Introit for the Twenty-Second Sunday after Trinity

If thou, O Lord, wilt be extreme to mark iniquities, Lord, who may abide it? For unto thee belongeth mercy, O God of Israel.
Out of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord: Lord, hear my voice.
Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost: as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Five Quick Takes


I’ve been pretty quiet this October, obviously. Just this morning, I gave the second of two lectures on homosexuality and Catholicism at my parish, as part of our adult formation series, and composing those has taken up a lot of my energy and time. (Both talks, and the following Q&A sessions, were recorded; I’m hoping to post them here on the blog, if the files aren’t too ‘heavy’ to do so—they’ve been rather uncoöperative in e-mail, though I have found workarounds for that.) I’ve also been trying (and failing, but trying) to complete the last touches on my upcoming volume of poetry, Wells of Night. I had been hoping to finish and have it published before Halloween, but I think we may have to settle for before Christmas. Anyhow, if you’d like to pray for me, that’d be splendid.


A close friend of mine (whom I refer to as Ceolfrith here on the blog) suggested to me recently that I adopt a technique he learned in his ongoing recovery from sexual addiction. You keep a pen or a marker with you—which, for me, means I mostly use the technique when I’m at work—and whenever you give in to a lustful impulse, you make a mark on your left arm, while conversely, when you notice such an impulse but turn to God in prayer instead, you make a mark on your right. At first I was reluctant to try the technique, because I thought it’d just leave my arms completely covered in ink (and not in a cool tattoo way). But I decided to give it a try anyway.

At the end of the first day, I’d made more than a dozen marks on my right arm and zero on my left. The mere concrete act of making the marks helped me turn to God consistently, and, what I’d expected even less, joyfully. Sometimes surprises are very nice!


I’m a fan of the Pre-Raphaëlite poets and painters: Edward Burne-Jones, Christina Rossetti, Algernon Charles Swinburne, John Everett Millais, William Morris. They’ve been an influence on my own work, both fictional and poetic. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the father of the movement, never had a particularly strong hold on me—I find his verse sort of wandering—but there’s a set of lines in his poem Jenny, written about a prostitute whose services he purchased, that have been recurring to my imagination powerfully of late:

Of the same lump (as it is said)
For honor and dishonor made,
Two sister vessels. Here is one.
It makes a goblin of the sun.

It captures an experience we sometimes have, rare but arresting: an abrupt vision of majesty in something that normally seems petty or commonplace or even unattractive. And then, without warning, it becomes (perhaps only for a moment) a vehicle of the whole brilliance of creation; every beauty and meaning seems to be wrapped up in it.

It happened to me once when my family were moving away from Fort Meade. It was a clear evening, and I happened to glance out of the sliding glass door in the rear of the house, which faced west, and noticed Jupiter. Suddenly I was overcome with longing, with Joy as C. S. Lewis described it, exultant and heartbreaking with loveliness. If I’d had wings, I would have flown straight toward the planet, as fast as I could. I’m not sure why this sort of thing happens, but it’s astonishing to feel.


Research for my second lecture on homosexuality took me through a lot of documentation of homophobic violence over the last fifty years. I hadn’t realized it was so grim. I had thought the Pulse massacre this summer stood out a lot more than it did. I knew trans bashing, specifically, was still huge and awful, but I hadn’t realized that queer bashing in general was still so common. I suppose in that way I fell for the myth of Progress.

