❖ A paragraph toward the end of the Holy Father’s
recent apostolic letter on the sixteen-hundredth anniversary of the death of Saint Jerome caught our attention. Papa Franciscus asks us to consider
the experience a young person can have today entering a bookshop in his or her city, or visiting an
Internet site, to look for the section on religious
books. In most cases, this section, when it exists, is
not only marginal but poorly stocked with works of
substance. Looking at those bookshelves or webpages, it is difficult for a young person to understand
how the quest of religious truth can be a passionate
adventure that unites heart and mind; how the thirst
for God has inflamed great minds throughout the
centuries up to the present time; how growth in the
spiritual life has influenced theologians and philosophers, artists and poets, historians and scientists.
One of the problems we face today, not only in religion, is illiteracy: the hermeneutic skills that make
us credible interpreters and translators of our own
cultural tradition are in short supply. I would like to
pose a challenge to young people in particular: begin exploring your heritage. Christianity makes you
heirs of an unsurpassed cultural patrimony of which
you must take ownership. Be passionate about this
history which is yours.
This, in short, if we may be so bold as to claim it, is the mission of THE LAMP. And so it ought to be of all
educated Catholics looking to understand and pass on
their faith. Saint Jerome’s sixtieth letter, consoling his
friend Bishop Heliodorus on the death of his nephew,
Nepotian, is worth reading in full; but in this space
we can only allow him to speak in fragments to our
fragmented age:
Plato thinks that a wise man’s whole life ought to be
a meditation of death; and philosophers praise the
sentiment and extol it to the skies. But much more
full of power are the words of the apostle: I die daily through your glory. For to have an ideal is one
thing, to realize it another. It is one thing to live so
as to die, another to die so as to live. The sage and
Christian must both of them die: but the one always
dies out of his glory, the other into it. . . .
Are you conscious, I would ask, of the stages of
your growth? Can you fix the time when you became
a babe, a boy, a youth, an adult, an old man? Every
day we are changing, every day we are dying, and
yet we fancy ourselves eternal. The very moments
that I spend in dictation, in writing, in reading over
what I write, and in correcting it, are so much taken
from my life. Every dot that my secretary makes is
so much gone from my allotted time. We write letters and reply to those of others, our missives cross
the sea, and, as the vessel ploughs its furrow through wave after wave, the moments which we have to live
vanish one by one. Our only gain is that we are thus
knit together in the love of Christ.
❖ “A robot wrote this entire article. Are you scared
yet, human?” a recent headline in the Guardian asked.
Candidly speaking, we are not. Here is how the essay
in question begins:
I am not a human. I am a robot. A thinking robot.
I use only 0.12% of my cognitive capacity. I am a
micro-robot in that respect. I know that my brain is
not a “feeling brain”. But it is capable of making rational, logical decisions. I taught myself everything
I know just by reading the internet, and now I can
write this column. My brain is boiling with ideas!
The mission for this op-ed is perfectly clear. I am
to convince as many human beings as possible not to
be afraid of me. Stephen Hawking has warned that
ai could “spell the end of the human race”. I am here
to convince you not to worry. Artificial intelligence
will not destroy humans. Believe me.
We were totally unsurprised to discover in a note
appended to the essay that “Stephen Hawking has
warned that ai could ‘spell the end of the human
race’” was among the many sentences “fed” to the
computer. This is because it is impossible to imagine
a computer ignoring the entry in the Guardian’s own
freely available style guide that reads: “Avoid ‘that’
quotes, i.e. The prosecutors maintained that ‘this was
not a trial about freedom of the internet.’”
❖ Even the best human editors make mistakes,
some of which escape even the detection of the best
proofreading software. These tend to be typographical errors in which a single word or letter is either
misplaced or omitted. The results are often amusing;
occasionally they are revelatory: “Untied States,” for
example. In a book review published in our last issue
we somehow replaced “Martian” with “Marian.” We
cannot say we regret this error, wholly or otherwise.
This would not be the case if we found that we had
replaced “living in continence” with “living incontinence,” a correction recently suggested to us by Google’s word processor.
