The Wild Tears Fall

But this sibyl, whether she is the Erythræan, or, as some rather believe, the Cumæan, in her whole poem, of which this is a very small portion, not only has nothing that can relate to the worship of the false or feigned gods, but rather speaks against them and their worshippers in such a way that we might even think she ought to be reckoned among those who belong to the city of God.... 


 Judgment shall moisten the earth with the sweat of its standard,
 Ever enduring, behold the King shall come through the ages,
    Sent to be here in the flesh, and Judge at the last of the world...

Did he who penned the blessed hymn draw inspiration from the prophecy of the Erythræan Sybil? How uncanny is both their mention of the dew, which lay so long of the grass this month, before silvering into frost.

When blessed Simeon took the Christ Child in his arms, he lifted up his face and cried: 



Now thou dost dismiss thy servant, O Lord, according to thy word in peace; Because my eyes have seen thy salvation, Which thou hast prepared in the sight of every people: A light to the revelation of the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel. Luke II: 29-32


There are so many ways to read, 'in the sight of every people', but when one contemplates the Gentile forerunners of the Messiah, one cannot help but think that here the priest was at least in part acknowledging the universal preparation the world had received for the coming of its Saviour.


Such a catholic expectation in the world is for many proof of this anticipation's validity. Yet, the objection of the naysayer assails this bastion as it does all others. The gauntlet hurled here is that the universal wish recorded of so many peoples was merely one of wishful thinking. The Messiah was just the name given by Hebrews to a man who would draw humanity from the miserable depths into which it had fallen, and the certainty that he would be in part a god was a necessary conjecture for the remedy of such a sad state. Concerning the details so eerily resembling the birth, life, and death of Jesus Christ, this pat dismissal is often proferred:


The Christ idea is older than the story of Jesus, and the latter was edited and re-edited until it incorporated all the features of the former and so met the requirements of the age. 



Now such an assertion carries the burden of proof, but the creativity of modern historians does not often never restrict its assertions to those based on positive evidence when it may opine scenarios that confirm the bias of the thinker. As to believers, it is not the inclination of a lover to merely ignore accusations hurled against the beloved, but to eviscerate them. And a true member of Christ's Church is--first and last--His lover.


The first kink in Carus's armour in particular is his inconsistency. On the one hand, he says that the true story of Christ (to which he is somehow privy) has been schewed. Yet, earlier in his work, he not only objected to Christian appropriation of pagan Messianic prophecies, but Judaic ones as well with the claim: 'The Christian interpretation has been superimposed and does violence to the message.' (ibid., 1) Which has been altered then? The prophecy or the fulfillment? On the one hand, the scholar finds the Gospel revelations of Christ's life compelling enough to uphold the catholic Messiah's mantle, and on the other hand he doesn't. 


However, the above point is merely a barb slung against this work in particular, and not the larger argument. Any skeptic may choose one position (violence has been done to the prophecies in applying the Gospels) or the other (violence has been done to the Gospels in applying them to the prophecies) and remain internally consistent.

Carus's first real argument is that rampant warring and weak economies were spread far enough over the ancient world to create a universal longing for a strong leader to save mankind from himself. No inspiration from the Holy Spirit would be required to instill such a wish in the hearts of man. Certain aspects of this Saviour, e.g., that he be divine in some way or even subjected to adversity follow reasonably enough from that. Thus, these aspects of Virgil's Fourth Eclogue, the Sybil's prophecy, or the many fore-tellings of the Old Testament are not sufficient to convince one of their credibility or even to link them to the tale of Jesus Christ.


A fellow student of mine once said in school that if he were to prophesy and give as a token to the people the following sign for his veracity: 'Tomorrow the sun shall rise!' then even the most gullible zealot would lift an eyebrow. For a cult to spring from the seed of prophecy, there must be some sign to indicate that it has been fulfilled. For a cult to achieve the immense success accorded to the might Roman Catholic Church, this sign or signs must have been above reproach in the eyes of many--fierce and dynamic and able to possess the hearts of the fierce and dynamic.


Yet, Carus (and many with him) contest that the Faith which brought forth all the martyrs, crusaders, poets, thinkers, and artists who have etched the mark of Christ into the face of the world forever, need not have come from a very earth-shattering force. This Church was going to happen at that particular phase in history, and it need not have been a Christian one:


Christianity, or a religion such as Christianity, would have originated even if Jesus had never existed...in all essentials, in doctrine as well as in moral ideas, we would have had the same religion. (27)


The ability of a modern to thinker to form such bold projections is staggering. By what rational means could anyone justify saying that the church founded by a Buddha or a 'Brahman Avatar' or a madman from Mecca would be exactly the same in its identity, even down to its moral code? Where is the positive proof of this? Alas, Carus has shown himself again to be rather creative, but not exactly reasonable.