But the cases, in horror and in sheer number, staggered me. We’re not making this shit up, and we’re not just being paranoid. A selection: in 1993, Brandon Teena was raped and murdered when two acquaintances found out he was transgender.1 In 1996, Jamie Nabozny was awarded $900,000 in damages in a suit against his high school, which had done nothing to discipline bullies who had verbally and physically attacked him for being gay, including staging a mock rape. In Hawaii in 1997, Stephen Bright beat Kenneth Brewer to death for making sexual advances on him after the two met at a gay bar; he received one year in prison for assault. In 1998, the notorious robbery, torture, and murder of Matthew Shepard took place in Laramie, Wyoming: he was left tied to a fence, in a coma, and died less than a week later. In 1999, a gay bar in London was bombed, leaving three people dead and seventy injured. In 2000, Christine Chappel, a twenty-eight year old trans woman, was murdered by her brother-in-law. Later the same year, Damilola Taylor, a recent immigrant to London from Nigeria, was stabbed in the thigh with a broken bottle after weeks of homophobic bullying; he bled to death. Aaron Webster was beaten to death by a group of men with baseball bats in 2001. In 2002, Gwen Araujo, a trans teenager from California, was strangled and beaten with a shovel after being inspected at a party by two men she had been intimate with. Two men stabbed Ryan Keith Skipper twenty times and slit his throat in Florida in 2007, later bragging that they killed him ‘because he was a faggot’; his body was dumped two miles from his home. In 2008, Allen Andrade beat Angie Zapata to death with a fire extinguisher after discovering that she was trans, referring to her as it in his arrest affidavit and telling his girlfriend in a taped phone call that ‘gay things need to die.’ In Massachusetts in 2009, an eleven-year-old boy hanged himself with an electrical cord after persistent anti-gay harassment from classmates. Fifteen trans women of color were murdered in 2012 alone. In 2015, Brian Golic (who identified as androgynous and pansexual) was stabbed to death in his home by his father. And this year, Omar Mateen shot one hundred and two people at Pulse, a gay club in Orlando, including himself; he and forty-nine others died.

Want me to stop? Yeah. So do I.


It’s curious how hard it can be to go to bed. Even when you’re tired. And not just hard to pry yourself up out of the comfy chair you’re in, but hard to stop doing things so as to go to bed and sleep. Rest, of all things, shouldn’t be difficult; and yet it is. At least, it is for me—it’s probably a question of personality. The brain’s tick-tick-tick works differently in each of us, I expect: incessant for some, controllable for others (and for a few, hardly startable). But there’s a sort of false aura of romance to insomnia, so I’ve got that going for me.

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1Throughout my blog, I use the gendered pronouns preferred by trans people. Theologically, I don’t know what to think about transgender issues; however, I think it a matter of courtesy to respect others’ wishes, especially in such a personal matter as forms of address and I don’t like to violate courtesy without a compelling reason to do so—and I don’t consider my uncertainty a compelling reason to do anything.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

The Pattern of the Glory

I came
to the level above the magnanimous stair, and saw
the Empire dark with the incoherence of the houses.
Nay, there, as I looked on the stretched Empire
I heard, as in a throb of stretched verse,
the women everywhere throughout it sob with the curse
and the altars of Christ everywhere offer the grails.
Well are women warned from serving the altar
who, by the nature of their creature, from Caucasia to Carbonek,
share with the Sacrifice the victimization of blood.
Flesh knows what spirit knows
but spirit knows it knows—categories of identity …

—Charles Williams, Taliessin in the Rose Garden1

Lynton Lamb's map of the Empire as depicted poetically by Williams

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Having found a copy of the magnificent and tragically neglected Arthurian Torso in August, I was inspired at last to spring for a copy of Williams’ Arthurian poems (contained in the two books Taliessin Through Logres2 and The Region of the Summer Stars). They’re not all of equal value by any means, and our brother Charles writes some things which are hard to be understood, but I’m loving them. Truly good poetry can be surprisingly difficult to come by, and Lewis’ exposition in Torso makes for an incredibly rich, clear experience. So much poetry evokes emotion without explaining it, but his goes further: it not only evokes, but seems to illuminate the emotions, by showing how they are related to, or even participations in, transcendent metaphysical realities. ‘The glory is apt to dazzle the beholder,’ he says somewhere I cannot now find, ‘unless he already has a mind disposed to examine the pattern of the glory’; and examining the pattern of the glory is a very fair description of his whole corpus. Williams’ mythical map of Logres and the Byzantine Empire become a theological map of man—soul and body—and of the realms and journey of the spirit.

The line above, Flesh knows what spirit knows but spirit knows it knows, has really stuck with me. I think it expresses perfectly the challenging, delightful, frequently tense relationship between the soul and the body. The body has, if anything, fallen less than the soul, for of course the body has no deliberateness of itself and can’t carry guilt, and yet the soul still has to preside over the body.

