The Wild Tears Fall

There is a certain condition in human nature that is familiar to every experienced human being across the boundaries of nations or time. It is that of a relationship grown cold due to a rift--an argument or an act that causes two people once deeply engaged in one another to grow apart. This is never so evident as when it occurs in marriage, where the two are still obliged to remain together. One has no difficulty in conjuring the image of a man and woman moving laconically past one another, each in his and her own shadowy world. They do not speak; the situation has grown comfortable. Maybe they have some notion of doing something in the future to rekindle the joy they felt as they began their lives together, but that must wait for the appropriate time. They have their personal plans, and day in, day out, they move steadily and solitarily towards different goals, though to all appearances, they stay together.

In the Renaissance, thinkers posited the idea that motion itself may be dubbed 'inert' as aptly as stillness is. It logically followed that sluggishness is found in actuality as well as in potency. Not yet abandoning the link between pure reason and reality, these philosopher scientists realized that such an idea would nullify any difference between rest and motion, and so to uphold the truth that our sensory experience indeed reflects reality, many nodded as Newton posited the notions of 'absolute motion' and 'absolute place.' Those scientists, so wanting man to be the measure of all things, likely mopped their brows with relief at such a solution. Somewhere there was an eternal standard to measure individual phenomena against, thus vouchsafing˜­ the credibility of man's reason.


However, the realm of human relations differs entirely. As each man is an individual endowed with sentient thought of the highest order, his personal course of action need not arise from a relation with any eternal measure. Determinists may say otherwise, but personal experience tells us that man does what he does out of free choice, and that this freedom is only lessened by the sleepy influence of inertia (for even acting on the compulsion of another implies that we choose compliance over the alternative of not complying). Whether it is true for physical objects or not, man is indeed capable of resting even as he acts, mindlessly following the course of habit.


'Heaven gives us habit instead of happiness' is the proverb stoically intoned at the beginning of Tchaikovsky's luscious opera, Onegin. As it is shown that story's prelude, the strength of habit is enough to conquer individual impulses, and in this story's case, it is for the better. The security of a repeating cycle helps one to heal after the bruises of disappointed romance.


One may say the same to be the case with the Church and the Society of Saint Pius X. The initial sunderance with Rome must have shook the earth under the bishops' feet, even as they were convinced that Canon Law ultimately justified them, even as it appeared to condemn them. The stigma branded upon them by the mainstream currents in the Church may have at first spurred them on, but after all this time, this condition has very likely become mundane.


Just as with the married couple mentioned before, there was an argument. It was an ugly argument--the sort that shatters lives and even worlds. Yet, the presence of mind in both parties allows the marriage to remain in existence, and the two decide to go seperate ways under the same roof, trusting in some misty future date for a true reconciliation. Habit reigns in place of happiness, and husband and wife are content with their domestic routines, superficial conversation, and nights of regular sleep. This life does not feed their desires. It is not a fulfillment of their vocation. It is an insult against the potential grandeur of their souls. Yet, it is also the easier thing to do. Habit is easier than happiness; routine is easier than romance. Inertia always has that upperhand over the practice of virtue.

That is why it would come as a shock to the wife, if as she prepares supper in the kitchen, or as she returns home from work herself, to suddenly come face to face with her husband and see that he is looking at her. He does not give way for her to continue what she was doing. He does not even follow his own routine. He says decisively: 'Things cannot go on as they have.' She finds now she will have to make a choice. To live with him as his wife, or not to live with him at all, because he will no longer stand for only receiving a part of her or for merely giving a part of himself.

The SSPX expected the barque of St. Peter to take a century or so to right its course, at the which time, they would seek a more visible reunion. Much like a practical wife, the Fraternity was ready to bide its time and wait for the situation to evolve. Romance however kindles revolution; it does not wait for evolution. 