So having erected chimerical, alternate Vaticans alongside the real one, using nothing but the sand of conjecture and imagination, Carus proceeds to dismiss the evidence he does have: human nature and the testimony of the first Christians.

He posits that Jesus of Nazareth was honoured with the laurels of the Christ, where emperors and warriors failed miserably, because he appealed to the sick in His poor life and death, as well as to fanatics like Saul of Tarsus. Human nature would take issue with the first point. The downtrodden do not habitually idolize their fellow downtrodden members simply for sharing their lot. They  either pity them or take advantage of them. Nor do the oppressed do not fall in line with revolutionaries until they are desperate, and if their revolution fails, with the leaders hung ignominiously on gibbets, the effect would be disillusionment, not encouragement.


It would be surprising then that a man who merely comforted the sick and the weak with words should become the leader of the religion 'of women and slaves' unless He had worked miracles amongst them, had indeed cured the blind, sick and, lame brought unto Him. Do Carus, et al., submit that this is a later appendage to the Gospels? How on earth could Jesus Christ have gained enough prominence to be considered for the Messianic role without these signs?


As to the manipulation of zealots who seized upon Christ's story, the moderns here must here accuse them of being deliberately disingenuous. Carus attempts to dismiss without defaming St. Paul in saying that he was honestly self-deluded:


Paul's converion consisted simply in the idea that came upon him like a flash of lightning, that all of his conceptions of Christ could be applied to Jesus, that the majesty of his divine nature was well set forth in his deepest humiliation, his death on the cross... (25)


Carus is ungenerous to St. Luke, in completely dismissing not only the miracle of St. Paul's conversion on the road to Damascus, but also the evangelist's account of St. Paul's beliefs and characters before his conversion, namely that he had persecuted the faithful, and had even held the coats of St. Stephen's murderers.


Secondly, Carus does great injustice to St. Paul's own account of how he came to believe and to the rationality of every Christian alive. While we have come to adore and even to be sentimental about the kenosis of the Christ--His low birth and dolorous passion--we have not forgotten that it is a paradox:

But we preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews indeed a stumbling block, and unto the Gentiles foolishness: But unto them that are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God, and the wisdom of God. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men; and the weakness of God is stronger than men. 


   ...O God, the believing and faithless alike shall behold You
   Uplifted with saints, when at last the ages are ended...
   

There are many precious devotions and special traditions which the faithful have been deprived of in our ecumenical age. Some measure of this expropriation on the part of Church leaders is understandable. One appeals to an intellectual through philosophy, to a hedonist through his abhorrence of suffering, and to a Protestant through Holy Scripture, and solely that. It is indisputable that in argument, one may only appeal to authority recognized by both parties. In the case of a dispute between a Catholic and a Protestant, it is also obvious that the Catholic may not cite the Deuterocanonical books of the Bible, as the Protestant will not heed evidence from those verses.

Long years of such disputation with our separated brethren have taught Catholics how to trim their arguments, avoiding theological feats and historical observations in favour of Biblical battles, chapter for chapter and verse for verse. However, the unfortunate effect of being so long an apologist is that it may make one more apologetic. We must not forget all the wonderful treasures of our Faith that we may enjoy when not evangelizing, one amongst them being the apocrypha which is allowed by the Church and endorsed by the saints.

Such an example of this is the 'Story of St. Joseph the Carpenter.' The protective, gentle shadow, (whose generosity and compassion causes him to stand above so many saints mentioned in the Gospels) is not often spoken of, yet those who knew Jesus through His first thirty years knew him as the Son of the carpenter. St. Joseph is the patron of departing souls, and there are many of the faithful who pity him that he could not taste Heaven immediately after his death, but had to wait for the fruition of Good Friday. I always imagined St. John the Baptist and St. Joseph as the first two souls that Christ wrenched out of Limbo when He harrowed Hell. Death must have been terrifying for that just man so keenly aware of his transgressions in an age that as yet existed without Sacraments. The apocryphal tale mentioned above relates how an angel revealed to St. Joseph the nearness of his death. Below was the prayer on his lips:

