Comments...

Please bear with me. I don't get notified when new comments are posted (as I used to) and I don't visit the blog on a daily basis so if I haven't replied to you as promptly as you would prefer, I'm not ignoring you; it just means that I need to tweak things a bit. I'm also out of the house for about 12 hours a day and don't have access to Blogger at work!

Anticipated Palm Sunday...

This is the most depressing time of year. Not only because of this silly annual ritual of changing the clocks, which gives me a form of jetlag, but because of the omnipresence of bastardised liturgy. I remember 13 years ago standing at a railway station in the middle of nowhere. It was about 7:30am and I was changing trains because I was on my way to a far flung Palm Sunday procession to witness ceremonies and prayers that had been suppressed in the 1950's. I can't remember why I wasn't going to Blackfen, just a 17 minute walk from my house, but I imagine it was some dissatisfaction with the previous year's service. The parish priest had invited a cantor from Maiden Lane, because the parish choir either couldn't read Gregorian notation or found the antiphons too complicated, and this person had decided to intersperse Pacelli psalms into the procession. That, along with a host of unruly boys in cottas which made the procession look most unseemly, was why I decided to go to Clapham Park which was much better. Looking back I can't help but wonder why I bothered. I suppose that is the nature either of trauma or maturity.

Someone wrote to me about my previous post and asked if my hatred for the Roman Rite was really as profound as I had let on. The short answer is yes but I do have a soft spot for the liturgy for Palm Sunday. There's a certain elegance and fluidity to it. I suppose looking at it clinically I would not include the Passion narrative (a later development) but it is very moving to hear the Gospel narrated in its proper context, having in a sense re-enacted the narrative itself in the Procession. Nowadays I think I might come out of retirement and go to a High Mass for Palm Sunday, so long as the proper conditions were met (no Pacelli psalms, Deacon and Subdeacon, three separate Deacons for the Passion, &c). Then again I doubt I would rise from my bed at 5am to witness such a thing. I think the Imperial Russian "donkey walk" would be far more impressive!

The Novus Ordo: A reflection...

A valued and very erudite correspondent sent me this article from the Church Life Journal by Yves Chiron. It's an account, year by year, decree by decree, on the creation of the Novus Ordo Missae of Paul VI. I don't honestly give much thought nowadays to the liturgical revolution that took place in the latter half of the 20th century. It's none of my business really. I came to that view when I realised, long ago and after many years agonising over it, that I actually despise the Roman Rite, as a whole and in detail. The last time I had any dealings with it, after a long absence, was when I put together the Order of Service for my mother's funeral in July 2020. For pastoral (and other) reasons, this took the form of a non-Eucharistic service; a truncated "liturgy of the word," with bidding prayers, which I took from various sources, such as the English Missal and the 1549 Book of Common Prayer. I enjoyed doing it, and it confirmed to me the wisdom of the Novus Ordo in the relative leeway it allows for such things.

The article itself is an excerpt from a book (which I haven't read) entitled "Annibale Bugnini: Reformer of the Liturgy," so the fact that no mention is made of the liturgical conferences that took place at Maria-Laach (1951), Mont Sainte Odile (1952), Lugano (1953) Mont César (1954) and Assisi (1956) in the excerpt is interesting, considering that most of the reforms that took place in the 1960's had their roots in the deliberations at those conferences, and that the members of the Consilium put together by Paul VI to draft and finalise the liturgical reforms mandated by the Second Vatican Council attended those conferences, with the full knowledge and blessing of Pius XII. Although perhaps the author deals with those conferences in the detail and scrunity they deserve in another part of his book.

It begins with the work of the Consilium. I suppose one has to begin somewhere but why 1964? Traditionalists have a strong tendency to look at liturgical reform always through the prism of the Mass, whereas my own view is much wider, encompassing the Divine Office and the celebration of the Sacraments. In which case the question of where to begin becomes more complex. The reforms of the Consilium were comprehensive, but so too was the redistribution and splintering of Psalms in the reform of the Roman Breviary in 1911 (Divino Afflatu), or the sabotage (there is no other word) of the rites of Holy Week in 1956 (Maxima Redemptionis). I suppose these reforms went largely unnoticed; in the first place because the Divine Office was marked chiefly in the Latin Rite by its almost universal absence from even most cathedrals and collegiate churches; and as for Holy Week, anecdotal evidence I have suggests that in many churches the old rites continued, despite the decrees from Rome, and many clergy thought that Pius XII had gone mad.

But to begin with the Mass, legend has it, facts having been obscured by the praxis and propaganda of traditionalist organisations, that the Novus Ordo Missae was suddenly sprung on us by a mysterious cabal, whose members were "Modernists" and clandestine Freemasons, working without knowledge or sanction from the Pope, whose chief acolyte and scapegoat was Annibale Bugnini. The popular view, therefore, is that the so-called "Tridentine Rite" passed virtually unchanged and unscathed from the late 16th century to 1962 and then underwent a Protestant-style reformation. This view is entirely skewed, and trivialises the reforms that took place between 1955 and 1960, which was part of the same process. An entirely new ritus servandus was written for the Mass, a new calendar was in place with an entirely novel ranking of feasts, &c. The 1962 Missal was never intended to be permanent but was the middle stage in the process of a comprehensive reform of the Roman Rite which had its origins in the liturgical conferences I've just mentioned.