For me, naturally enough, the place I notice this dynamic most is when I notice an attractive man.

You knew he'd be back eventually

My body responds, spontaneously: my heart beats a little more quickly, I feel warmer, perhaps my breath catches for a moment, perhaps I stare (though hopefully not, since that can be embarrassing and weird for all concerned). And my body is responding to a real good. It’s good that men should be handsome, or in more philosophical language, beautiful. My body’s response is a recognition of the fact. Even lust—which may, or may not, come on the heels of this recognition of beauty—is at least as much an affair of the mind as an affair of the body: partly because lust (unlike attraction) is an act of the will, but also because it involves the imagination.

The movement of the will that follows that moment of attraction, of seeing beauty and delighting in it, can go a few different ways. I can venerate: having received an experience of beauty as a gift, I can rejoice in the giver—both the celestial Giver who made it, and the created giver who bears it, i.e. the handsome dude. In so doing, I worship Christ-as-Beauty, and honor the man who displays it as an operative icon3 of the Mother of God.

Icon of Christ Pantokrator, 6th century

Alternatively I can lust, deciding to try and possess that beauty. Or, if that is too hard or daunting, to imagine possessing that beauty. We tend to think of lust as just doing something we’re not supposed to, although why we’re not supposed to never seemed very clear to me when I was growing up; God had forbidden it, but why he’d done so remained opaque. I think the key to it lies here: it treats the beauty of the body like property, and not as a gift, which is what it is.4 The body is the icon—more, the sacrament of the self, and every self is a gift, first to its self and its parents, and secondly to those to whom it gives itself. Lust is a kind of theft.

Flesh knows what spirit knows but spirit knows it knows. It may seem as if, of the two—veneration and lust—the latter suggests that flesh doesn’t know beauty very well. I don’t think that’s accurate. Both are movements of the will, not of the body; it’s true that the intensity of the body’s yearning may make sexual desire tough to discipline, but that’s because the body can’t articulate its knowledge, and issues only sensations, impulses, and pleasures (and their opposites). It requires an act of the mind to turn either to God or to oneself; beauty, perceived in the body, is only a prompting to turn.

Writing about Lancelot sleeping with a woman he believed to be Queen Guinevere,5 Williams described the fornication as the red carnivorous violation of intellectual love. That’s exactly what it is. Intellectual love—the capacity to see accurately and work for the real good of the beloved—doesn’t seek to appropriate beauty, partly because it isn’t selfish, but mostly because you can’t appropriate beauty. Not only is it a gift, but the beauty of others is a quality of those others, and the only way to obtain it is by total personal union, such that ‘Love you? I am you’6 is not a paradox but an observation. And that can be obtained only through total, reciprocal self-gift, which hell has no patience for, and is too proud for, and is too scared for. But ‘Hell is inaccurate’6: it’s the only way it can preserve its hellishness.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, The Damsel of the Sanct Grael, 1874