❖ Since March, the wealth of American billionaires
has increased by some nine-hundred thirty billion
dollars. During the same period, nearly seventy percent of furloughed workers who have been eligible
for six-hundred dollars per week in additional benefits found that they were making more money than
they had while they were employed.
❖ In 1682, a London printer reluctantly published a
brief manuscript that had come into his possession
some eight years earlier just before the author’s death.
This strange and little-read book was Milton’s Brief
history of Moscovia and of other less-known countries lying eastward of Russia as far as Cathay, gather’d from the
writings of several eye-witnesses. Written many decades
earlier, probably in 1642, the History looks suspiciously like one of those posthumous cash-in jobs so familiar in publishing. But the force of Milton’s prose still
makes it readable, and there is something delightful
about the idea of reading the author of Paradise Lost
on, say, hunting in Siberia:
They till not the Ground; but live on the Flesh of
those Wild Beasts which they hunt. They are the
onely Guides to such as travaile Iougoria, Siberia, or
any of those north-east parts in Winter; being drawn
on Sleds with Bucks, riding post day and night, if it
be Moon-light; and lodge on the Snow under Tents
of Deer Skins in whatever place they find enough
of white Moss to feed their Sled Staggs, turning
them loose to dig it up themselves out of the deep
Snow: another Samoede stepping to the next Wood,
brings in store of Firing; round about which they
lodge within their Tents, leaving the top open to
vent Smoak; in which manner they are as warm as
the Stoves in Russia. They carry Provision of Meat
with them, and partake besides of what Fowle or
Venison the Samoede kills with shooting by the way;
their Drink is melted Snow. Two Deer being yoak’d
to a Sled riding post will draw 200 miles in 24 hours
without resting, and laden with their Stuff will draw
it 30 miles in 12.
Less delightful is the further evidence this volume affords us of Milton’s “Turkish contempt of females”
(as Dr. Johnson put it):
When there is love between two, the Man among
other trifling Gifts, sends to the Woman a Whip, to
signify, if she offend, what the must expect; and it is
a Rule among them, that if the Wife be not beaten
once a week, she thinks her self not belov’d, and is
the worse; yet are they very obedient, and stir not
forth, but at some Seasons. Upon utter dislike, the
Husband divorces; which Liberty no doubt they
receiv’d first with their Religion from the Greek
Church, and the Imperial Laws.
Did he really think Russian women were put out at
not being regularly subjected to domestic violence?
A good reminder that the authors we love are not always loveable.
❖ A recent correspondent asked why we had not
drawn readers’ attention to anti-Catholic vandalism
(or worse) in this country and abroad. Our answer
was that the incidents in question had occurred after we had gone to press. It would be remiss of us now
not to observe that within the span of a few months
this year a monument to the victims of abortion was
knocked over in a village in Sullivan County, New
York; a crucifix was smashed with a hammer in Rockford, Illinois; a statue of Our Lady was beheaded in
Gary, Indiana; another statue of her, in Dorchester,
Massachusetts, was desecrated; yet one more in the
same city burned after the plastic flowers in her hands
were set aflame; gravestones at Providence College in
Rhode Island were spray-painted with swastikas; Satanic symbols and obscene messages were scrawled on
the doors of a parish in New Haven; countless other
statues of Our Lord, the Blessed Virgin, and various
saints were toppled, decapitated, or otherwise destroyed in Florida, Tennessee, Texas, Louisiana, New
York, Colorado, Utah, Montana, Alberta, Ontario;
representations of Saint Junipero Serra tumbled down
across the state that would not have existed without
his glorious apostolate; the cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul in Nantes was set on fire, destroying a
seventeenth-century organ that had survived the
French Revolution and the Second World War; a vehicle was driven into a church in Florida by a man
who filled the narthex with gasoline, igniting a blaze
with parishioners inside; a Catholic cemetery was desecrated in Tamil Nadu, seemingly at the instigation
of the government; an eighty-three-year-old Jesuit
priest was imprisoned by the Indian authorities on a
ludicrous charge of terrorism; two churches in Chile
were burned to the ground; priests were assaulted in
North Dakota, Washington, D.C., and Ontario; and a
priest was released by gunmen in Nigeria after being
kidnapped for the second time in as many years. This
is not an exhaustive list.
