Picture Perfect

Those of you who remember my post on the neo-creationist nonsense calling itself intelligent design will appreciate the following cartoon from one of my favourite cartoonists, Wiley.

The man is a genius.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the day: I desire you would use all your skill to paint my picture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but remark all these roughness, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me, otherwise I will never pay a farthing for it. (Oliver Cromwell)

Morituri te salutat

I had been pleased with myself.

In the week and a half since my Greek precessional and the commencement of first semester today, I had thought I'd made some progress. I'd drawn up charts for the Greek alphabet and stuck them up on the back of the bathroom door, where I could contemplate (and memorise) the Greek alphabet at leisure. I had also drawn up a table of the noun and definite article declensions in masculine, feminine, and neuter singular and plural nominative, genitive, dative, and accusative cases. I'd also constructed some flash cards with various items of grammar and vocab.

And I'd also studied. No, seriously, I had studied. Indeed, I had reached the point where I could write out the Greek alphabet in both capitals and script (in sequence, if you don't mind), and had also been able to construct the full declension for some basic words. So I figured I'd made some progress, if not exactly become a star pupil. Granted, I was still having trouble with the vocab, as well as remembering where pesky little items such as breathing marks (for pronunciation) and iota subscripts (I won't even try and explain that one to you) went. But all in all, I reasoned, not a bad start. I was looking forward to today's lesson.

Nothing like an actual lecture to knock the stuffing out of you.

Well, okay, not the stuffing, exactly, but certainly my illusions. When we started the lesson with a review of the work canvassed in the precessional, I realised that I didn't know diddly squat. I had forgotten about the partial declension pattern for proper nouns, as well as the irregular declension pattern for feminine nouns (which results in feminine nouns ending in "alpha" changing their form from "alpha" to "eta" in the genitive and dative singular if the penultimate letter is not "epsilon", "iota", or "rho"). I'd also forgotten about postpositives and how they go between the positive article and the noun, as well as "epsilon/iota" ending that makes a noun a verb and means "I/he/she/it performs the action of the verb".

You get my drift!

So you can imagine my joy upon learning that today's lesson would cover prepositions, and all the tricky little rules and variations that go with them. My personal favourites are the triple-meaning prepositions; that is, prepositions that have three different meanings depending on whether the noun that is their subject is in the genitive, dative, or accusative case. What bliss, I thought, reaching for the aspirin; now I only have to remember the same word in three different forms and meanings! What could be simpler!

No kidding, Greece may well have been the cradle of Western civilisation, but they knew sweet FA about making knowledge - never mind learning - easy to access.

This whole experience reminds of the story about the English cricketer who was asked what it was like facing the terrifying fast bowling of the West Indian cricket team. He is said to have paused thoughtfully, then responded: "Tell me, did you ever watch the film Zulu and wonder what it was like to be one of the British redcoats facing the charge of the impis?"

I know exactly what he's talking about.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Education is what remains after what one has learned has been forgotten. (B F Skinner)

Weltschmerz

"What is freedom?"

"I don't know either. I only know that it is neither irresponsibility nor aimlessness. It's easier to say what it is not than what it is."

I am presently reading the novel Heaven Has No Favourites by Erich Maria Remarque, which is set in the immediate post-war period in Europe. It concerns a racing driver named Clerfayt, and a young woman, Lillian Dunkerque, both of whom are seeking freedom from a sense of doom, from the inevitable collapse of dreams and hopes and ideas in the face of time and death. Time and death are stark realities for Clerfayt and Lillian. He lives from race to race, knowing that his life-span as a driver is running out, that he must endure either a long, empty retirement forgotten by the world, or horrible death or disfigurement in an accident; she is dying from tuberculosis, her alternatives being a short, bright spurt of living life to the full, or the drawn-out accumulation of days and weeks and years imprisoned in a remote Swiss sanitarium.

Both were traumatised by their experiences in the war: he as a POW, she as a frightened fugitive on the run from the Nazis, and these experiences have coloured their perception of life. Knowing what they know of the human capacity for evil, and of the random arbitrariness of death, they regard the rituals of modern life as empty, meaningless, irrelevant. And yet they also long for meaning, for substance, for freedom from their sense of inevitable decay and entropy. They long for life, for innocence, for a time when they did not know what they know, and did not feel as they feel. They fear death, but also regard life as irrelevant.

Heaven Has No Favourites is the story of their attempt to escape their ennui, their attempt to try and find some meaning in life through the agency of all the things they regard as meaningless; it is the story of their attempt to escape back into meaning from the wasteland of alienation.

