March to Canterbury

On a Friday afternoon in late July of 2006, I joined over a hundred traditional Catholics led by priests of the SSPX at the walls of Rochester Cathedral to commence a three-day petition to Heaven for the return of England to the Catholic Faith. Our assembly of English, French, Welsh, American, German, Swedish, Croatian, Zimbabwean, and other faithful from around the globe culminated the 41-mile trek, footsore but ebullient, with a Mass set in the ruins of half-forgotten St. Augustine's abbey in the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral.


Our pilgrimage wound its way along the old Pilgrim's Trail often by the upper chalk ridge over road, field, and wood, ornamented with hymns, litanies, chants, and rosaries.


At the Friday night camp, after the tents were erected, we had a low Mass followed by a welcome hot meal. Saturday morning we rose to a sung Mass before resuming the march through the Kent Downs, spending one more night under canvas before arriving at Canterbury.


We processed in two columns through the narrow streets of the ancient town, parting the crowds while singing in Latin the Litany of Loreto in petition to the Holy Mother of God, a tribute to the Queen of All Saints in whose honor a Catholic England once bore the cognomen "Dowry of Mary." The curious and passers-by received leaflets about the Society and Tradition; many took photos and video of our traveling fellowship - souvenirs of what, Our Good Lord willing, will one day become a regular occurrence.

The majestic Gothic Cathedral of St. Thomas a Becket seemed to spring suddenly into view, a spectacular sight after traversing the narrow and constricting maze of city streets. One can only imagine what this site of grandeur, this hint of Heaven, would have seemed like to a medieval pious peasant who had known only hovel, barn, and stable.

We made our way past the cathedral to the ancient site of the abbey of St. Augustine, the first Archbishop of Canterbury and the Apostle of the English who journeyed to the shores of the Sceptred Isle at the behest of Pope St. Gregory the Great. The foundation pillars of the abbey still stand, the bare bones of the old church, the rest having been swept away in the great tide that was the suppression of English monasteries during the rule of King Henry VIII.

Ethelbert, a pagan Saxon King, ruled Kent when Augustine arrived, and in the ruin one could almost imagine hearing the chant of the Saxon saint Caedmon when he sang about the creation of all things:

Praise we the Fashioner of Heaven's fabric,

The majesty of His might and His mind's wisdom,

Work of the world-warden, worker of all wonders,

How He the Lord of Glory everlasting,

Wrought first for the race of men Heaven as a rooftree,

Then made He Middle Earth to be their mansion.

The sun shone hot down on us; no breeze or sound disturbed us there. At the Mass no instrument was heard save the voices of the schola, who sang the plainchant of that same Gregory who commissioned Augustine to quit Rome for Britain. The chief intention of the pilgrimage was the return of England to the faith, but each of us brought our own petitions as well; we united them with those of the priest at the altar, who stood in the place of Our Blessed Lord as the mediator between God and men, this alter Christus who offered our prayers and requests to the King of Heaven in union with that one supreme offering that took place 2,000 years ago in another forsaken, half-forgotten place.

And I pray thee, loving Jesus, that as Thou hast graciously given me to drink in with delight the words of Thy knowledge, so Thou wouldst mercifully grant me to attain one day to Thee, the fountain of all wisdom and to appear forever before Thy face.

- St. Bede the Venerable

Crowd Wisdom

Last week a co-worker and I were discussing how the "wisdom of the crowds" burbling around "social media" is so much bunk. "After all," I teased, "how can a million lemmings all be wrong?"

The fun with touting a folksonomy is that its practitioners are both the observers and the performers, which means hyping "crowd wisdom" as the penultimate "next-gen Web" success story has the two-fold benefit of justifying the flattery of one's self while courting a like-minded audience (for whatever reason: business, politicking, fund-raising, etc.). Rather than reward initiative or innovation, it conditions users to think and perform in desired ways: say or post or blog what (the royal) We like, and you too can leave your digital mark in virtual space. It is a descendent of the promise embodied by the "I am somebody -- just read my branded t-shirt!" phenomenon.