O God! Author of all consolation, God of all compassion, and Lord of the whole human race; God of my soul, body, and spirit; with supplications I reverence you, O Lord and my God. If now my days are ended, and the time draws near when I must leave this world, send me, I beseech You, the great Michael, the prince of Your holy angels: let him remain with me, that my wretched soul may depart from this afflicted body without trouble, without terror and impatience. For great fear and intense sadness take hold of all bodies on the day of their death, whether it be man or woman, beast wild or tame, or whatever creeps on the ground or flies in the air. At the last all creatures under heaven in whom is the breath of life are struck with horror, and their souls depart from their bodies with strong fear and great depression. Now therefore, O Lord and my God, let Your holy angel be present with his help to my soul and body, until they shall be dissevered from each other. And let not the face of the angel, appointed my guardian from the day of my birth, be turned away from me; but may he be the companion of my journey even until he bring me to You: let his countenance be pleasant and gladsome to me, and let him accompany me in peace. And let not demons of frightful aspect come near me in the way in which I am to go, until I come to You in bliss. And let not the doorkeepers hinder my soul from entering paradise. And do not uncover my sins, and expose me to condemnation before Your terrible tribunal. Let not the lions rush in upon me; nor let the waves of the sea of fire overwhelm my soul— for this must every soul pass through — before I have seen the glory of Your Godhead. O God, most righteous Judge, who in justice and equity wilt judge mankind, and wilt render unto each one according to his works, O Lord and my God, I beseech You, be present to me in Your compassion, and enlighten my path that I may come to You; for You are a fountain overflowing with all good things, and with glory for evermore. Amen.

'Remember the four last things, my son, and you will not sin forever.' The very marrow of my bones melts in fear at my own impending expiration, when I contemplate the terror this great saint felt when his sickness strengthened unto imminent death:

What shall I do when I arrive at that place where I must stand before the most righteous Judge, and when He shall call me to account for the works which I have heaped up in my youth? Woe to every man dying in his sins! Assuredly that same dreadful hour, which came upon my father Jacob, when his soul was flying forth from his body, is now, behold, near at hand for me. Oh! How wretched I am this day, and worthy of lamentation! But God alone is the disposer of my soul and body; He also will deal with them after His own good pleasure.

Hearing this lament, the young Christ, perhaps eighteen or nineteen according to this legend, took compassion on His foster father and went to comfort him. It was then that He saw:

...Death ready approaching, and all Gehenna with him, closely attended by his army and his satellites; and their clothes, their faces, and their mouths poured forth flames. And when My father Joseph saw them coming straight to him, his eyes dissolved in tears, and at the same time he groaned after a strange manner. Accordingly, when I saw the vehemence of his sighs, I drove back Death and all the host of servants which accompanied him. And I called upon My good Father, saying:

Father of all mercy, eye which see, and ear which hear, hearken to my prayers and supplications in behalf of the old man Joseph; and send Michael, the prince of Your angels, and Gabriel, the herald of light, and all the light of Your angels, and let their whole array walk with the soul of My father Joseph, until they shall have conducted it to You. This is the hour in which My father has need of compassion. And I say unto you, that all the saints, yea, as many men as are born in the world, whether they be just or whether they be perverse, must of necessity taste of death.

And thus did St. Joseph, perhaps, receive a special conduct on his death. So, as we hover between the feasts, All Saints and All Souls, let us recall one who keenly shared the lot of both. And humbly, let us ask for his guardianship at the hour of our own death, counting on his paternal empathy and compassion.

I awoke that morning with no sense of what would befall the next day. It was the same peaceful feeling as the year before. My mind stopped projecting into the next week, month, or year and settled into an easy sleep, relinquishing the future for the present. It would be wrong to say there seemed to be nothing beyond the pilgrimage. Rather, it felt as though everything were converging on its conclusion, just as eternity unravels time by fulfilling it in one absolute moment.

I was staying the night in Częstochowa for the Mass of the Assumption this time. There was perfect freedom this year in how I reckoned my time, and how blessed a gift that was! 


As today was Sunday, the Mass said at Jasna Góra would not be the vigil of Our Lady's feast, so on one of the rest stops, I paused to read the vigil Mass by myself. The Lesson of the fourteenth of August is one of my favourite passages in Holy Scripture, as well as from one of my favourite books. Truly, if our separated brethren had not rejected Ecclesiasticus, they would not stiffen at the embrace of the Blessed Virgin Mary: 

As the vine I have brought forth a pleasant odour: and my flowers are the fruit of honour and riches. I am the mother of fair love, and of fear, and of knowledge, and of holy hope. In me is all grace of the way and of the truth, in me is all hope of life and of virtue. Come over to me, all ye that desire me, and be filled with my fruits. For my spirit is sweet above honey, and my inheritance above honey and the honeycomb. My memory is unto everlasting generations. They that eat me, shall yet hunger: and they that drink me, shall yet thirst. He that hearkeneth to me, shall not be confounded: and they that work by me, shall not sin. They that explain me shall have life everlasting. (Ecclesiasticus XXIV:23-31)


As I leaned my brow upon my missal, I thought that perhaps I had not forfeited so much in being unable to petition anymore. Though not always possessing a happy or willing spirit on the matter, it was good for me that all I could hope for were these consolations spoken of here. Strangely, Father Grzegorz spoke to us, before we plodded on the next six miles, (with dear Ola translating again) that we should not be discouraged if our lives did not change after this pilgrimage. Rather, we should think of all our spiritual efforts being gathered like dew into a great bowl, from which God would portion out mercy according to His wisdom. There is no better way of perceiving the matter.