It is hard not to see Remarque's own life projected through this novel - as, indeed, it was projected through all his novels. Remarque's first and most famous novel - All Quiet on the Western Front - and its sequels - The Road Back and Three Comrades - depict the alienation and dislocation which young men returning from the horrors of the First World War experienced. And it is an experience made all the more poignant because they were enlisted in 1916 - that is, they weren't old enough to enlist at the war's beginning, and thus weren't old enough to have jobs or families or careers, conditions which could anchor them in the pre-war world and to which they could return if they survived. On the other hand, they were just old enough to have all their illusions and naivety destroyed by the experience of war, to have their expectation of, and faith in, all the things older men took for granted fatally undermined. And so when they returned from the fighting they had nothing - no hopes, no dreams, no plans or ambitions, no sense of place or belonging. Just cynicism, and grief, and anger, and guilt for having survived the conflict that claimed not only the lives of their friends, but also the world into which they had expected to grow up and become citizens.

Part of what makes adolescence a difficult period is that we are able, for the first time, to critically examine the world around us; and yet we also lack the life experience to resist the shock-value of our discoveries. Remarque and his peers went through a greatly magnified process; the shock value not of life, but of mass slaughter. And so they were confronted with the "Big Questions" of being without the luxury of first coming to terms with existence, and working out for themselves their own ground on which to stand, and from which to answer such questions.

The result was an alienation - not only an emptiness, a hollowness, but a sense of aloneness and insignificance - which haunted Remarque his whole life. After the war, he struggled to make ends meet variously as a teacher, a funeral ornament salesman (depicted in his novel The Black Obelisk), a theatre critic, and a sports journalist. When All Quiet on the Western Front was published in 1929, he found fame and fortune - but not peace. The rise of Nazism in Germany in the 1930's resulted in him being condemned as a "defeatist" writer, eventuating in his exile, first to Switzerland, then the United States. His sister suffered a terrible fate at the Nazis' hands because of him, and his personal life was a shambles, marked by a self-conscious, alcohol-fuelled hedonism, and destructive intimate relationships.

Remarque's sense of rootlessness is depicted in his "emigre" novels: Flotsam, Arch of Triumph, A Night in Lisbon. All the old certainties have been destroyed; but there is nothing to replace them, except grief for what has been overturned, and a vague, unsatisfying hope for what might be. You get a real sense that the emigre people of the between-the-war years understood that they were doomed: what they had once been, or might have been, had been swept away by the destruction of war and the upheaval of its aftermath; and they could also sense the forthcoming conflagration, and understood that its impact would be even greater than the first war. The in-between time was, at best, a brief respite.

And this impression comes across in the experience of Remarque's own life. Despite the fact that he lived in, or habituated, many "exotic" locations - Monte Carlo, Paris, Milan, New York - he never discovered a sense of home until later in life when he settled in Porto Ronco, Switzerland. Even so, the fact that he was forced into exile from Germany, and felt too alienated to re-settle there after the war, accentuated his feelings of rootlessness. Likewise, despite the fact that he had affairs with some of the most beautiful women of his day - Dolores del Rio, Lupe Valez, Maureen O'Sullivan, Luise Rainer, Marlene Dietrich, and Greta Garbo - these were almost always unsatisfying and frequently turbulent, characterised by emotional neediness and recriminations born of insecurity. His first marriage was marred by mutual infidelity and jealousy, and it was again only later in life that his second marriage, to Paulette Goddard, provided any sense of stability and comfort. And just at the point when his life seemed to have found depth and meaning, his being was undermined by terminal ill-health.

Many people find Remarque's work too cloying, too full of sadness and despair. But a careful reading also indicates an undercurrent of heroism and hope; the very fact that people struggle against their despair and feelings of futility instead of surrendering to apathy is itself a cause for celebration. Weltschmerz, the sense of the terrible sadness of being, may be the theme of Remarque's novels; but so, too, is the terrible beauty of existence. There is a glory amidst the sadness, a glimpse of the heights to which the human spirit can rise, in spite - and despite - itself.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the day: Thought shall be harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens. (Anglo-Saxon epic: The Battle of Maldon)

Our First Service

Last night, my Dearly Beloved and I lead our first worship service together.

We have come to this point by an interesting road. When we commenced our Periods of Discernment last year, we wanted to undertake a project that would provide us with some experience in leading worship, as well as working collaboratively with others to enable them to utilise and express their gifts. At the same time, we also wanted to make a contribution to our local Uniting Church community.