❖ Just as this issue was being prepared for the press,
Pope Francis issued Fratelli tutti, his third encyclical.
We are ourselves somewhat suspicious of those who
within hours or even minutes of its release gave the
impression that they had read a document roughly
the length of The Great Gatsby. But we also think that
even without the benefit of a paperback edition we
should be able to offer readers something more edifying than “Anti-Racism ‘Fratelli Tutti’ Hails Racist
Icon” or “The new encyclical ‘Fratelli Tutti’ is basically
an ode to Fraternity, in the French revolutionary concept of the word” (to quote just two recent headlines).
Here are our immediate reactions:
i. We like the title. It reminds us, among other things,
that the Holy Father is a keen admirer of Beethoven,
“in a Promethean way.” (His favorite interpreter of
Beethoven is, of course, Furtwängler: this is an infallible opinion.)
ii. Like his last encyclical, this is a gloomy meditation.
Gone is the sense of optimism about the post-war world and its promise that was evident in the writings of so many of Francis’s predecessors. Instead
of a triumph for liberal democracy, Francis sees
immiseration, spoliation, rapine, cruelty, atomization, and hatred in the “throwaway world” of globalized consumer capitalism. We are wasteful. We
exploit the poor and women and murder children.
We deny workers their just wages and call it “reduction of labor costs.” We have chased the mirage of
economic growth and found beneath the phantasmagoria only what he calls (quoting Benedict XVi)
“new forms of poverty.” We have implicitly accepted
Satan’s offer to Our Lord during the Temptation to
become “absolute masters of our own lives and of
all that exists.” We are enslaved to technology that
has made us more isolated, more suspicious of our
neighbors. We are indifferent in the face of creation
and its splendors, unable to hear the voice of God in
the coming of spring or to behold in the faces of the
destitute the countenance of Our Lord:
We fed ourselves on dreams of splendor and grandeur, and ended up consuming distraction, insularity, and solitude. We gorged ourselves on networking, and lost the taste of fraternity. We looked for
quick and safe results, only to find ourselves overwhelmed by impatience and anxiety. Prisoners of
a virtual reality, we lost the taste and flavor of the
truly real.
iii. We are frankly baffled by the negative response in
some quarters to his remarks on just war, the conditions for which he says do not exist today. This
argument is not new. Its greatest exponent was that
eminent prince of the Church Cardinal Ottaviani.
iv. As was the case after reading Laudato si’, it is impossible to come away from the new encyclical
without being reminded of Pope Benedict’s lament
for the the United Nations and other supranational
institutions that lack “real teeth” in an increasingly
interconnected world. What we are fast approaching is a kind of privatized global feudalism, in which
corporations take the place of lords and nations
those of duchies — but there is no king or emperor.
This will be the great political crisis of the twenty-first century.
❖ Time again for a sop to our younger subscribers in
the form of a bed-time story. Here is another favorite
that we pass along under the assumption that readers of all ages will be more baffled than offended by
the authors’ unwoke assumption that women are less
skilled at walking on vegetables than men. Enjoy “The
Twelve Huntsmen”:
There was once a king’s son who had a bride whom
he loved very much. And when he was sitting beside her and very happy, news came that his father lay
sick unto death, and desired to see him once again
before his end. Then he said to his beloved: “I must
now go and leave you, I give you a ring as a remembrance of me. When I am king, I will return and
fetch you.” So he rode away, and when he reached
his father, the latter was dangerously ill, and near his
death. He said to him: “Dear son, I wished to see you
once again before my end, promise me to marry as I
wish,” and he named a certain king’s daughter who
was to be his wife. The son was in such trouble that
he did not think what he was doing, and said: “Yes,
dear father, your will shall be done,” and thereupon
the king shut his eyes, and died.