Yet, this sort of passion and deliberate way of thinking may end in either triumph or tragedy. The husband's confrontation with his wife could bring about a wider rift rather than a reconciliation. As Archbishop Fellay himself has said: 

One must not think that things will be easy afterwards. To use the words of the Pope that describe the situation quite well: 'I know,' he said, 'that it would be easier both for the Society and for myself to leave the situation as it currently is.' This describes very well the situation, and also that the Pope himself knows that he, when he does it, will be attacked. And also that the situation will not be easy for us. That which will arise out of this situation will be with Rome or against it. Both of which will be difficult. 

'Difficult'? A very diplomatic term. The enemies of this reunion want to wreck it completely. They are ready to split the Church over it. The heretics that once accused the SSPX of schism, are now entering into formal schism (to add to their heresy): 

A schismatic pope loses his position according to that same teaching of the constitution of the Church. At least, he cannot expect obedience...Instead of reconciling with the ultra-conservative, anti-democratic, and anti-Semitic SSPX, the Pope should rather care about the majority of reform-minded Catholics and reconcile with the churches of the Reformation and the entire ecumenical movement. Thus he would unite, and not divide. _Hans Küng (http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/freak-extremes-meet-hans-kung-becomes.html)

Ultimately, those engaged in a romance must be willing to ask themselves if the other is enough. If their relationship is a great enough good to place above all other goods and all other relations. The Pope has decided that justice to the Fraternity is above the politics of diplomacy and that open arms to those outside the Church is a lie if those already within Her are not also embraced in love. His Holiness has decided to put his own house in order first, whatever the cost.

And how shall it end? That depends on whether one's trust in the good God is well-founded. Those with faith already have their answer.

It's not the second of February yet! Undoubtedly the sound of Christmas carols still emanating from my room is occasionally perplexing my roommates, as is the chalk inscription on the door, but one's attachment to festive seasons--eespecially ecclesial ones--cannot be gainsaid. Today is a particularly bittersweet feastday with a vivid, raucous history of celebration worthy of the medieval epoch. It is that of the Flight in Egypt, also known as Festum Asinorum, the Feast of the Ass.

Man, when acting as himself, does have a great love for the animals that have borne him. Balaam's ass reproached him for beating her when she refused to proceed against an angered angel, and her argument was symphathetically recorded in Scripture. A creature whose very name is a term of derision when applied to the Homo Sapiens/Homo Necans/Homo Politicus has on occasion got a word in edgewise.

This event, amongst others, was celebrated in the Middle Ages as a play, inspired by the pseudo-Augustinian "Sermo contra judaeos, paganos, et Arianos de Symbolo," (a sermon which I burn to read, being an adjuration both to Jews and Gentiles--historial, philosophical, and prophetic). At the climax of the lively procession, the ass exchanged the wizard Balaam, who was marching to curse God's chosen people, for the virgin Mother of God, who was flying into Egypt to save her Son. All fittingly culminated in the Mass, at the end of which the officiating priest did not say 'Ite Missa est' nor did the congregation respond 'Deo gratias.' Instead there was a startling exchange of: 'Heehaw, heehaw, heehaw!'

That spark of grace not quite dead in man's nature has always sympathized with the overlooked creatures of this world, whether they have been tragically neglected or mundanely taken for granted. If a stranger's eye was drawn to a scene of uproarious joy, he would probably spot very swiftly the wistful expression of one soul who for some reason could not participate fully in the happy moment. And there are few things more mournful looking than the long, sweet face of a donkey.

A delight it is then to meditate on the song above and relish the glories that have belonged to that beast of burden. Though some may sneer or sigh that it is only for a moment that the underdog has his day, this is not the correct way of viewing that fraction of glory. The 'day' that a creature occasionally has is meant to be a revelation of one's true worth in the midst of worldly confusion, not merely a sop that the world throws to a part of the machine to prevent that cog's melancholy from growing into discontent. The glorification of the ass on this day is warranted, and what's more, it is true. Its humble anatomy and powers achieved more than all the animals mentioned in the above hymn, and those lines are not exagerrations. Its humble forbearance gave so much back to the world, and for that it will be honoured forever by man when he finds a moment to clear his head and think. Having thought, I thank you, Sir Ass!