The wait to enter Jasna Góra did not seem so long this year, and the weather, so much more clement! The crowds gathered about as as congenially as all the souls we met, though naturally a few quirky incidents had to take place. One sweet, old lady came up to me, embraced me, and then asked if I were a Muslim, much to the amusement of my companions standing about. 


'Nie,' I responded hastily, though I hope graciously, and arranged my shawl in another manner. Yet, it had not been too different from the ladies in their kerchiefs and chapel veils about me. 

One day though, people of the Church will remember that “In doubt, the revocation of a previous law is not presumed,” (Canon 21), and women would again exploit their opportunity to catechize the world and reap the fruits of observing what was not abrogated in the Code of 1917. And on that day, it will not matter how a lady chooses to veil herself. Until then, she best make sure her wrists are showing to avoid confusion over her affiliation.


Singing and praying all continued as we stood. Other pilgrim divisions, which had arrived that morning, came to smile and chat. People moved and up and down the lines to greet those whom they knew, though swiftly returning to their place in the formation. The children were wonderfully patient, and we were often exchanging gleeful expressions with one another. We were so near.

Thanks to Marzena and Basia!

Biało-czarno-czerwona received its salutation from the Pauline community, and we proceeded to make our way into the monastery. Linking hands to ensure our group's entrance, I soon found myself playing 'London's Bridge Is Falling Down', for more and more familiar faces were crawling under our fence of arms. 

It produced such a thrill, again like a culmination. Now it resembled that moment towards the end of G. K. Chesterton's novel The Ball and the Cross, when the hero has an epiphany: 

It's hard to explain, anyhow. An apocalypse is the opposite of a dream. A dream is falser than the outer life. But the end of the world is more actual than the world it ends. I don't say this is really the end of the world, but it's something like that--it's the end of something. All the people are crowding into one corner. Everything is coming to a point. (Chapter XIX: The Last Parley)

Thank you Marzena and Basia!

My eyes being like Evan MacIan's, I did not quite see the 'point' too 'large and plain' to be visible to puny human eyes, yet I did see something after we had passed through the gates, courtyard, and threshold of the Chapel of the Mother of God. We all gazed with love on the resplendent end of our journey. She is always the same, yet it is amazing how we change around her. We went to our knees, many I'm sure with tears in our eyes. As the year before, I wept and bowed my head, but this time I felt I heard her speak within me. This was the tone of Judith, Our Lady as the Hetmana, regal and strong as well as maternal and gentle:

I was slicing a second plate of cheese when the wake-up soundtrack started playing. Wistfulness was already stinging my eyes as I realized that I would only wake up to this one more time:


At least...until the next pilgrimage. 

Though there was no Holy Communion this day, we did celebrate Mass in the cool, pastel fog of the morning. The mist was wafting like incense above the creek behind the barn and the military tent where Father Grzegorz offered the unbloody Sacrifice. There we were in the Pentateuch, kneeling outside the tent of  the Holy of Holies, while the priest alone went forth to speak with the Presence. Though the image varies, this is what I see in my mind everytime the Sanctus is sung.

The flagbearers made a hasty breakfast and departed for the church, while the majority of us stayed behind. The procession would have to pass this house, and we could join our group then.

It was another beautiful day. The paths stretched like ribbons over beautiful spaces, and Ola, having consulted with our deacon as to particular vocabulary in his conference, concluded it beautifully. He also delivered it in such a way as to ease translation. Finally gaining such access to the lucid sermons on the pilgrimage was probably the greatest blessing of this second journey.
 
On our second stop (we had made a happy dent in our last long day), humidity finally gave way to a sweet light shower. Some took cover, others pulled on their ponchos and--unperturbed--ate their lunch. As I had already spread my poncho on the ground, and it was just as wet as me, I did not see the point in trying to stay dry and left the homestead to do a little exploring. The unfortunate aspect of being a pilgrim is that one may not linger in the byways as a wanderer may, and here was my chance to do so. I was well rewarded.


Wetness in the air seems to make light bleed, and all was green down by this wayside. I felt sorry that we would be continuing on asphalt, even as lovely as the road's sheen was after the rain. This road seemed to be calling me. In any case I took advantage of the solitude to sing a favourite English pilgrim's song.
 


Back at the farm, everyone was delightfully packed under the various porches of the generous people hosting us. The image was as ideal as a representation of Noah's ark, though alas, this may be one of the worst pictures I took on the pilgrimage. Horrible exposure, ick!