The process of reform began at Maria-Laach in 1951, with Josef Jungmann's paper "On the problems of the Mass." Much praise was heaped on Pius XII for his recent revision of the liturgy for Holy Saturday (itself trivial compared with the 1955 reform) and discussions were held about applying similar reforms to the liturgies of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Jungmann drafted a "penitential rite" for pastoral expediency; and the abolition of such things as the silent Eucharistic Prayer, prayers at the foot of the Altar and the Last Gospel were proposed. At Mont Saint Odile, similarly, ''Liturgy and contemporary man'' was on the agenda, and reforms imposed later such as simplifying the rubrics of the Anaphora, a sung Doxology at High Mass and an audible Doxology at Low Mass, abolition of the Confiteor and absolution before Communion, and the simple formula ("Corpus Christi") for the distribution of Communion were proposed. At Lugano "active participation" was on the agenda, with such things as vernacular readings and a new lectionary proposed. Cardinal Ottaviani, he of the "intervention," was himself present at Lugano and celebrated Mass facing the people! The then Archbishop Montini (later Paul VI) was also in attendance. The point being that the later reforms of the Consilium were planned well in advance; Pius XII was not senile, and this was all part of an agenda. So why 1962 is considered some kind of cut off point for an imaginary "Tridentine" orthopraxis, I have never been able to work out.

My own views were shaped at university. I studied Divinity at Heythrop College, which afforded me access to many old liturgical books in the Theology Library. I used to spend hours perusing old missals and breviaries, going over the calendars, the rubrics, and comparing editions. I was also regularly in attendance at Corpus Christi Maiden Lane, which had a Sung Mass every Monday evening. I don't remember what feast it was but the first time I noticed something was wrong with Maiden Lane, I turned up expecting red vestments. Green vestments were laid out in the sacristy. When I asked why, the MC looked a bit sheepish and said "oh no, you're not one of those!" Who knows what he meant by that, but it occurred to me for the first time that these people were claiming to uphold Tradition and yet were doing something totally different. I put up with this situation for a brief period, mostly for an easy life, but eventually, having discovered that I could not bend these people to my way of thinking and that, whatever the problems in the Church, hypocrisy was certainly no solution, I just stopped going.

Nowadays I couldn't care less, and even if there was a church on my doorstep (there did used to be) offering "traditional" Latin liturgy I wouldn't support it. Mostly because little things would get on my nerves. Lace ornamentation, the cotta, fiddleback chasubles, an Italianiate way of pronouncing Latin, a timetable of services consisting entirely of Mass, Signum Magnum for the Assumption, St Joseph the Worker on 1st May, Pacelli Psalms in the Palm Sunday procession, &c.Why is that worth supporting?!

My correspondent said that the article made for rather sad reading. I'm not sure that I agree. To me, it reads more like the clinical account of a patient riddled with cancer who underwent a series of experimental operations designed to cure him and died on the operating table. I could weep for the Roman Rite, but what's the point? Whatever shortcomings the Missal of Paul VI undoubtedly presents, I hardly think that the 1962 rite is better by comparison, or a standard acceptable to measure liturgical orthopraxis. By 1962 the Roman Rite had become so bastardised, for many diverse but interpenetrating reasons, that I would say it was in drastic need of reform. Certain practices had crept into the Rite, over many hundreds of years or quite recently, that were clearly decadent and put the Roman Church in its liturgy at variance with all other churches. The most odious features of the Roman Rite in 1962 to me were (in no particular order):

• The denial of the Chalice to the laity.
• The effective abolition of the Eucharistic fast, which paved the way for the celebration of Mass in the evening (for those sensitive to liturgical time, and the daily cycle of liturgical prayer, a clear and unadulterated abuse).
• The calendar, as reformed by Pius XII. The abolition of most Octaves and Vigils, and the novel ranking of feasts into classes, rather than doubles and simples.
• The rites of Holy Week, as reformed by Pius XII. The significant variations between Tridentine Holy Week and ancient forms of the Roman Rite, like Sarum, are a separate issue; in this case I'm taking the Tridentine Rite as something mostly ancient as a comparison to what Pacelli mandated in 1956.
• The reformed Divine Office. Rubricarius of The Saint Lawrence Press has produced detailed studies of this aspect of 20th century reform. Suffice it here to say that the Divine Office of 1962 could be contained in just two slender volumes, tomus prior and tomus alter; as opposed to the four seasonal volumes before 1911.
• Proceeding from the previous point, the fact that the Divine Office was, even in most cathedrals and collegiate churches, almost nowhere observed in full. If it had been, I'd like to think there might have been some resistance to the changes thereto, which were far wider and more significant than changes to the Mass.
• Low Mass, and a liturgical culture that viewed Low Mass as an acceptable form of Divine service rather than an exception to accomodate realistic "staff" shortages.
• With the notable exception of Good Friday, the complete absence of aliturgical days in the Roman Rite.
• The Roman Canon, its rubrics and ceremonies, particularly the two prominent elevations.

