To say: "Praise him, praise him."can be off-putting.
But again it's not really about flattery. It's the reverse. People who get to know about "Godness", "Goditty" and God are merely expressing how they feel. "Praise him." is not actually a command, but an expostulation.
Quite an everyday use of language: "My God, wow wee. Look at that view."That's sort of thing.
As for Karen Armstrong's focus on "belief" and her post facto reconstructive etymology: "Logos" or "Mythos". It doesn't wash for me because it's an authentically false distinction, if you know what I mean. Just as the post-feminist narrative of nursing and the position of women in society on a TV programme I saw tonight was false - something to cringe over in twenty years time - like 1980s hairstyles.
Today my 16 year old daughter was confirmed in the Catholic faith. Everyone had their own pew; everyone was dressed in their Sunday best - especially the Bishop. He wore a clashing orange and purple robe.
There were three Brazilian seminarians at the back; three officiating priests and a Bishop.
I have to take a leak when I arrive and I queue with a Teddington housewife. She says:"Patrick wanted to invite his family, but I thought What for?" "I know what you mean. No way I'd invite my atheist brothers. They wouldn't come and if they did they would have to sneer quite a bit later on just to get it all out of their system."
My younger daughter, who towers, is the lead alter server carrying a large cross in in front of the procession. A serious expression on her face. Or is it just an efficient expression? She brings out the bowls and holy tinctures and balms and wine and silverware with the ability of a truly talented waiter. I only wish she were as efficient clearing and laying the table at home.
Like so many agnostics I traipsed along to church with my wife for many years. One day a priest challenged me."One has to be consistent in ones views, he said."(Translation: WTF are you doing here?) So I stopped going. He was a recently graduated pipsqueak with clammy hands anyway so that put me off.
But I do go on special occasions.
The young people have to think about if they really want to be Catholics and they go away on a retreat and they ask questions and have to commit to serving in an old age people's home or an orphanage.
I like the practical social commitment that comes out of the church.
The ceremony lasted a long time. It started with Bob Dylan's Every Grain of Sand. Played by Dan and his group - very professional - very Celtic. Catholicism is a little bit too much about Celtic identities in the UK.
I whispered to my son. "Play that at my funeral Chicks." "Don't be so morbid Dad," he said. "That girl keep sneaking looks at you," I said. "Stop it dad."He said. "The one in the white dress."
Then along came a "Kyrie Eleison" or three and I find that the acoustics of the church allow me to set up a resonance like an underground train if I sing at a certain frequency. So I try to make the church rumble while the song continues on. I find the way white congregations hymn sing so irritating and tuneless.
Behind us a choir in up high in the upper church somewhere sings Mozart and then each young person who is about to be confirmed has their Baptismal candle lit. My daughter then passes hers to her Godmother who has flown all the way from Barcelona to be here.
They do this, they do that. Then the bishop tells them that the action of laying on of hands will change their lives. "The holy spirit will descend."That's more of a ceremonial act than a "belief" in my book, Karen. He lays hands on every candidate's head. Some of the priests are looking on, perhaps recalling the moment so important to them.
An old handicapped priest at is sitting, head nodding forward behind the altar. My eyes catch his.
The each child goes forward and my daughter is Cecelia for some reason and not her proper name. "Why is she Cecelia?" I ask. "I'll tell you later." my wife hisses.
It goes on for quite some time and so I try to meditate. I succeed but apparently I look as if I was sleeping - an easy mistake to make. No I wasn't I was meditating.
A small boy comes up and sings "Ave Maria" in a strange Basso profundo voice and then two of the candidates - girls -sing a strangled Pie Jesuin imitation of the chubby boy on Britain's got talent and some of the sillier parents clap.
Songs. I lose track. My shoulders are aching.
Then we give each other the sign of peace: Kiss, strong handshake. Soft handshake.
Time for the holiest part of the mass.
"This is the body.."ring, ring. "This is the blood..." ring, ring.
My daughter confirmed in the faith gives me a nudge "Put your hands like this." And she crosses her arms over her chest and stand in line. Why not? I go up to the bearded priest and he pats me on the head and I go and sit down, exorcised. I can still feel his hand.
We're outside. The bishop is in a hurry to get to another confirmation on the other side of town and the flock are quickly shepherded out of his way. He drives off in his silver motor.
But afterwards I comment to my sister in law -
"Where is the secular equivalent of this rite of passage? There isn't one. Don't people need it?They need this communal solemnization at important points in their life. "
What's the secular equivalent - getting drunk, going to Amsterdam and getting laid? I can see how that might be life affirming, but it's such over-the-top individualism, so "youth culture" so pathetic, somehow.
Where is the mythos in secularism?
But again it's not really about flattery. It's the reverse. People who get to know about "Godness", "Goditty" and God are merely expressing how they feel. "Praise him." is not actually a command, but an expostulation.
Quite an everyday use of language: "My God, wow wee. Look at that view."That's sort of thing.