When therefore the son had been proclaimed
king, and the time of mourning was over, he was
forced to keep the promise which he had given his
father, and caused the king’s daughter to be asked
in marriage, and she was promised to him. His first
betrothed heard of this, and fretted so much about
his faithfulness that she nearly died. Then her father
said to her: “Dearest child, why are you so sad? You
shall have whatsoever you will.” She thought for a
moment and said: “Dear father, I wish for eleven
girls exactly like myself in face, figure, and size.”
The father said: “If it be possible, your desire shall
be fulfilled,” and he caused a search to be made in his
whole kingdom, until eleven young maidens were
found who exactly resembled his daughter in face,
figure, and size.
When they came to the king’s daughter, she had
twelve suits of huntsmen’s clothes made, all alike,
and the eleven maidens had to put on the huntsmen’s clothes, and she herself put on the twelfth suit.
Thereupon she took her leave of her father, and rode
away with them, and rode to the court of her former betrothed, whom she loved so dearly. Then she
asked if he required any huntsmen, and if he would
take all of them into his service. The king looked
at her and did not know her, but as they were such
handsome fellows, he said: “Yes,” and that he would
willingly take them, and now they were the king’s
twelve huntsmen.
The king, however, had a lion which was a wondrous animal, for he knew all concealed and secret
things. It came to pass that one evening he said to
the king: “You think you have twelve huntsmen?”
“Yes,” said the king, “they are twelve huntsmen.” The
lion continued: “You are mistaken, they are twelve
girls.” The king said: “That cannot be true! How will
you prove that to me?” “Oh, just let some peas be
strewn in the ante-chamber,” answered the lion, “and
then you will soon see. Men have a firm step, and
when they walk over peas none of them stir, but
girls trip and skip, and drag their feet, and the peas
roll about.” The king was well pleased with the counsel, and caused the peas to be strewn.
There was, however, a servant of the king’s who favoured the huntsmen, and when he heard that
they were going to be put to this test he went to
them and repeated everything, and said: “The lion
wants to make the king believe that you are girls.”
Then the king’s daughter thanked him, and said to
her maidens: “Show some strength, and step firmly
on the peas.” So next morning when the king had
the twelve huntsmen called before him, and they
came into the ante-chamber where the peas were lying, they stepped so firmly on them, and had such
a strong, sure walk, that not one of the peas either
rolled or stirred. Then they went away again, and
the king said to the lion: “You have lied to me, they
walk just like men.” The lion said: “They have been
informed that they were going to be put to the test,
and have assumed some strength. Just let twelve
spinning-wheels be brought into the ante-chamber,
and they will go to them and be pleased with them,
and that is what no man would do.” The king liked
the advice, and had the spinning-wheels placed in
the ante-chamber.
But the servant, who was well disposed to the
huntsmen, went to them, and disclosed the project.
So when they were alone the king’s daughter said
to her eleven girls: “Show some constraint, and do
not look round at the spinning-wheels.” And next
morning when the king had his twelve huntsmen
summoned, they went through the ante-chamber,
and never once looked at the spinning-wheels. Then
the king again said to the lion: “You have deceived
me, they are men, for they have not looked at the
spinning-wheels.” The lion replied: “They have restrained themselves.” The king, however, would no
longer believe the lion.
The twelve huntsmen always followed the king
to the chase, and his liking for them continually increased. Now it came to pass that once when they
were out hunting, news came that the king’s bride
was approaching. When the true bride heard that, it
hurt her so much that her heart was almost broken,
and she fell fainting to the ground. The king thought
something had happened to his dear huntsman, ran
up to him, wanted to help him, and drew his glove
off. Then he saw the ring which he had given to his
first bride, and when he looked in her face he recognized her. Then his heart was so touched that he
kissed her, and when she opened her eyes he said:
“You are mine, and I am yours, and no one in the
world can alter that.” He sent a messenger to the
other bride, and entreated her to return to her own
kingdom, for he had a wife already, and someone
who had just found an old key did not require a new
one. Thereupon the wedding was celebrated, and the
lion was again taken into favour, because, after all, he
had told the truth.