I could go on! I've often read, in the works of apologists for the Roman Church, of the "conservatism" of the Roman Rite; that its changes came at a glacial pace. I think this conservatism was a myth, and that such liturgical culture as there was prior to the Council was held intact by legal positivism and the view that liturgy was an extension of Canon Law. The existence of a "Sacred Congregation of Rites," a centralised bureaucracy, speaks volumes. Hitherto, regulation of the liturgy was subject to the Bishop of the diocese, a much healthier and more traditional arrangement. Now points of contention are submitted to Rome for ratification. Or wholesale reform of the Rite! This kind of situation is unthinkable in the Orthodox Church.

I welcome many of the reforms of the Consilium. I think most of them were very wise. Reforms that I welcome include:

• The provision for High Mass with only a Deacon assisting.
• The provision for Low Mass with congregational singing.
• Restoration of Bidding Prayers and the "responsorial" Psalm.
• Suppression of the Leonine Prayers after Low Mass.
• The provision for liturgical books in the services for their right person, as opposed to just having a Missal. Why does a priest have to say everything? Not everything depends upon him!
• The administration of Communion under both kinds.
• Provision for services either partially (or preferably wholly) in the vernacular.
• New Eucharistic Prayers. I personally dislike the Roman Canon; I think the only thing going for it is its age. My favourite is Eucharistic Prayer III. Simplified rubrics for the Anaphora.
• New Prefaces.
• The reformed Holy Week is much better, and certainly more conservative, than the Pacelli rubbish.
• The restoration of Concelebration and the permanent Diaconate are especially welcome.

Of course, that's not to say that the Missal of Paul VI is without problems. Many of the reforms of this period proceeded from rather shoddy scholarship and dubious theology. There is a sense that they threw the baby out with the bath water.

What would I change about the Novus Ordo? What would I bring back? What would I suppress? Let's see:

• Celebration of Mass, the Divine Office and the Sacraments facing the people (or more accurately, facing the wrong way) is arguably the worst thing you can do liturgically. Celebration ad orientem would be brought back and versus populum forbidden.
• Evening Mass, and so-called vigil Masses, would be abolished.
• The Eucharistic Fast would be brought back to the traditional fast from Midnight.
• The custom of transferring feasts to the nearest Sunday would be abolished (it's even worse when feasts are transferred to the preceeding Sunday!)
• The old Calendar of Saints would be restored, to their ancient ranks of doubles and simples, and all Octaves and Vigils would be restored.
• The new lectionary would be abolished, and the old Epistles and Gospels restored.
• The old, pre-1956 Holy Week would be restored.
• Folded Chasubles would be restored.
• The Minor Orders would be restored, with the Subdiaconate reclassified as a Minor Order.
• The Liturgy of the Word would be celebrated from the Epistle corner again.
• Prayers at the foot of the altar would be restored, along with Psalm 42.
• Extraordinary Ministers of Communion would be forbidden, but I see no reason why a Deacon may not administer the Sacrament.
• I would restore aliturgical days for Lent.

The Divine Office presents an interesting challenge because I'm not that familiar with the Liturgy of the Hours. The Office of Readings is clearly much better than what passes for "Mattins" in 1962! I would have approached reform of the Divine Office in an entirely different way. I would restore the pre-1911 arrangement, but with "adaptations" for particular uses. I would certainly remove the obligation on secular clergy to recite the Office in full. This burdensome obligation represents an undue "monasticisation" of the clergy and reduces the public prayer of the Church to a private devotion for priests. What I would do is adapt the hours of Mattins & Lauds, Vespers and Compline for parish use; combine them, sort of like the Book of Common Prayer, and have a parochial Mattins and Evensong, and for cathedrals and collegiate churches have the full compliment of the seven canonical hours. What I deplore most of all is a timetable of services in cathedrals that consists entirely of Mass!

I could go on but it's none of my business. What I've described is a complete fantasy and my views are certainly not that common. I wonder what my detractors would say if they found out that I am in favour of new Eucharistic Prayers!

Long Melford...

Back in November I went to Lavenham to a spa hotel. Before the era of Covid I was wont to go away somewhere for a few days before the mad rush of Western Christmas; the last time was to Rye in 2019. Naturally I used Lavenham as a base to visit some of the magnificent mediaeval churches in East Anglia. The furthest I think I went was to Binham Priory (more on that in another post).

Just a few miles from Lavenham is Long Melford, an ancient wool town in Suffolk renowned for its magnificent parish church. I'd visited the church on a previous occasion, in September 2017 en-route to Norfolk, and I was so impressed by it that I had to see it again. In 2017 it was a Sunday morning and the church was halfway through its Eucharistic service. I parked the car and noticed that there was a couple loitering outside the narthex. They thought I was a parishioner and it was clear from their accents that they were American. After exchanging pleasantries I opened the door. "Oh so that's how it works!" exclaimed the woman, a portly, homely sort of person (not unlike many lady vicars I've met!) who it turns out had never pulled an old door handle and turned. The Rector was preaching as we sat down at the back. He had no server to speak of but there was a modest vested choir of, I think, twelve people. When he finished his sermon he came up to us and invited the three of us to Communion. I politely declined, saying that I was just there to observe. He carried on the said service, which was soon over. As I watched and listened I couldn't help but contrast the magnificence of the architecture, and the knowledge of what the church was built for, and how meagre the principal (or indeed only) service of the week was. O tempora!