Once in the fifteenth century, there was a troubled, young, English prince born to a morally bankrupt father and second in line to a brother who was equal to their father in personal laxity. Though devoted to the Faith and to study, this younger royal would likely have been distracted, sometime in his thirteenth or fourteenth year, by the many whisperings in court of the desperate struggle of the English to outpace the King of Scotland by securing a Spanish princess as bride for the heir to the English throne.

The turn of the tide in Spain--effected by Isabella's succession of her ineffectual half-brother, united with the efforts of her husband--had restored order in the now bonded realms of Aragon and Castille. So impressed were the British lords that they had taken arms to assist in the Reconquista, and wrought the beginning of what might have been a strong alliance betwixt Spain and England.

When the beautiful, sprightly, Spanish princess, Catherine, arrived at last on Britain's shore, Henry VII gloated. His son, Arthur, leered, and the young Henry VIII fell in love. So much so, that when he came of age he took no heed of his deceased father's connivance after a more profitable marriage for the new heir to the throne (Arthur having died from syphilis). After all, England now had the royal, Spanish widow--and cheaply too, as she was nearly starving in the damp castle where Arthur so quickly met his end. However, Henry immediately wed the still beautiful woman, though she was seven years his senior.

She became bone of his bone in everyway. His confidante, his aid, his co-ruler. She was willing to ride out with the troops to cheer them or to act as regent while he was abroad. In the early stages of her misfortunes in child-bearing, the 'Defender of the Faith' at first consoled her, bearing the pain with his wife as a true husband. But then, for some horrific reason, Henry VIII lost the Faith, or rather, he did his best to lose it.

Popular culture for once has it quite right when it either sternly or jokingly states that only the poison of lust can truly account for the king's defection. The argument of requiring a male heir or the scruples over the possibility of incest are as feeble as claims that Cardinal Wolsey was papist or that St. Thomas More was a pettifogger. Did Henry want a son? Undoubtedly. Did he need one? Come now! This was not the world that the Left would make it out to be.

Catherine was the daughter of the woman who had had the naked sword of sovereignty borne before her in the procession of her coronation--the woman and the one who had taken her nation's destiny back. When her husband, Ferdinand, felt a tinge of macho resentment at his wife's independence, she gently reminded him that as they only had daughters at that point in their marriage, even the feminine right to rule must be recognized. Ferdinand conceded this argument, and it is unlikely that Henry VIII was less reasonable.

Turning aside a moment--it is bitterly ironic that Henry's son would perish from the disease Henry contracted in attempting to beget him. The rotund monarch's daughters would be his only successors, and yes, they remained on the throne until their deaths.

Did Henry truly have scruples over taking his brother's wife? What! after receiving a dispensation allowing the marriage from the Vicar of Christ in whose authority he believed? In fact, it was a dispensation that was only necessary in form, as Arthur's health did not permit him to consummate his brief marriage to Catherine. It is true that we have only the queen's word for this, but also no reason to distrust it. Her devotion to the truth and the physical condition of her bridegroom support her word.

Futhermore--concerning the king's conscience again--the same reasoning that would have nursed uneasiness in Henry's conscience would also have clearly forbidden him to have wed Anne Boleyn. Was she not the sister of Henry's former mistress? Where did those fastidious reservations fly? For whatever vile, sensual working in his mind, Henry was bent on union with a temperamental shrew, and likely for a reason as petty as this: Catherine's bloom was fading. As Hilaire Belloc said, the mind of a Tudor was acute, but not large.

What stood in this Tudor's way was the Church to whom he had always been devoted. He had hated the Protestant Revolution--both its doctrines and its habits from the beginning, but when Holy Mother Church would not let him have his way, he broke off all ties with Rome. Again, he was likely acting through his passions only, not seeing the ruin in store for the world of Christendom.