As is often the way with these things, we found our way forward by talking to people. Through conversation, we discerned that there was a desire within our local church community for a time and a space which was focused exclusively on worship and worship styles; a process that complemented the regular Sunday morning service, but which was solely about the exercise of worship, about drawing on the richness of Christian tradition in order to bring people into an encounter with the holiness and mystery of God.

As a consequence, my Dearly Beloved and I hit upon the idea of a series of monthly services on a Sunday evening. They would not be services as this is understood in terms of the regular Sunday service; rather, they would be services that would focus on and utilise a particular process of worship. Hardly an original idea, I grant you, but we recognised that it fit the bill in terms of what we wanted to achieve and the contribution to our community we wanted to make.

The first step was discussing the idea with our local minister; and as we talked through the project with him, we felt blessed by his wonderful support, affirmation, and wise guidance. With great enthusiasm, he helped clarify our thinking and gave us the green light to proceed. Next, we approached a smaller group of people within the church community whom we knew possessed particular gifts and asked if they wanted to be involved in the project; and for a second time we were blessed by their support, enthusiasm, and generosity. Before we quite realised what had happened, we were planning the first service.

And last night was the occasion for same. It was a contemplative service structured in "cycles" that told the life of Christ from the commencement of his ministry to just before his entry into Jerusalem. Each cycle consisted of a reading, a Taize chant, and a meditation space. The intent was to generat in the participants a meditative mindset that enabled them to focus on God, and to have an experience of the indwelling of God which they could then take with them from the worship space.

The service started at 7pm. The cool change was threatening, but it was still hellishly hot. Nonetheless, an encouraging number of hardy souls turned up for the service. In retrospect, the whole service went better than either my Dearly Beloved or I anticipated, thanks to the contributions of our support group and the affirming presence of our fellow parishioners. No doubt there will be one or two minor aspects that will require attention; we'll debrief on these and make any necessary adjustment. But it seems to me that by the time the service ended forty minutes after it commenced, an atmosphere of contemplative peace had indeed touched all who participated.

For me, one of the most significant moments occurred during the first meditation space. As silence fell upon the congregation, the cool change at last arrived, and rain poured down onto the church roof. I have always loved the sound of rain falling, especially at night; and on this particularly hot and torrid evening, the sound of rain falling felt like the gentle benediction of God's grace.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. (William Shakespeare)

It's All Greek....

I have just returned home from the first day of a two-day precessional on Koine, the dialect of ancient Greek in which the New Testament was written. This is part of my theological study for 2007, and, if I hope to ever be a minister one day (that is, assuming I'm accepted as a candidate), I must complete at least one semester of study in either Koine or Hebrew.

I will try to convey to you my first impressions as succinctly and as accurately as possible:

OH - MY -GOD!!!!

Make no mistake, dear reader, I was under no illusions that this subject would be anything but difficult. But having no illusions is not quite the same as understanding the cold, brutal, frightening reality.

The lecturer was keen to dispel any misconceptions which I and my fellow students may have nurtured. In pleasantly conversational tones, he informed the class at the beginning of the day that Koine is a subject that produces a high "casualty rate" among students in terms of failures and drop outs. I know he was simply telling us what we were letting ourselves in for - I just wish he hadn't been smiling when he said it! Nor was I comforted by his assurances that dropping out or failing was okay; I don't want to drop out or fail, I want to pass, so that if I am selected as a ministry candidate, I won't have to worry about learning another language in order to successfully complete my candidature

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I mean, as if learning a new alphabet wasn't bad enough, there's the grammar. I don't even know the first thing about English grammar, never mind that pertaining to an extinct dialect of ancient Greek! Subjectives, participles, tenses, cases, infinitives, and on and on and on....and, hey, just because I do a bit of scribbling in my spare time doesn't mean I actually know anything about the way my mother tongue is constructed. I'm a writer, not a grammarian!

It needs hardly be said that the rest of the day was a real slog, and I made a complete hash of everything; I could barely write the alphabet out coherently, never mind do any transliterating.

I really don't remember much of the train trip home; and I certainly hope none of the neighbours noticed the foetal ball I collapsed into when I staggered through the front door. I think this is just going to be a case of lots and lots of study and lots of hard work in order to scrape a bare pass...but I'll be damned if I drop out. I've already made the investment, I can't afford to.

There is one bright side: my Dearly Beloved has a real facility for languages - afterall, she speaks and teaches Chinese, and speaks one or two other languages besides. I really, really, really hope some of that facility rubs off on me.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: In language, the ignorant have prescribed laws to the learned. (Richard Duppa)

Sacred Spaces

During our recent trip to New Zealand, my Dearly Beloved and I were fortunate enough to encounter a series of beautiful cathedrals and churches, thanks to the fact that many NZ cities have done a lot of work in retaining and restoring their colonial architectural heritage. And thanks to my Dearly Beloved being a wiz with the digital camera, I can now share some of these wonderful sacred spaces with you.