In its defense, taking a people-praising message to the virtual masses has a demonstrated ability to accomplish what it is intended to accomplish (c.f. the online fund-raising success stories of Ron Paul and Barack Obama).

The emotional draw of lauding "crowd wisdom" works best when users curtail higher brain functions and allow the promoter to stroke their egos. Naturally, the "crowd wisdom" champs recognize that.

Countdown to Guinness

See http://www.ifun.ro/file/96-guiness.html

Unflappable

During a meeting today one of my clients paid me a compliment for consistently being calm and collected, hard-working but low-key and disinclined to get rattled no matter what the circumstance.

"Sean is infallible," she said.

The word she meant to use was "unflappable." While I chuckled, someone pointed out her error and suggested the correct term.

"Only the Pope is infallible," I offered.

"Oh, I'm not Catholic," she replied. "I didn't mean to say anything offensive!"

"No, I'm not offended," I smiled.

Someone else then said, "And Jesus is infallible."

This last remark was meant as extolment, and is one of those statements that is correct if understood one way and entirely false if understood another.

To be infallible means to be free of the possibility of error.

The Pope speaks infallibly when he renders a decree:

* about faith and morals (i.e. not in unrelated domains like astronomy or poetry),

* in his official capacity as Roman pontiff (i.e. not as a private individual, but with full ecclesiastical authority),

* in the name of the Catholic Church (i.e. as the supreme teacher and legislator after its Divine Founder, Jesus Christ),

* with Apostolic authority (i.e. in agreement with what was given by Christ to the 12 Apostles and handed down to their successors and universally taught and practiced by 20 centuries of popes, doctors, saints, and dogmatic councils),

* with the intent of being binding upon the conscience of Catholics (i.e. not merely a suggestion).

Thus, the Pope's infallibility is extremely focused and has distinct limits, but is inerrant when within those limits. When the conditions outlined above are met, the Holy Father's statement is certain to be error-free. Never in the 2,000 year history of Christendom has a Pope rendered an infallible decree that was later annulled or reversed by a successor.

And the teachings of Jesus Christ are -- without limit -- objectively and eternally true. As such they can never be revoked, qualified, or overruled. They are incapable of being wrong, without exception, regardless of time or circumstance or subject matter.

And I mean that unflappably.

Neological Research

My last year and a half as an undergraduate saw me conducting research for the professor of English whose "History of the English Language" classes I'd attended for my senior seminar. My professor's speciality was following the development of new words, or neology; he also had a hand in the compilation of several dictionaries.

When I knew him one of his projects was creating a catalog of words used in American English that have British derivations. My job was to take yellow high-lighter in hand, work my way through the three sets of dictionaries that I was provided, and highlight entries that were designated as British (as opposed to French, German, etc.). In short, my job was reading dictionaries.

Where to Put the Books?

The downstairs of the townhouse is one open room with a counter separating the kitchen from the dining and living areas. I can work in the kitchen and still carry on a conversation while company reclines in the living room.

Today I acquired a nice collection of hardback books, sent by my grandmother. The books belonged to my grandfather; I'll be installing some new bookshelves (probably upstairs in the office or master bedroom) to hold this heirloom collection.

Doll Etiquette

I spent the afternoon at the house of friends whose eldest daughter just graduated high school. The eight kids of that family have unofficially adopted me as one of their own, and so they all call me Uncle Sean.

A few years ago I was visiting around Christmas time, and the children were showing me the gifts they'd received. Hannah (the third daughter) introduced me to a new doll that she'd Christened Emily: "Look Uncle Sean, Emily likes to dance in the living room and sit on the couch and walk up the stairs," etc.

Emily was clearly a very capable and talented doll, so I wanted to make her better acquaintance. "Hannah, do you think Emily would like to have a bite of this home-made bread that I'm eating?" I asked.

Hannah greeted my suggestion with an incredulous stare. "Uncle Sean, Emily is just a doll, she doesn't eat bread."

"Of course," I agreed. "What was I thinking."