In 2017 there was no glass in the benefactor's arch. Now there is but I'm not sure why. But what a rare honour to be buried here! Here was the epicentre of Sarum piety.

Afterwards I had a brief chat with the Rector, and asked him some informed questions about the church. His response was that I probably knew more about the church than he did and he pointed me to a history of the church entitled "Five Centuries of an English Parish Church." It also turned out that the American woman was (or claimed to be) a descendant of William Clopton, for whom the chantry chapel is named.

The lily crucifix.

On 30th November 2022 I went again. This time I opened the door and there were lots of old ladies busy about the church, decking the aisles with boughs of holly, and the organ was being tuned. One of the ladies, who was decorating the Christmas tree, told me that they were preparing for a carol service. This ruined it for me because I like to be alone in a place like that and I felt as though I was under everyone's feet and people were watching me. Nonetheless I had a good look at the stained glass in the north aisle, sat for some time in the Clopton Chantry, and looked at the sanctuary with its 19th century reredos, based, I imagine, on the accounts of Roger Martin, a former churchwarden and recusant, who left a very poignant and vivid description of what the layout and liturgy of the church was like before the Reformation. If you have Five Centuries, &c you can read the accounts on pp.61-65. He says of the old reredos:

"Memorandum. At the back of the high altar in the said church, there was a goodly mount made of one great tree, and set up to the foot of the window there, carved very artificially with the story of Christ's Passion, representing the horsemen with their spears, and the footmen, &c, as they used Christ on the mount of Calvary, all being fair gilt, & lively and beautifully set forth."

He also describes a gilt tabernacle at the north end, reaching up to the ceiling, with an image of the Trinity, being patron of the church, and other images of the Saints. Elsewhere in his account, Martin describes the processions of Palm Sunday and Corpus Christi, which in the Sarum Rite would have been very similar. This is what such a grand church was built for, not a said service! On my way back to the porch I looked at the font, with its grand carved lid, raised upon steps and a woman was placing lots of tea lights around it. For a split second I thought the choir, vested in surplices (perhaps with four rulers in copes), might process into the church preceeded by a tunicled crucifer and acolytes, carrying the tea lights whilst singing O lux beata Trinitas or O Gladsome Light, but no they were being put there because it looked pretty. I thought of Roger Martin and many others during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, concealing church property in their homes and hoping for a change of days that never came. At this point I walked out.

They make it look nice! I imagine they do, but what's the underlying significance? Is "niceness" one of the ancient tokens of the faith? Where does it come from? What does it mean? I think that crude sentimentality is offputting for most people.

Have you been to Long Melford?

A theory of Music...

I'm subscribed on YouTube to a certain right wing political and cultural pundit. He's only 25, and not even that brilliant. In fact I'm thinking of removing my subscription altogether because I've realised I only watch his videos for much the same reason that I managed to sit through three or four Twilight films (although he's no Robert Pattinson). Nonetheless I was intrigued when he posted a truncated version of this video to his Instagram feed. While he hasn't, to my knowledge, divulged anything about his actual religious beliefs, I imagine he's some kind of Protestant. He said he wanted to take part in something like this. His endorsement of this kind of music speaks volumes about his apparent lack of insight into what constitutes acceptable Christian worship. See if you can get through it to the end. I've watched the abridged version, which isn't available on YouTube, many times.

I've witnessed this kind of worship before. When I was at sixth form college the supposedly Catholic chapel was taken over on Wednesday afternoons by the prominent (or should I say dominant?) black Pentecostal community of Lewisham, who sang this and other songs like it. In a spirit of hilarious research, I went to a few of their meetings, sitting quietly at the back and wondering what made these people tick. At World Youth Day 2005, which took place in Cologne, I witnessed the same style of charismatic praise; people waving their arms, pointing to heaven, &c. I knew none of the songs; I suppose the most up-to-date hymn that I knew was Colours of Day! So my preferred manner of worship found no expression at all at that youth festival, presided over by the late Pope of the Liturgy. Ironically, at 17 I was probably the youngest person there and it was all wasted on me! Still, my impression of the 

black church, the youth festivals; all those young people caught up in the vain pulse and repetition of their music is much the same as my impression of the above video. They represent the antithesis of piety.

It reminds me of The Music of the Ainur. For those of you who have read Tolkien in-depth, that is to say you've slogged your way through The Silmarillion, you'll no doubt be familiar with the angelic chorus that set in motion the creation of the world. There are lots of theories of music underpinning that legend, not least the harmony of the spheres. For me, The Music of the Ainur is profoundly liturgical. The music is both an act of worship and a revelation. It begins with the Word, the teaching of God passed down (the "themes" of music). Then, in the same manner that worship is both didactic and revelatory, the Ainur sing to God of the themes propounded to them by Him, and God shows them their minstrelsy. Liturgy is made up almost entirely of Scripture, just like the legendary themes of music, so liturgical orthopraxis consists in returning to God what He has bequeathed to us already.