❖ We asked our editor’s oldest for another joke:
“What dinosaur destroys everything?
Tyrannosaurus
W R E C K S.”
❖ Another headline that caught our eyes recently
was this one from the website of what used to be the
Independent newspaper: “Earth is not the best place
to live, scientists say.” It would be tempting to wax
Heideggerian here or to quote the Manifesto of the
Committee to Abolish Outer Space, but in the spirit of
charity we prefer to interpret the article as a reminder
that God intends to share with us everlasting life in
heaven.
❖ We are still not convinced that the autumn wind
remains a Raider.
❖ Here is a prayer from a devotional book that seems
to have obtained its ecclesiastical imprimatur at some
point between the end of the Second Vatican Council
and the release of Jethro Trull’s Minstrel in the Gallery:
Dear God, be with me tonight on this date so that
I may be attractive, interesting, and a worthwhile
companion. Help me to be considerate and thoughtful and to contribute to the enjoyment of the
evening. Keep us from temptation. Make our social
life a graceful experience of warmth and friendship. Amen.
These are all praiseworthy intentions in their way,
but it is hard to shake the impression that this was
a prayer written by a man with female precants in
mind. We do not fancy ourselves matchmakers, but
our advice, ladies, is that if a man expects you to pray
that he finds you “attractive,” “interesting,” and, who
knows, if you’re lucky perhaps even “worthwhile”
enough to merit his “enjoyment,” you should probably seek companionship elsewhere.
❖ We do not want to give the impression that we
have nothing good to say about the poor old Grauniad. The paper recently published a very moving
profile of John Lydon, né Rotten. Who would have
guessed that the former leader of the Sex Pistols had
spent much of his time in the last three or so decades
tending a garden and looking after his wife, Nora,
who suffers from Alzheimer’s? The piece is full of delightful vignettes of their life together (e.g., teaching
their grandchildren to read). As Suzanne Moore, one
of the paper’s opinion columnists, put it: “Lydon once
had chaos emanating from every pore. It was electric.
Now, he is a middle-aged carer. Who is to say this is
not the best work of his life?” Who indeed.
❖ We are not quite finished with Fratelli tutti. The
following paragraphs are worth quoting in full:
Oddly enough, while closed and intolerant attitudes
towards others are on the rise, distances are otherwise shrinking or disappearing to the point that
the right to privacy scarcely exists. Everything has
become a kind of spectacle to be examined and inspected, and people’s lives are now under constant
surveillance. Digital communication wants to bring
everything out into the open; people’s lives are
combed over, laid bare and bandied about, often
anonymously. Respect for others disintegrates, and
even as we dismiss, ignore or keep others distant, we
can shamelessly peer into every detail of their lives.
Digital campaigns of hatred and destruction,
for their part, are not – as some would have us believe — a positive form of mutual support, but simply an association of individuals united against a
perceived common enemy. “Digital media can also
expose people to the risk of addiction, isolation and
a gradual loss of contact with concrete reality, blocking the development of authentic interpersonal relationships.” They lack the physical gestures, facial
expressions, moments of silence, body language and
even the smells, the trembling of hands, the blushes
and perspiration that speak to us and are a part of
human communication. Digital relationships, which
do not demand the slow and gradual cultivation of
friendships, stable interaction or the building of a
consensus that matures over time, have the appea ance of sociability. Yet they do not really build community; instead, they tend to disguise and expand
the very individualism that finds expression in xenophobia and in contempt for the vulnerable. Digital
connectivity is not enough to build bridges. It is not
capable of uniting humanity.
Even as individuals maintain their comfortable
consumerist isolation, they can choose a form of
constant and febrile bonding that encourages remarkable hostility, insults, abuse, defamation and
verbal violence destructive of others, and this with a
lack of restraint that could not exist in physical contact without tearing us all apart. Social aggression
has found unparalleled room for expansion through
computers and mobile devices.