After that little fall of rain, the sky swirled into the most beautiful dome we had seen on the entire sojourn. Delicate hues of every shade of blue and white painted the heavens, all in elegant swirls of marble texture. It covered us throughout the day, as though it were a Marian mantle. As I watched others writing their intentions for the rosary, I did not sigh, but reminded myself that she had already tucked my petitions into her heart, and if they were worthy, she would present them to the Lord herself.



When we arrived at the farmstead, I noticed with gratification that the vicious dog from the year before was on a shorter chain. He made no aggressive lunges at unwary pilgrims this year. However I did have to deal with another sort of attack, for M. insisted on engaging me in mimed sparring à la Lord of the Rings encounters. Though he graciously allowed me to be the winning character at times, I usually ended up being thrust through the middle with a spear or sword. Andrzej told me I was going to spoil that boy, but why not? I'll have to mind conduct well enough one day should I have children of my own.



Pastel blues faded into the fuchsia, violet, and finally indigo when night fell, and the moon kept teasing us through the folds of velvet clouds. One could not tear one's eyes away, even in prayer. Yet, it was no distraction. Heaven itself seemed to respond to our praise. I don't know how many saw it, but the moon did fully emerge from her wrappings--pure and resplendent in the night--just as we intoned the Apel Jasnogórski: 


 

Carefully tiptoeing amongst the fair sleepers in the military tent (the barns having had no space for the ladies to bed down in), I made my way quietly enough to the truck. It was time for one of my favourite tasks--one which I loved for it could always be accomplished.


Teachers are often frustrated when their logical syntheses do not take root in their students. So are writers, when constant practice does not enable them to shape the lovely thoughts in their minds into equally precious words on paper, and still more discouraged are Christians, when they wearily observe that good habits and steady observance have not yet made them into saints.


Yet, outside that world of rebellious wills and faltering resolve, is the cosmos. Devoid of appetitive spirit, it adheres perfectly to the laws set down for it by God. We all know that however our pupils, skills, and souls may disappoint us, if we mix the right ingredients in the right ratio, our cakes will always rise. If we put our elbows into our scrubbing while using the right liquid, the dishes will always come clean. 


And so they did. This task being done, I glanced at the other pilgrims at the table preparing breakfast itself.


'What's this, Amerykanka?' a familiar voice asked. Piotrek L. had just joined us on the pilgrimage, 'Looking for a rest are you?'


'No,' I replied (teasingly imitating his British intonation and probably earning myself a good decade in Purgatory for that), 'I'm looking for something else to do.' 'After all, I have an American Protestant work ethic,' I added inwardly. Cucumbers swiftly provided me with something to occupy it.

Thanks Marzena once more!

As we hurried with making breakfast, preparations for Mass were carried out beautifully, with the Maltese crosses serving as a vibrant backdrop for the altar of the Paschal Lamb. Under the blue dome, surrounded with brown pillars of moss and bark, we were surely in a sanctuary that the day's patroness, St. Clare of Assisi would approve of.

The rest of the day entailed walking through the natural world she loved, over the glossy sheen of emerald grass, and through the powder of grey-brown earth, with mankind's asphalt lanes only interjecting themselves intermittently. 


This day's conference (split into two parts) was by our deacon, Sergiusz, who spoke to us of O Męce Pańskiej ('About the Passion of Our Lord'). Figuring vividly in my memory was what he had to say on virtues, cardinal and theological. Ola had sweetly offered to translate these conferences for me, and I was amazed at how readily she did so. Her words were nearly simultaneous with his, and they came in such a polished, erudite fashion. Later she joked that she was actually making it up as she went along; she also graciously told me that translating helped the conference take deeper root in her own mind. I am glad that she received this reward in the act of mercy she worked for me.


On one of our rest stops, as I lay half across a bed of moss and half on my poncho, I was going over something the deacon had said. Concerning the natural virtues, there are boundaries of excess and dearth, and in the middle, a Golden Mean that must be striven for. In the supernatural virtues, we are to strive without ceasing. There is no limit of attainment. 


Perhaps this is where the charisms of Dominicans and Franciscans diverge. Whereas the former resides in the lapidate pinions of the cherubim, the latter is uplifted by the carmine wings of the seraphim, the knowers and the lovers. Yet, while loving is first in terms of worthiness, knowing is always prior to loving.  While the Dominicans took all the wisdom of man to light the Golden Path, eruditely expounding on such themes as the cardinal virtues, Franciscans cast themselves headlong into upwards infinity, straightway making for the theological virtues.