Against this is marshalled the power of Melkor. Melkor is Tolkien's diabolos, "he who arises in might." He was the greatest of the Ainur by far and in his search for the Secret Fire in the outer darkness strange thoughts came into his heart that were unlike those of the other Ainur. When they began their chorus, he started to weave these thoughts into the Music, which caused a great discord. Those that sang by him faltered and fell silent, but many attuned their music to his and the discord spread wider and wider. Tolkien describes the battle of sounds quite brilliantly:

"And it seemed at last that there were two musics progressing at one time before the seat of Ilúvatar, and they were utterly at variance. The one was deep and wide and beautiful, but slow and blended with an immeasurable sorrow, from which its beauty chiefly came. The other had now achieved a unity of its own; but it was loud, and vain, and endlessly repeated; and it had little harmony, but rather a clamorous unison as of many trumpets braying upon a few notes. And it essayed to drown the other music by the violence of its voice, but it seemed that its most triumphant notes were taken by the other and woven into its own solemn pattern." Ainulindalë, p.5.

There's even a reference to the problem of evil there! In some ways this one paragraph encapsulates the entire history of Middle-earth. The angelic chorus, those Ainur who remained faithful to the will of God, sang their deep, beautiful melodies which were of their nature sorrowful. You could be forgiven for thinking that a grand mythology like Tolkien's might be full of unrealistic hopes and whimsical happy endings. Actually the prevailing theme throughout is decay, defeat, loss and the subsequent yearning to redress that. That realism, even pessimism, is why it is so successful. It is the work of a man who has experienced real suffering. This suffering, of course, comes from the other music, the clamorous braying that wages war on the first.

Of course the sound and fury, signifying nothing represented by the discords of Melkor had a divine purpose (and one not intended by Melkor). But if the loud, vain and endlessly repeated music of the charismatic (probably millionaire) Baptist on stage, with his own braying choir and instruments, has a purpose, besides the reinforcement of the heresy that Justification comes from Faith Alone, I'm dumbfounded. Real Church music is didactic, seasonal, thematic. This is true of the ancient Latin hymns of Ambrose and Prudentius, among many others, and it is also true of the famous Troparion of Kassiani. These hymns are written in piety and attuned to the Church's liturgy. Whoever wrote "our God is an awsome god" was clearly someone who had abandoned all spiritual aspirations. It's materialistic, it revels in physicality and its design to impress. In this way, like Melkor, it wages war on the Church. How much could you tell me about Christianity, if you were entirely innocent thereof, by listening to it? "Our God" could be anyone!

As I said, I didn't subscribe to the young pundit for his wit or intellect! What do you think? Is this all gibberish?

Just ignore the weird gazing and listen. We're a tad early for the subject but this is the beauty of holiness spoken of by the Psalmist.

Rasputin, a reflection...

 

You may like this video I made a few months ago, a reflection on the enigmatic character of Gregori Rasputin (sometimes dubbed "the New" in the Church). I should disclaim that I never personally met Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh; the comparison I draw here is based on anecdotes told to me by friends who did meet him. I was just 15 when he died!

Our Lady of Pew...

The Chapel of Our Lady of Pew in Westminster is, at 5 foot square, the smallest chapel I have ever seen. Its only rival is in my friend's house, a chapel purpose built by the original owner, a wealthy Anglo-Catholic priest, who I imagine took great comfort in the simple holiness of it.

I first saw the Pew Chapel about ten years ago. A friend of mine was in town and he wanted to see the Shrine of Edward the Confessor. Having enjoyed, on a previous occasion, a very intelligent discussion with the erstwhile Dean about planetis plicatis, and advised by another friend that the chapter of Westminster are very hospitable if you butter them up, I approached the Dean after Evensong and introduced my friend. He was delighted by the request and told us to wait to one side as he bid the congregation good night. Presently he returned and gave us a private tour not only of the Shrine but also of the Lady Chapel, built by Henry VII and described by John Leland as the orbis miraculum. I said a private prayer by the tomb of Mary, Queen of Scots (for whom I have a soft spot), after which our host said "one last thing" and took us down the stairs into the north quire aisle. Just a few feet away from the Confessor Shrine is the Pew Chapel, which you might mistake for a tiny corridor.

Richard II prayed here often before the Wilton Diptych. There is an alabaster statue of the Mother of God in the chapel, a replica of an ancient statue. I can't remember what the Dean said about it, but he bid us look up at the ceiling of the chapel. He described the boss overhead as "a splendid depiction of the Virgin's Assumption into Heaven, miraculously preserved into our time." The Puritans destroyed much of the stained glass and statuary in the Abbey but the Pew Chapel is so tiny that it escaped their reforming zeal!