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1This quotation isn’t meant to focus on the doctrine of gender and Holy Orders. It is, however, a recurring idea in Williams’ thought that the blood of menstruation is the share women have in the Eucharistic sacrifice (so far from being unclean, as it ritually was in the Torah; though perhaps even that uncleanness admits of more than one interpretation). E.g., in The Forgiveness of Sins: ‘The Rite of the shedding of blood for atonement or for achievement is accomplished. No other shedding of that kind is allowed, unless God permits and enforces [it] by physical states or spiritual or both. Women’s periods present the one; the death of martyrs the other; the Eucharist both.’ I’ve never come across another theologian who even tried to explain menstruation spiritually; but, if we’re going to admit that the divine image in man has any bearing on the body at all—and I think we must—then we must be prepared for some rather startling doctrines.
Caucasia and Carbonek are allusions to the geography of Williams’ Arthurian cycle. Caucasia is the easternmost province of the Byzantine Empire, and is associated with the zodiacal house of Libra and, anatomically, with the buttocks. Williams sees the buttocks as a symbol of balance and repose, and, considering their role in maintaining dignified posture whether seated or standing, there’s admittedly something to be said for the symbolism. Carbonek, or Corbenic, is often one of the names of the Grail Castle. However, in Williams it is rather the place from which the quest of the Grail is made: Carbonek is, in a way, at the limits of terrestrial geography.
2Taliessin or Taliesin (pronounced tal-ee-ESS-in) was a Welsh poet of the sixth century, and came to be associated with King Arthur in legend; Tennyson, I think, first depicted him as Arthur’s court poet, and Williams followed suit. The name Logres (LOG-ress) comes from an old Welsh word for England, and has been used as one of the names of Arthur’s kingdom since at least the twelfth century.
3Icon here is used in the Eastern sense: not mere depictions of God and the saints, but concrete instances of the redemption of matter, and thus vehicles of the Spirit. Even in the West (where the doctrine of icons has long been neglected), their status as sacramentals is admitted; and, while there’s doubtless some exaggeration in some accounts, there’s an extensive Eastern tradition of miraculous icons.
4This of course corresponds closely with the teaching of St John Paul II in Love and Responsibility and The Theology of the Body. I find Williams’ style (both literary and philosophical) more illuminating, but the doctrines they are examining are often the same, so a certain amount of overlap is to be expected.
5Lancelot was under a spell; long story. On the plus side, this ensured that Galahad was conceived, and so the quest of the Grail was not a failure even though it was not a success.
6Guess who said this! Who could it be!

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Myriads of Myriads

The City Council would like to remind you about the tiered Heavens and the hierarchy of angels. The reminder is that you should not know anything about this. The structure of Heaven and the angelic organizational chart are privileged information, known only to the City Council members on a need-to-know basis. Please do not speak to or acknowledge any angels that you may come across while shopping at the Ralph’s or at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. They only tell lies and do not exist.

—Joseph Fink, Welcome to Night Vale, Episode 1: Pilot

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One of my patented one-off posts,1 this one is about the doctrine of angels. With Michaelmas, the feast celebrating St Michael and all the angels (including St Gabriel, from whom I took my name), coming up on Thursday, the topic’s been on the brain, and anyway it’s a fun subject to think about.

We don’t in fact know a whole lot about angels. Catholic academic history gives us some educated guesses that are super cool and kind of sci-fi, or, in more scholarly language, some extremely interesting speculative angelology. But the actual, authoritative data we have from Scripture and dogmatic tradition is limited. We know that the holy angels are intelligent, free beings; that they adore God and signify his presence; that they appear in a wide variety of forms, from basically humanoid to bizarre myth-like animals to wheels of golden fire; that they at least sometimes deliver God’s messages and at least sometimes enact his decrees; and that they minister to us spiritually somehow, some of them being given charge over individuals and others over groups of people (such as nations and churches). We also know that some of the angels have rebelled against God, of whom the one called Satan or ‘the adversary’2 is the principal rebel—these are the same kind of beings as the holy angels, but they are, by choice, depraved.

That’s about where our hard data ends; but we do have a trove of generally accepted Catholic thought, which I’d like to go over, because this is seriously one of the most coolly sci-fi things about Catholicism and it’s just so awesome, you guys! But do please understand that what follows is speculative theology, not formal Catholic teaching.

The various angelic beings are divided3 into three spheres, each of which contains three choirs, for a total of nine different types. The spheres are defined by where their activity is oriented: the first sphere are focused on the worship of God, the second on the government of creation in general, and the third upon human beings. The spheres and choirs are believed to be as follows:

I. Seraphim
II. Cherubim
III. Thrones

IV. Dominions
V. Virtues
VI. Powers

VII. Principalities
VIII. Archangels
IX. Angels4

In the first sphere, the Seraphim—seen by Isaiah in his vision in the Temple—are those beings who, after the Blessed Virgin Mary, love God with the greatest depth and power. Their adoration is frequently compared to being aflame, and the Hebrew word literally means burning one. Scripture describes them as being six-winged, though otherwise more or less human-like (having both faces and feet): this is, presumably, a symbolic depiction for human benefit, but then the symbolism was presumably chosen to be significant to the human mind.