Grace is of course performed upon the individual, not the calling, and who is to say when a Dominican has loved most from his knowing or a Franciscan known well from his loving? This seems to have been St. Clare's way of seeing God--simultaneously, in an act of love:

Place your mind before the mirror of eternity! Place your soul in the brilliance of glory! Place your heart in the figure of the divine substance! And transform your entire being into the image of the Godhead Itself through contemplation. So that you too may feel what His friends feel as they taste the hidden sweetness that God Himself has reserved from the beginning for those who love Him. _St. Clare of Assisi to St. Agnes of Bohemia

Thank you Marzena!

The paths we trode that day continued to weave through the loveliest groves. It was one of the easier days (only 14.6 miles), and it did not seem long before we arrived at the homestead of the year before, this time happily bereft of mosquitoes and the ground cleared of fallen apples.


'You should think of mice and spiders,' O. told me, when she saw several girls as well as myself bedding down on a pile of hay. 'Oh, mice are better than rats, and I like spiders,' I laughed. In any case, that night was to give me the best and warmest sleep I would have on the pilgrimage. No amount of critters that I didn't like could have held me back from it.


Later, M.'s, O's, and my game of 'Boo' escalated. I had been trying to tell them to wait for their opportunity of frightening me, namely when I wasn't expecting it. They refused to cooperate, and having a strict dictum to never patronize children, I stopped feigning fear at their exclamations. I simply collapsed to the ground in a heap. Their reaction, simultaneously horrified and gratified, was delightful, as well as their tests to see if I lived (it would seem my feet are not ticklish anymore). Granted, that made the game more difficult for the duration of our journey, but who would have it any other way?


Day declined, fading gently into a swirling, periwinkle velvet, from which the full moon emerged like a silmaril, glowing with the best of gold and silver. The blessed moon was full for most of the pilgrimage, just as if it were the face of Our Lady turned upon us. I asked a priest who visited us that evening (alas, I did not see him again) if he thought it would be strange to have such an image of the moon in one's house, and to use it as if it were an image of the Virgin Mary. He shrugged and said he saw nothing wrong in that at all. I hope he did not think I was joking, and responded with a joke himself, for his approval would be too wonderful to part with.


Compline followed later, then bed, and throughout our sleep, I know that perfect mirror of the Lord's light kept her loving vigil.

To date, I can only recall one instance where the 'First Lady' of theologians, Alice Von Hildebrand, faltered in an argument. It was in an essay wherein she lamented the loss of piety, and spoke of the hurt it caused the older generations to see irreverence in the young and a total disregard for the traditions handed down to them.

Though this holds true in her case, it is not so in many others. While traditionalists are certainly still a minority, those of the younger generation are not only more likely to tolerate tradition, but to be traditionalists themselves. It was an elderly woman, in linen trousers and a T-shirt no less, that once confronted me after Mass for wearing a veil. It was only from the lips of an old priest that I heard believing in transignification was just as orthodox as espousing Transubstantiation.

This is not my experience alone but that of many in my age group. For some reason, the older spectrums of society chose to let tradition (amongst other things) go. Either they did not forsee the forthcoming devolution of our society, or they desired it.
It should not have been a surprise then, when queuing for coffee at the sanctuary of Paradyż, a friend from another group told me that an elderly lady had been bemused by what our group sang on entering the town.

'Christus Vincit?' I replied, 'Why was she puzzled?'

'She was wondering why you weren't singing in Polish.'

'But we were singing in Latin! The universal tongue of the Church.'

Maria spared a commiserating smile for me from her end of the queue, though she could not join in the interchange.
'I don't think she knew it was Latin,' my friend replied.

'Even though she's old enough to remember when Mass was said in Latin,' I mused and then claimed my java.

Sitting on the lawn before the wall of the former monastery, I drank my coffee and shared some Oreos with O. We would have to wait an hour before our group could have its turn in the church, the common Mass being now underway. This might have given a reasonable occasion for my friend to ask (though she didn't) why we would upset our walking schedule in order to celebrate the Tridentine Mass. And indeed, it would later mean skipping a rest stop and plodding on through 6.5 hot miles.

This seemed like the proper moment to sort out a particular question in my mind: 'Dlaczego biały-czarny-czerwony?' I had been asked the question why I was on pilgrimage many times the year before, as were others, and some even answered it on video. Apparently many pilgrims were asked the question this year as to why they chose this particular group. After Mass, as we began walking through the fields over tall grasses softly beaten down at the base so that they resembled a jade, pleated gown, the answer slowly came to me.

Once, two good men were debating the issue of attending the old Mass (at table of course). It was not a hateful dispute, but it was aggressive. Finally, the traditionalist ended as the victor by saying: 'Let's agree to disagree. You worship God your way, and I'll worship God His way.'

I don't usually approve of using wit to conclude an argument, as it has the air of a 'jade's trick', but occasionally repartee does cut an aimless debate short, or in this case, present the truth in a succinct, incontestable manner.