There is an Anglo-Catholic Society dedicated to this chapel that meets once a year for a Mass in the Abbey. I went to one at the invitation of an old friend Geoffrey Monk, who was also involved with the Society of King Charles the Martyr and the Royal Stuart Society. Never again.

I would like to express my gratitude to Dr John Hall for having shown us around. He did much in his time as Dean to make Westminster Abbey a very welcoming place, and my friend very affectionately told me afterwards that meeting me in the Abbey was the highlight of his trip.

Saint Alexei the Martyr Prince...

I decided early on to dedicate this blog to the patronage of St Alexei the Tsarevich; dearest to me of the Imperial Martyrs of Russia. I used to think that the Puritans were rather weird for seeing modern events through the prism of the Bible. By that I mean Oliver Cromwell thinking himself a new Josiah, whose mission was to purge the Idols of the Stuart monarchy; or at Marston Moor as at the head of Gideon's army. Or distant relations in Ulster carrying on the legacy of 1690 at those silly parades. I wonder if I am guilty of that kind of inverse typology in a way myself? I say this because I have these apocalyptic and sacramental beliefs about my princely hero Alexei. Some years ago I dreamt of a shining city, and on the battlements of the city looking out was a boy wearing a golden tunicle; in his right hand he held an icon and girt about his waist was a small sword. I believe that that boy was Alexei and that the shining city was the heavenly Jerusalem.

Alexei's life on earth was tragic. You need only look into his eyes in the portrait below to perceive that they are the wells of deep compassion, grim knowledge and long suffering.

He was the fragile linchpin of the great Christian Empire on earth. Like Christ our God, he was sacrificed for the sins of the Russian people. Now, a century after his death, the Russian people are slowly but surely returning to the Church, despite the years in which the very memory of the Romanovs was cruelly suppressed. I believe that he will be reborn on earth; that a scion of the Imperial house in exile will return to Russia to defend the Church ("alexei" does mean "defender") against the evil empire of the Antichrist. And I believe that I will meet him one day.

What do you think of Alexei?

Comments, and a floorplan...

I welcome feedback; comments, queries, protests, &c. You have to have a Google Account in order to comment (which shouldn't be a problem for most of you), and the comments are embedded. I'm under no illusion that this new blog will have the same attraction as my old one (let's not give it a name but it ran from 2010-2014) because the fire of youth has gone out of me, but I'd like to think that a sensible discussion can continue here on a smaller scale.

I like looking at floorplans of churches. This is the floorplan of Westminster Abbey. You can see by the length and grandiosity of Henry VII's new Lady Chapel that it is unlike the rest of the church, and in terms of scale makes the east end almost as long as the nave. The chapels of St Paul and St Nicholas have large windows that go right up to where the new chapel suddenly thrusts out. I imagine the old Lady Chapel was more in keeping with the small, circular chapels adjacent to it. This map is curiously the only one I could find that includes any reference to the Pew Chapel (no.5), which is little more than a doorway. I'll do a separate post on that.

Quid novi?

Taken two years ago today. Outside a popular wedding church.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to let you know what I've been up to in my absence. The short  answer is nothing. Work continues to be the bane of my life. I'm dumb and stuck, to quote a charwoman from Stephen King, and I'm convinced I'm becoming stupider the older I get. Covid has a lot to do with it. The past three years have put a deep paralysis on normal living for most of us. A friend of mine who works in banking, like me a misanthrope, enjoyed lockdown, as I did at the start when the weather was nice. By January 2021 I took to going to a local cemetery, which opened in 1890, to pass the time. That wasn't nearly as dreary as it sounds because it was an interesting exercise to read the old headstones, which come from a time when faith was still strong in this country. They all have quotes from popular hymns and the Authorised Version, whereas modern headstones, the memorials of a generation without memory, feature such phrases as "stand by me," and "forever in our hearts." It is a peaceful place. Peace, perfect peace, to quote some of the more sensible tombs.

My mother died in June 2020. A woman I work with observed recently that I don't seem to have mourned her death properly. Whether or not that is true, or indeed any of her business, I think is irrelevant; after all, how does one mourn? Nonetheless my mother's death did thrust into plain sight a sense of loneliness which was growing without notice over time and which, in the midst of Covid restrictions, was brought suddenly home. I can put it no better than by comparing the experience with the death of my dog in November 2013. When Lucy died lots of people gathered round me; three years ago I had nothing. And it wasn't just government mandate. As the years have gone by, past friends of mine have disappeared one by one for various reasons; we've fallen out, they've moved away (or died), or we have simply drifted apart. There's no very profound reason for this; these people have evaporated, and I haven't replaced them. And to think I used to believe that loneliness only happened to the elderly!

This brings me to the Church, heretofore a source of company. You may ask whether I still go to church. There I'm afraid the answer is no. A crying shame because church attendance is a very civilising activity. You may remember that at Pentecost 2017 I was baptised into the Church Outside Russia. Marvellous, I thought; this is the pearl of great price! Here was the Church of St Augustine, St Patrick and of St Hilda! I still believe that Orthodoxy is the ancient faith of these Isles, sent into long retreat by the Norman Conquest; but contemporaneously I think there's something a bit off about it. I was introduced to some young (and old) converts in ROCOR. Most of them I found very odd. And the native Orthodox, these Slavic and Romanian families, I found too "wholesome," or something I can't quite explain. Salt of the earth, but a definite cultural and intellectual barrier.