The second choir are the Cherubim. Forget the pudgy babies that disgrace Hallmark cards everywhere. Cherubs seem to have been borrowed from the mythology of the ancient Near East, and especially from the sphinx-like lamassu of Mesopotamia. The Four Living Creatures from Revelation appear to be Cherubim, and they’re freaky as all get-out: most of them shaped like animals, but all with wings and covered all over with eyes. The eyes are, first of all, gross. But they symbolize their role: as the Seraphim love God more than any other creatures do, so the Cherubim know him better than any other creatures do.5 Cherubs were depicted on the Ark of the Covenant, covering the Mercy Seat with their wings.

The third choir are the Thrones, who may be the same as the Ophanim or wheels of Ezekiel’s trippy vision: gigantic, nested circles of sea-green fire, full of eyes, moving in straight lines without turning or rolling. Like the Seraphim and Cherubim, the Thrones are only ever encountered in the immediate company of the Lord. Their special activity is wonder before God’s authority and judgment, and accordingly bear his throne, hence the name. If you will, the orders of the first sphere at once adore and mirror the three great attributes of the Deity: love, wisdom, and power.

The second sphere begins with the Dominions or Dominations. Their work is to receive the knowledge and glory communicated downward by the higher choirs, and convey it to the lower, so governing their operations—they are, as it were, revelatory powers. St Paul tells us that the Torah was originally given to Moses through the mediation of angels (and the author of Hebrews implies the same thing); it is thus possible that the Dominions first delivered the Law. The commonest depiction of angels, as humans with two feathered wings, is generally associated with them, sometimes wielding scepters or swords that bear orbs of light.

Next we come to the Virtues. The name is, nowadays, a little misleading; though the holy angels of all orders are, well, virtuous, the name of this order is a holdover from an older meaning of the term—something like efficacies or forces would do in more modern terms.6 These are the angelic beings that govern the forces of nature; indeed, in a real sense, they are the forces of nature. Gravity and electricity and so forth are not abstractions, but the personal operations of invisible, potent, hyper-intelligent minds. This is also how miracles happen: the Virtues suspend their normally patterned activity. If you like, there’s nothing supernatural about miracles from that perspective; or, there’s everything supernatural about every process, because every process is as much the deliberate choice of supra-dimensional intellects as any miracle is.7

The sixth choir are the Powers. These are generally depicted as armored soldiers, and are thought to regulate the flow of history, especially the fluctuations of power. They may be synonymous with the Watchers (called the Grigori in Slavic texts), who feature prominently in the apocryphal Book of Enoch as corrupters of mankind before the Flood and progenitors of the nephilim, human-angel hybrids of monstrous size. The recording angels, mentioned in the book of Malachi and hinted at in other places in the Bible, may be Powers. However, the activity of the Powers is still conjectured to be one of generalized authority: they deal with history as an abstract phenomenon, and with the ebb and flow of power, not with individual people or even with groups. That ministry belongs to the final sphere, to which we now turn.

The Principalities, sometimes shortened to Princedoms, are the seventh choir. I’ve found difficult and, to some extent, conflicting information about the Principalities: it seems hard to distinguish between them and the Archangels. Some authors identify them as directing the last two choirs, rather as the Dominions govern the choirs beneath them; others consider them sources of ‘inspiration’ for men, in pursuits such as the arts, the sciences, and philosophy—thus making their role in history the particular to which the Powers are general. Both could be true.

The eighth choir are the Archangels. These are the guardians of nations, people groups, churches, cities, and specific locations; though all of the same kind, Archangels are not necessarily equivalent in function. St Michael is an Archangel, described in Daniel as the guardian of Israel and accordingly taken by Christians as the protector of the universal Church. This also makes him the chief angelic foe of Satan, as described in the epic war in heaven in Revelation 12, despite the fact that most theories of Satan’s nature posit that he came from a much more elevated choir. St Gabriel, who appears in the books of Daniel and Luke, may be of this order as well, but it isn’t clear. Since he generally works as a revealer of divine truths (explaining Daniel’s visions to him, and bringing word of the conceptions of the Baptist and Christ to their respective mothers), he could be a Dominion, even though he is mostly referred to as St Gabriel the Archangel.8

Finally there are the ninth choir, the Angels proper. These include our guardian angels, and most kinds of supernatural ministering, except the sacraments, come through the activity of Angels among men. They bring messages to people, are widely thought of as encouraging good impulses in us (the angel-on-the-shoulder routine is a vulgarized version, quite possibly correct in essentials), and are recorded in the Gospels as serving and strengthening Jesus, particularly after his temptation in the desert and during the agony in Gethsemane.