The Novus Ordo was not cultivated over a vast expanse of time, but mushroomed comparitively overnight, crafted by significantly fewer architects than the Extraordinary Form. It left plenty of leeway for different nations, cultures, and communities to adapt it to their particular needs. So they have. A non-Catholic attending the liturgical dancing Masses of the Los Angeles cathedral would not identify it as the same ceremony and Sacrament celebrated in the chapel of Thomas Aquinas College, only 60 miles away. The possibility for great beauty and great ugliness is the trouble with the new Mass, valid though it is. Its structure allows any parish to trim, tone, and and tailor it to the taste and desires of the congregation.

Yet, anyone who has led a group of some sort would readily observe that in trying to please everyone, one often pleases no one (or certainly not the majority). Thus, one often finds that the typical Novus Ordo conducted in a parish church is one dominated by the personality of the choir parish secretary (very rarely by the priest's) and attended by a mixture of cafeteria and practicing Catholics who endure the bad music and ugly display for either the sake of fellowship or the Eucharist.

At my former college, the Mass was celebrated with solemn piety, accompanied by beautiful music, and prayed entirely in Latin, but for the Scriptural readings. Yet, it was the charism of the school, the conviction of the chaplains, and the desire of the students that made the Mass to be what it is. We had moulded it to fit our spiritual needs--moulded rightly--but nevertheless we had introduced our own modifications.

There is much to be said for making the case that the Novus Ordo was never propogated as it was meant to be, that it had been hijacked by Leftist elements in the Church and diverted into something that shocked and bewildered the world, Catholic and non-Catholics alike. Yet, even granting this subterfuge, it remains that the Mass's new stucture did lay itself open to the abuses that flooded in.

However, the beautiful, finely delineated form of the Tridentine Mass does not allow it to be a laughingstock. Whether it is gloriously accompanied by a schola, offered as a dialogue Mass, or even said silently, it remains a way of offering the sacrifice that is not our way, but the Church Universal's. It exalts man in appealing to that which is best in him, but it also humbles by forcing him to approach God on conditions other than his own.

Occasionally, this chastens rather than consoles. The first time I attended an old Mass, wherein the priest offered it in hushed whispers, I was so bewildered I was nearly in tears. 'I can hardly tell what page I should be on in my missal! Why is the priest praying so fast? How do I even know he's uttering the right words at consecration?'

I was willing to concede every argument made against the old Mass after this experience, until I attended it again. I found that even though I occasionally could not keep pace right with the priest or always know exactly what he said at a particular moment (which is a problem that time and practice will resolve), I was always aware of the immense thing that was happening.

Blessed is the man whose help is from Thee: in his heart he hath disposed to ascend by steps (Psalm LXXXIII:6)

Ascending the steps to the high altar, uniting himself with the congregation by gazing in the same direction, his face turned to God, the priest parts the tent of the Holy of Holies and draws us into the Lord's presence, bringing Him to us on His terms and not ours. This form is the fruit of centuries, of many generations, and crafted by many. Its majesty may box our pert young ears at first, but as we grow accustomed to its discipline, we find that the universality of this rite renders it all the more personal. Hence, my preference:


Concerning the 'white, black, and red' group, I would say its defining charism is its devotion to the Extraordinary Form and to Polish patriotism. One may ask why these elements are necessary on a pilgrimage though. Isn't this a good time to rest from conventional worship and rejoice in the energy other methods may offer? As one who has drawn spiritual consolation from such sources as U2 and the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, I cannot sneer at such a statement. Still, I must deny it. No, that sort of devotion is not the most fitting on a pilgrimage.

The reason for this is due to the very essence of a pilgrimage. It is a unique prayer, a journey set apart, because it mirrors our earthly life in a perfect allegory. Consider the prayer of St. Thomas Aquinas before Holy Communion:

...O most loving Father, grant that I may one day come to contemplate face to face Thy beloved Son, whom now on my pilgrimage I receive under a sacramental veil...

Note that the Angelic doctor does not preface 'pilgrimage' with any adjective to qualify the term. He flatly states that this life is a pilgrimage, and any temporal journey we undertake that happens to fit the definition in a lexicon is but a reflection of the real pilgrimage. I grow tedious now, but I must repeat what I said a year ago: that these nine days of pilgrimage were nine days of reality.

So, first, the Mass immemorial was offered everyday--our moment of contemplation and foretaste of Heaven. Here the group reminded us of that for which we pined on this earth. Second, the devotion to hearth and home, to the nation of the people footing this march, reinforced in those walking the sense of where their temporal duties lay, of their duties to the Church Militant before God called them to join the Church Triumphant.

Clouds of dust were choking our path by the day's end, when suddenly (it always seemed suddenly) we came upon our resting place, and off of that dirt road. Washing the grit from my face later, I had to smile at the concrete symbol of this sojourn's conclusion:

...For dust thou art, and into dust thou shalt return. (Genesis III:19) 

Thank you Marzena/Basia!