Then there was Lewis, and I'm being awfully candid here but he's not going to see this and none of you know him. During Confession you confide in your confessor all the secrets of your heart. This comes quite easily to me because I have no skeletons. Lewis is a young man with whom I became infatuated a little while ago. He is charming, charismatic, infectiously funny and incredibly good looking, especially in jeans. I think you know where this is going. From a personal perspective, unintruded by moralising clergy, Lewis and I have almost nothing in common. He is heterosexual, extroverted, secular, from a very different family background. Nonetheless I enjoyed being with him, indulging all the personal qualities I perceived in him that I felt that I lacked in myself, and developing romantic feelings for him, which needless to say, were not returned. I told my confessor about him and his response was that this was against nature, that I should forget about him, and also that I really ought to discern a vocation to monastic life.

I disagreed, in part. And I never went back. This is not the forum to debate the contentious issue of sexuality. All I'm going to say is that my confessor was right to advise me to forget about Lewis. But I do not accept that my feelings were "against nature." I don't think that the Devil can counterfeit what I felt, and I say that knowing that not all loves lead to God. In any case, I had encountered this reactionary and oppressive response to my feelings years ago in the Roman Catholic Church, and rejected it, so I found the whole experience more boring than traumatic. And I have never felt called to monastic life!

This brings me back the state of loneliness. I worked with Lewis, and years ago I was wont to keep a lofty distance from work colleagues, for two reasons. I didn't share their values and I had enough friends and activities to keep me occupied outside work. I used to have something on most weekends, and I looked aghast at my colleagues going to some dive of a local pub for a "night out" with people they probably didn't like very much! One thing I take to be axiomatic about work relationships is that they are transient. They last perhaps a few years and then fizzle out, most likely because they are shallow in nature. Perhaps it's indicative of my idealistic nature that I like things to be deep and lasting. Friendship, of the kind the Prophet Samuel describes, is dearer to me than I can express. So when it dawned on me, after my mother died, that I had precious few people left and colleagues of mine reached out to me in kindness and compassion, perhaps I mistook that for friendship in my grief? Just as what I imagined with Lewis, actually not a very nice person, was a chimera; that the beauty and fecundity of what I had imagined between us was just not real.

That's my life in a nutshell. I think that writing about it makes it easier, and I hope makes an interesting read for you. I look at these things clinically now, the better to understand things and try and do something about it. What I'm going to do about religion, I don't know. Perhaps writing, and constructive feedback from readers (do comment!), will help me along my way.

Remember...

When I visited Westminster Abbey the other day, I was delighted to notice on the effigy of Queen Elizabeth I the date given for her death was March 1602. The reason for this seeming mistake was that she died when England still followed the venerable Julian Kalendar, under which the reckoning of the new year commenced, rather sensibly in my opinion, in the Spring as opposed to the Papal (or secular) Kalendar, which reckons the new year from the bleak midwinter.

For those of you, therefore, conscious of kalendrial accuracy, today is the real anniversary of the Martyrdom of King Charles I. I used to go every year to the Banqueting House for the commemoration on the 30th January (false style). At first it was a case of wanting to appear relevant, or involved. With experience, and a measure of wisdom (which are the booby prizes of growing old), you grow out of that sort of nonsense, just as I grew out of the desire to attend events organised by the tradunculi. Especially when you look around and all you see is "1637 Prayer Book" tarted up like a Roman high Mass. One year, outside as we were waiting for the act of devotion, a young man looked me up and down and said to his friend "oh look, it's Patricius!" And my experience was such a far cry from what friends of mine said it used to be like. In the '70's and the '80's there was an early celebration in the banqueting hall, Prayer Book, with the wreath laying at 11am and act of devotion, followed by high Mass with that marvellous sequence, a tour de force of Latin composition and later translation. In those days the altar was in plano, with a throne where they put the altar now, beneath the canopy, and it all looked rather splendid. Now what they put on is just the worst elements of Anglo-Catholicism, as I say "tarted up." I sometimes wonder what King Charles himself would think.

I heard two decent sermons all the years I went; the first, preached by Bishop Banks in 2012 on the subject of masques and the influence of Inigo Jones on the young Charles; the second by another bishop whose name I can't presently recall, in 2016. This latter concluded by quoting from the 1637 Prayer Book Psalter, that little tome that kindled the War of the Three Kingdoms. The psalm appointed to be read at Mattins on the morning of Oak Apple Day 1660 was none other than Psalm 126, "in convertendo."

When the LORD turned again the captivity of Sion : then we were like unto them that dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter : and our tongue with joy. Then said they among the heathen : The LORD hath done great things for them. Yea, the LORD hath done great things for us already : whereof we rejoice. Turn our captivity, O LORD : as the rivers in the south. They that sow in tears : shall reap in joy. He that now goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed : shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him.