As for Karen Armstrong's focus on "belief" and her post facto reconstructive etymology: "Logos" or "Mythos". It doesn't wash for me because it's an authentically false distinction, if you know what I mean. Just as the post-feminist narrative of nursing and the position of women in society on a TV programme I saw tonight was false - something to cringe over in twenty years time - like 1980s hairstyles.
Today my 16 year old daughter was confirmed in the Catholic faith. Everyone had their own pew; everyone was dressed in their Sunday best - especially the Bishop. He wore a clashing orange and purple robe.
There were three Brazilian seminarians at the back; three officiating priests and a Bishop.
I have to take a leak when I arrive and I queue with a Teddington housewife. She says:"Patrick wanted to invite his family, but I thought What for?" "I know what you mean. No way I'd invite my atheist brothers. They wouldn't come and if they did they would have to sneer quite a bit later on just to get it all out of their system."
My younger daughter, who towers, is the lead alter server carrying a large cross in in front of the procession. A serious expression on her face. Or is it just an efficient expression? She brings out the bowls and holy tinctures and balms and wine and silverware with the ability of a truly talented waiter. I only wish she were as efficient clearing and laying the table at home.
Like so many agnostics I traipsed along to church with my wife for many years. One day a priest challenged me."One has to be consistent in ones views, he said."(Translation: WTF are you doing here?) So I stopped going. He was a recently graduated pipsqueak with clammy hands anyway so that put me off.
But I do go on special occasions.
The young people have to think about if they really want to be Catholics and they go away on a retreat and they ask questions and have to commit to serving in an old age people's home or an orphanage.
I like the practical social commitment that comes out of the church.
The ceremony lasted a long time. It started with Bob Dylan's Every Grain of Sand. Played by Dan and his group - very professional - very Celtic. Catholicism is a little bit too much about Celtic identities in the UK.
I whispered to my son. "Play that at my funeral Chicks." "Don't be so morbid Dad," he said. "That girl keep sneaking looks at you," I said. "Stop it dad."He said. "The one in the white dress."
Then along came a "Kyrie Eleison" or three and I find that the acoustics of the church allow me to set up a resonance like an underground train if I sing at a certain frequency. So I try to make the church rumble while the song continues on. I find the way white congregations hymn sing so irritating and tuneless.
Behind us a choir in up high in the upper church somewhere sings Mozart and then each young person who is about to be confirmed has their Baptismal candle lit. My daughter then passes hers to her Godmother who has flown all the way from Barcelona to be here.
They do this, they do that. Then the bishop tells them that the action of laying on of hands will change their lives. "The holy spirit will descend."That's more of a ceremonial act than a "belief" in my book, Karen. He lays hands on every candidate's head. Some of the priests are looking on, perhaps recalling the moment so important to them.
An old handicapped priest at is sitting, head nodding forward behind the altar. My eyes catch his.
The each child goes forward and my daughter is Cecelia for some reason and not her proper name. "Why is she Cecelia?" I ask. "I'll tell you later." my wife hisses.
It goes on for quite some time and so I try to meditate. I succeed but apparently I look as if I was sleeping - an easy mistake to make. No I wasn't I was meditating.
A small boy comes up and sings "Ave Maria" in a strange Basso profundo voice and then two of the candidates - girls -sing a strangled Pie Jesuin imitation of the chubby boy on Britain's got talent and some of the sillier parents clap.
Songs. I lose track. My shoulders are aching.
Then we give each other the sign of peace: Kiss, strong handshake. Soft handshake.
Time for the holiest part of the mass.
"This is the body.."ring, ring. "This is the blood..." ring, ring.
My daughter confirmed in the faith gives me a nudge "Put your hands like this." And she crosses her arms over her chest and stand in line. Why not? I go up to the bearded priest and he pats me on the head and I go and sit down, exorcised. I can still feel his hand.
We're outside. The bishop is in a hurry to get to another confirmation on the other side of town and the flock are quickly shepherded out of his way. He drives off in his silver motor.
But afterwards I comment to my sister in law -
"Where is the secular equivalent of this rite of passage? There isn't one. Don't people need it?They need this communal solemnization at important points in their life. "
What's the secular equivalent - getting drunk, going to Amsterdam and getting laid? I can see how that might be life affirming, but it's such over-the-top individualism, so "youth culture" so pathetic, somehow.
Where is the mythos in secularism?
Lovely piece thanks Phil.
ReplyDeleteAm not sure we secularists (for such I am) do need a 'mythos' - efforts to inject it into a religious substitute tend to be either hilariously bathetic or downright sinister - there is a devastating wee story by Max Beerbohm, a parody of HG Wells, which does an effective demolition job!
Thanks Edwin. Demolition job on what though? On secular rituals? Where's the solemnity in being married by a minor official?
ReplyDeleteexcellent question, and one i think we're all trying to answer...or rework or reword or....(re)surrect. in our way.
ReplyDelete