A long day again, but this time we were all prepared to deal with the distance. However, the cold, windy weather came as a bit of an unpleasant surprise.

On the pilgrimage the year before I had packed a number of 'just in case' items in order to be scout-wise prepared. I had foregone such preparations this time in order to travel more lightly, and I paid for it that night by hardly sleeping through the chill in my light summer pyjamas. Very wise, Rachela. In any case it was all for the best as it made it easier to get up to help with breakfast--something I had meant to do more often this time around.

The Biblical incident between Mary and Martha had always disturbed me as a child. Jesus had to eat, did He not? Why was Mary to have the 'better part' and Martha not? Concerning that particular situation, the answer became easier as I grew older. Martha was not as keen on listening to Jesus as her sister; Holy Scripture makes it clear that her mind and her worries were mainly focused on the practical, concrete ways of serving Him. But I don't think such could be said of those who nobly performed the role of Martha in our group; they were every bit as contemplative as the Marys.

Realizing that I myself could not attend Mass that morning made me smart. How much more so did it hurt those who could not walk with us on the day's route, because they were busy preparing supper or pitching tents to help the rest of us? These things had to be done, but they were carried out in the spirit of sacrifice, not because it was was these pilgrims preferred to do. That insurmountable wall between the realm of action and of contemplation will always trouble me to some degree. Though I know both charisms are noble, they still separate the lives of human beings from one another. We are not in Paradise, yet.

4.3 miles later, we were in Studzianna. Perhaps I should have tried wearing my grey hoody on the way, but the wretched thing had still been so damp that I did not think it would have been ver good for me. My 'babcia' kerchief (as a brother pilgrim had dubbed it the year before) was about my neck as a scarf, and I wore my rucksack in front of my body, rather than on my back, in an effort to keep warm. Everyone about me looked dressed for November rather than August. Global warming, you know?

Having once again knelt before the Sacrament there, and gazing on that sweet image of the Holy Family, we made our rest amidst the circle of trees nearby. Now that we had stopped walking, the cold grew worse. The wind also would not abate. I sat next to Ola, and we huddled together as we chatted (or rather I listened) with our brothers and sisters crouching about us.

There are seven people in this picture, where is the seventh? :)

Thank you Marzena!

One amongst them was a very young boy sitting on his father's lap. He looked at us from one to another as we passed, and then cried out in that incredible volume which mature vocal chords have lost: 'Was śpiewajcie mnie! Was śpiewajcie mnie!' (Y'all, sing to me!) After a hearty laugh, our cantor warmed up his majestic baritone and led us in a rousing hymn for the final leg of the journey.



We arrived at the same lovely farmstead where we had stayed the year before. Not being my normal, filthy self at the end of that day, I opted not to wash in the sultry stable as I had the year before. I was exulting in the freedom of only having to wash my hair, when I brought up my head and saw two young girls watching me.

Seizing an opportunity to practice my Polish with easy-going listeners, I asked them their names.
'We're K. and M. Are you from Warszawa?'

'Yes, I live there, but I come from the USA--from Tennessee.'

I was immediately peppered with questions, and we got on like a house on fire. Their grandmother came by a moment later, and I got to chat with her as well.

'So are you single?' she asked.

Thanks Basia and/or Marzena!

'Yes,' I answered, mischievously toying with the idea of asking if she had someone to spare. I don't know if her granddaughter and the little girl's friend connived at it, but later the ladies were treated to a hair dryer for our wet heads, which was more than a blessing as the temperature continued to drop. I did feel a trifle guilty for the modern convenience, but if the gentlemen can do that (see right:), surely a little blow-drying is not decadence?

K. swiftly became my little friend. I was delighted that she wanted to sing Compline with us, and we shared my breviary together over the wan light. Later, it was time to visit the port-o-potty. 'You could go to the bathroom in our house,' she offered.

'Sweetheart, [sometimes English diminutives cannot be dispensed with] if I did that, then everyone else would have to be able to go, too.'

So, instead she stayed with me while I waited in line. It was growing cold again, and as I stood bereft of my hoody, I asked K. to play 'Simon mowi' with me. She eagerly took up the sole duty of being 'Simon' and proceeded to order me about, giving me warming, active orders.

It is one of the lovely things about making a pilgrimage, a retreat, or giving one's self up to any occasion out of the routine order that we may forgo artificial normalities. So it was not strange when K. told me to hug the person in front of me or dance with the brother pilgrim standing three places back. Not even when she had us all links hands and dance together did anything seem odd. There was no one to witness our joviality but the wide stretch of indigo Heaven above us. And when I went to sleep that night, I did not mind the chill.