This is unduly hopeful for this new Caroline age in which so much that the present King's eponymous predecessors held dear is either forgotten or held in scorn. I suppose the best that the remnant of old England can do these days is to do what the martyred Charles admonished his chaplain to do at the scaffold: Remember.

I think I'll leave it at that. It's good to be writing again, especially on things I cherish like the memory of King Charles.

An afternoon in Westminster...

I went to Westminster Abbey yesterday, just to while away an hour. I wasn't impressed at the £27 admission charge but as I had walked the length of Victoria Street from the Cathedral just to wander round there, I coughed up. Of course I've been to the Abbey many times, but not for some twenty odd years as a tourist. Unlike my experience of Evensong, when the church feels almost prayerful and more spaceous, I felt oppressed by the sheer numbers of people. While looking for the tomb of Queen Elizabeth, I asked one of the stewards whether it was always this crowded on a weekday lunchtime. He looked at me aghast and told me that it was actually rather quiet for that time of day, and that should I visit the Abbey during the Summer months I would not be able to move quite so freely.

I thought I liked the Abbey but it's actually saturated with Baroque monuments which are at odds with the pointed arches. I guess being ushered into the quire at Evensong one simply doesn't look round much. David Starkey once remarked that it was the shrine in which Britain came to worship itself, and I think that's a very insightful observation. I also hadn't realised that Queen Elizabeth is actually buried with her half sister Mary; not, as I had thought, with the martyred Mary Queen of Scots. The steward rather grandly said that the two Mary's were different people and I think assumed that, like most Americans, I had thought they were the same person. Looking down in the Lady Chapel, grafted onto the apse by the usurper Henry VII, I noticed for the first time the erstwhile burial place of Oliver Cromwell, marked with a simple slab. For somebody who would have decried being buried in the east end of a church as a Popish superstition (he declined quinine to treat his malaria because it had been discovered by a Jesuit!) he had quite a decent, kingly burial!

Presently I went into the Chapter House, which is very grand indeed. There were no tourists in there at all, unlike the main body of the church. I got a profound sense of the importance of the Abbey to the mediaeval Church. It actually felt like a democratic place and I had a vision of cowled monks discussing business with the Abbot.

I didn't stay long, or take many pictures, because I felt oppressed by the tourists and it will be a long time before I go back. Have you ever been to the Abbey? Will you watch the Coronation?

I'm back...

Dear readers,

It has been quite a while! Some years ago I indicated my intention to migrate away from Blogger to the more accessible and convenient world of social media. This migration was motivated by a number of factors, not least my addiction to my smartphone. A rather matierialistic desire, probably borne out of loneliness, to connect more with ordinary people in my life. I had also thought for the longest time that my reach here was very limited and I wanted to expand my readership to a more diverse audience, not just friends and old, loyal readers (for whom "Patricius" was perhaps a laughing stock!). As it turned out my experience was mostly negative. The ordinary people turned out to be both very boring and malicious; and they're just the people I know of! As for growing my audience, it turns out that if you have something insightful or original to say, growth is impossible. And so I have disconnected from social media altogether.

I have come to understand, the hard way, that the Internet is a very anonymous and enormous place. I understood that theoretically as far back as secondary school IT but it's quite different if you're on the receiving end of something unpleasant. As you know, I am not averse to speaking my mind and you wouldn't believe the people on the fringes of your life who are out there snooping. Some are just innocuous and nosy, they like to know your business (or what you're willing to reveal online); others have dark motives, whether that is reputation damage or even blackmail (I have never been blackmailed by the way). So by withdrawing completely I have done two things; I have suffocated the oxygen of the snoopers and given myself peace of mind.

This all sounds rather dark! It wasn't all bad. I connected to some interesting accounts, mostly church-related (and I don't mean "churchianity" either). I found few of the Romanov accounts worthwhile. They were mostly teenage girls in love with the black and white photos, and gossiping about which prince or cossack the Grand Duchesses were in love with. And I won't repeat the same mistake I made with Facebook all those years ago. I had a very active Facebook account until around 2013 and in a sudden spasm of iconoclasm I deleted everything without a trace. As that amounted to the permanent deletion of the diary of my life for the period 2009-2013, I was conscious not to do that again. Everything is simply archived and I can retrieve it very quickly. I just have no intention of ever accessing it again!

I actually won't miss my followers. I peaked at a mere 870 (I think) and of those only about 100 were regularly engaged with my content. Some, being entirely innocent of "Patricius," were completely ignorant of my actual beliefs. Only a couple of months ago I was invited to some Ordinariate liturgy. I politely declined, falsely claiming to have had other commitments. The real reason was that I couldn't be bothered explaining my aversion thereto. Having said this, I imagine most of my followers on Instagram would not bother taking up readership here anyway! Strange isn't it, how the forum, not the content, should decide the following.

I don't really have a plan for this place, other than to sort of pick up where I left off on Instagram. The content there was informal and eclectic, ranging from pictures of churches I visit to succinct commentary on things. I've called the blog "Lucernarium." That won't be wasted on connoisseurs of liturgy! I'd like to say that liturgy will form a large part of the content here but I'll see how it goes. For now, welcome back!