Rotorua

St Faith's Anglican Church, constructed in its present form in 1910, is part of the Ohinemutu Maori village complex in Rotorua. It sits on the edge of a square within the village that also houses a traditional Maori meeting hall, as well as beautiful examples of Maori wood carvings.

Photography was not permitted inside the church, however, I can tell you that it was stunningly beautiful. Maori wood carvings and weavings were combined with stain glass windows to produce a wonderfully peaceful and reverential worship space.

Wellington

The capital of New Zealand impressed us with its fine old colonial architecture, and that fact that many splendid old buildings have been given new leases of life. However, as we were only in Wellington overnight before heading down to the South Island, we weren't able to really investigate the churches of this picturesque city (we were especially sad that we missed out on seeing Old St Paul's cathedral, which is reputed to be absolutely splendid).

However, near the hotel where we were staying was a rather impressive looking Presbyterian church. We didn't go in as it was late in the evening and we thought in any event that it might be closed, however, I think you'll agree from this exterior shot that it looks as though it may have been worth investigating had we the chance to do so.

Nelson

Apart from the fact that Nelson is a charming town with a beautifully preserved central business district, it boasts one of the most magnificent cathedrals I have seen anywhere. Christ Church cathedral sits on a hill overlooking the CBD; it was the third church to be constructed at its location, and took 40 years from 1925 to build. The first thing you notice about the cathedral, aside from its imposing location, is its unusual spire:

The interior is possessed of a stark, ethereal beauty: there is an absolute minimum of architectural embellishment, nor do the columns create the cluttered, almost claustrophobic atmosphere that exists in some cathedrals. And there is a real sense of presence in this church, in that one feels as though they are coming into an encounter with both the immanence and the transcendence of God.

But the real glory of Christ Church cathedral is its stain glass windows. So I'll shut up now and let the pictures do the talking:

All I can say is that I truly felt as though I had been in a house of God.

Dunedin

Dunedin is such a treasure trove of historic buildings that it is impossible to see them all in one trip. Consequently, we missed out on seeing the First Church and Knox Church (both designed by the Melbourne architect R A Lawson), as well as other landmarks such as Lanarch Castle.

But we did manage to get a look at St Joseph's cathedral:

as well as St Paul's cathedral, which sits in the very heart of this historic city:

Like Nelson's Christ Church cathedral, St Paul's in Dunedin was a place of simple, yet powerful, beauty, projecting an atmosphere of space and peace that was at once both strikingly reverential and yet intimately engaging. Like Dunedin, there was a real sense of both the immanence and transcendence of God:


And also like Dunedin, the stain glass windows were beautiful and evocative. Just up the road from the cathedral was a smaller Anglican church that we had been informed was worth visiting. Unfortunately, it was closed for renovations, which was a pity given the promise indicated by the exterior:

Christchurch

Christchurch is simply too beautiful for words, with a wealth of historic buildings all within easy walking distance of one another, and focused around Cathedral Square in the heart of the city.

As the name suggests, the square is the location for Christ Church cathedral. Construction commenced in 1864, but due to various difficulties and delays, it was not until the early 1900's that the cathedral was completed.



I must confess that I found the atmosphere of this cathedral slightly oppressive. The ornate interior, in my mind, did not contrast favourably with the simple aesthetic of its counterparts in Dunedin and Nelson. It just struck me as a trifle overblown, indeed, as a distraction from worship, meditation, and prayer. But there was no denying that it was still a magnificent structure, and the stain glass windows were stunning:







Just to the south of the cathedral was the church of St Michael and All Angels. Erected in 1872, it is built in the revivalist Gothic style, and constructed entirely of timber. One of its design idiosyncrasies is a detached belfry, which is actually older than the church by more than a decade.



The interior of this church just has to be seen to be believed. The magnificence of the timber craftsmanship combines with the glorious stain glass windows to create a space that is at once powerfully beautiful and yet infused with an air of serene contemplativeness. Of especial significance is the traditional Maori treasure safe hung over the altar, in which consecrated but unused hosts are kept, a moving confluence of history and cultures.







So there you have it: a snapshot of our tour of some of New Zealand's sacred spaces. However, it is worth bearing in mind that, for many among the indigenous Maori population, the landscape itself is sacred. And as I post further updates displaying the beautiful New Zealand countryside, it should become apparent as to why this is the case.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Light (God's eldest daughter) is a principal beauty in building. (Thomas Fuller)