pope passed by. The man did not crack a smile. “Well actually, I'm gonna be standing there to take pictures,” he said complacently, holding up a little tourist camera. I was annoyed but quite equal to the situation. “Well, I have something for the Pope!” I retorted, and I brandished the zucchetto in his face. I don't think he even knew what it was as he appeared nonplussed and turned away without granting me a share in the barrier. “It would be in your best interests to let me stand there,” I thought sarcastically as I turned away, “providing the Pope sees me and stops you would get the best picture of your life. All your pals back home/Facebook friends would love it!”

I had heard that if you talk to a Swiss Guard they may stop the Popemobile, so I climbed over a few rows of seats and out the gate to accost the nearest guard. However, he was not much help; all he said was, “You just have to try.” Uh, duh!

    As the time for the audience drew near I stood up and stealthily moved to the row behind me, squeezing as close as possible to the front of the crowd. It was almost 9:30 and the audience was scheduled to start at 10:00.

    Suddenly there was a fanfare of trumpets and the two big screens on either side of the square zoomed in on the left hand side of the basilica, showing a parade of security surrounding a small car in which stood a figure clad head to toe in white--it was the Pope! The audience had started a full half hour early!

    The little car traveled about the piazza; wherever it went it was greeted by loud screams and cheers. I noticed that Pope Francis was stopping by every baby he saw and was picking it up for a blessing and a kiss; he did not descend from the car but the guards handed him the children.

The Gendarmerie were sprinting about trying to anticipate the Pope’s next move; one of them ran past me and then immediately turned and ran back the other way. I heard him curse as he raced by.

    Good heavens, would he even come up the centre aisle? He seemed to be sticking to the side aisles an awful lot. Trembling with excitement, I stepped up onto the chair of the man with the camera, who was now hanging over the barrier trying to see through the lens of his camera where the Pope was. I was still not close enough to the barrier. I stepped one more chair over and found my dirty boot planted squarely on camera man's wife's blue Vera Bradley handbag (very expensive). Oops. But we all have to make sacrifices.

    I leaned far out over the couple (who began muttering angrily at this impertinent theft of about 6 inches of their precious picture taking space) and planted one hand on the barrier while I clutched the zucchetto with the other hand. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand.

    And then...oh my goodness, the little car was coming our way! I leaned out farther, trying not to fall. The crowd around me started screaming; Pope Francis had his back to us and he was about to pass by. “Papa! Papa!” I shouted, but the people on both sides of the barrier were yelling and screaming, and my voice was lost in their cries. I had to be louder. “Papa! Papa!” I shrieked and waved the hat. At the very moment he was passing me the Pope turned so he was facing my side of the aisle; the Popemobile paused and he reached for a baby about two people down from me. This was my chance. As Pope Francis held the child I leaned out even farther and yelled so loud my own voice was unrecognisable to me. “PAPA!! PAPA!! UN ZUCCHETTO!” I waved the skullcap as close to his line of vision as I could, screaming again and again; tears were running down my face and I was shaking, and my voice was hoarse and unrecognisable, I was screaming so hard. “Please, please hear me, look at me, take the hat, take the hat!” I prayed frantically in my mind. I screamed again and again and as the Pope was handing the baby back to the guard he looked at me, looked at the hat I was flagging him down with, looked back at me, smiled, and started laughing, reaching his hands out in a placating manner. He reached out and gestured towards the hat, which his guard took and handed to him.

    Pope Francis held the hat in his hand and laughed! The sun beamed brightly as he chuckled. Everyone around was screaming and waving, camera man was snapping away, I was crying, my eyes were blurry...what are you supposed to do when the Pope is looking at you and smiling and laughing?

The Pope, still smiling, removed his own zucchetto, placed mine on his head for several moments, and handed it back to the guard, who in turn handed it to me. I was worried that someone would snag it off him as it was passed to me but I soon held it tightly in my hand. Pope Francis gave me a thumbs up. “Pray for me!” he called. “Si! I will! I will!” I yelled, and the Popemobile continued on its journey towards the basilica.

I tried to step down off the chair but I was shaking so much an elderly man had to take my arm and help me down. The rest of the audience was a blur. I had finally accomplished the one thing I came to Rome wanting to do.

-Gammarelli’s: Via di Santa Chiara 34-00186 Roma (near the Pantheon) -Fotografie: Servizio Fotografico Vaticano: www.photovat.com (this is where you can find and purchase pictures from Papal events. You can also have a friend with you, like I did, and they can take phenomenal pictures too!)