The Ladder of Divine Ascent, anonymous Orthodox iconographer, 12th century

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1No one else can do one-off posts now. I’ll sue.
2This term can be understood in the general sense enemy, or the specialized legal sense plaintiff. The latter forms an interesting contrast to the title Paraclete or ‘Advocate’ for the Holy Ghost.
3The list here derives ultimately from the De Cœlesti Hierarchia, ‘On the Celestial Hierarchy,’ a work purporting to be by St Dionysius, the first convert of St Paul at Athens (though in fact it probably dates to fifth-century Syria). St Thomas Aquinas also subscribed to this list, and cited biblical justifications for doing so. There are other speculative arrangements of the angels, but this is the most common in Catholic thought. Curiously, even the variant systems nearly all agree in defining nine angelic orders.
4Note that the name angel therefore applies technically to the lowest order in particular, but is also used by extension of all nine types of superhuman intelligences. It’s thus a little like the word bug, which applies strictly to certain specific species of insects, but is also vaguely applied to all insects and even all creeping things that creep upon the earth. Archangel also occasionally, and less usefully, serves as a term for all the orders above angels.
5St Thomas held the opinion that Satan was a fallen Cherub. Some other thinkers have asserted that he was a Power.
6Even today we can speak of the virtue of a magic jewel, or something of that kind; partly because such language will usually arise in a fantasy setting, and fantastic literature, like religious, is far more tolerant of archaisms.
The word virtue ultimately descends from the Latin vir, meaning ‘man, hero.’ Virtus is therefore something like ‘manliness, courage,’ coming later to mean more generally ‘efficaciousness, power,’ and thence specifically moral power. Vir is a fascinating word in its own right: it goes all the way back to Proto-Indo-European, and reflexes show up in Sanskrit (where Mahavira ‘Great Hero’ was the name taken by the founder of Jainism) and even English (where the fossilized term werewolf comes from the now extinct Anglo-Saxon word wer ‘man’).
7This thesis about the Dominions and the Virtues opens up another weirdly awesome avenue of speculation. Now, it involves math, which I’ve long been bad at, but here goes.
The Virtues, being the governing forces of nature, are—unwittingly and indirectly—the implicit subject of all scientific inquiry. What governs all the sciences? Mathematics. Does that mean the Dominions are numbers? Probably not, because I can’t imagine ‘numbers are personal’ having any real content: we could dismiss the theory of the Virtues being the forces of nature as anthropomorphic, but it isn’t primarily incoherent, whereas ‘Dominions are numbers’ does seem to be.
Ah, but. Numbers are, among other things, signifiers of measurement, and all measurements are statements of relationship between one thing and another thing. Baffling though they are, irrational numbers may display this more than any others; numbers like φ, e, and π can be shown to exist—they’re, like, right there on the geometric figure you’re studying, they measure the relationship between two parts of a line or the arc of a circle; and yet, they measure something that can never be resolved into a simple, definite ratio of two whole numbers. They are numerical relationships that cannot be finally expressed in numerical terms; almost as if you would have to change your frame of reference to grasp them …
So—and this may blow your mind, convince you I’m crazy, or both, but hopefully at least one of those—what if irrational numbers and twin prime patterns and all those weird math things are, in fact, reflections of, or works of, the Dominions? What if mathematics is an indirect study in the nature and operations angels? How fucking cool is that!?
8St Raphael is another problem child. His work in the book of Tobit is clear enough. But, since Tobit (like Judith, probably Job, and possibly Esther and Daniel) is likely meant as a kind of historical novel rather than an account of history, how far the depiction of him in Tobit is, or is meant to be, accurate is a separate and perhaps unanswerable question. Anyhow we call him an archangel too, just because.