Henry then cruelly separated his wife from their daughter and left his spouse to die in the rotten hole from which he had previously rescued her. For the next 59 years (interrupted by the five year reign of Mary Tudor I), Henry VIII and Elizabeth I would spend their reigns stamping out vibrant English Catholicism via looting, persecution, and mass murder. A secular historian, who was documenting this era, spoke thus while touring a former home of Catholic nobility:

'What happened to Catholicism which had been so strong in England?' he opened a trapdoor, familiar to well taught schoolchildren as a priest's 'hidey hole,' and said curtly, 'It disappeared down here.'

What was left behind after this persecution? What was this new 'Anglican' Church? It looked like the Church of Rome ('tainted' with the 'gross shadow of popery' according to the Puritan and Pilgrim, William Bradford). But it was very much as if a man had murdered the woman he loved, constructed a machine, and did his best to fashion it after her image and being. Did this sect Henry fashioned to soothe his anti-Reformation sensibilities have any substance to it?

Cardinal Newman observed in the Development of Christian Doctrine that Protestantism, having rebelled against any religious authority, ritual, or devotion, often fades into agnosticism or atheism when it introduces logical speculation into its doctrine.

England's religious revolution was truly engineered by the powerful rich, the erstwhile 'reformers,' and the deluded Henry VIII. Of these three parties, that errant monarch died. The men who sought to revive 'primitive Christianity' quickly became irrelevant. Albania was left with a puppet of the opportunist aristocrats and the merchants who lived on generation after generation.

Their puppet of a church undoubtedly lost any right to the name 'creed' some time ago.

'I believed in the Church I joined, but it has been revealed to have no doctrine of its own. I personally think it has gone past the point of no return.' _Bishop Broadhurst [emphasis mine]

The disillusionment of orthodox Anglican bishops brought droves of converts into the Catholic Church last year. Now the American Episcopalians have been removed from the Anglican Communion's ecumenical dialogues. The African Anglican Church is wedged further and further apart from the modernist errors of the Anglican community. Some Anglican converts are even speaking of regaining the churches stolen from Rome long ago. One may at last be seeing the return of Mary's Dowry, at least as far as believers are concerned. The majority of England is unabashedly secular.

It's strange that it has taken so many centuries for the cleavage in England to show signs of healing. What would have been a slight tug of war between monarch and pope in any previous age, was a complete severance due both to England's economic circumstances and Europe's revolutionary climate. Henry VIII managed to destroy everything he cared for: Catherine, the Church's place in England, and within a century and two years, the monarchy.

I have heard it said that there is no such thing as private sin. Every time we look up to the Heaven and shake our fist, every time we say 'no' to Reality, we can be sure that we will not be able to keep what we have done to ourselves. Failing in our duties, failing those we love the most, and failing God are crimes too great to be contained in our personal lives. They will spill out into the world, and we will have made ourselves part of what's wrong with this life.

Returning to the man who hated God, yet loved His mother, one is again baffled. The fact is as mad as preferring the sun to the moon. The latter sustains no life by virtue of her luminous beams; her light is not even her own, but a reflection of the self-sufficient radiance of the sun. The sun is the very force binding the system of man's world together-his only protection against the cold, sterile world of space without. Yet, many people do say they prefer the moon.

The reason given is often that her light does not hurt their eyes. Her beauty is soft, gentle, and mysterious. She does not burn, nor does she blot out the brilliance of other heavenly bodies, and the stars shine at her side. The moon does not give life, but she soothes it, though not even doing so of her own power, and for that reason she is preferred. There it is. Is it rational? No, but it is held.

And it is true that Our Lady does not hurt us, as she demands nothing for herself, whereas Our Lord demands everything little thing our small selves can give. It is the same case when some married people prefer their friends to their spouses, and this is also unsound. A woman's confidante may pat her hand, understand with all sweetness the trials of her inner life, and counsel her in ways that a woman's husband could not (or could not in a way that she would heed), but she is still only the lady's friend. The fruit of their intercourse can only be ideas and feelings, but the fruit of man and wife is miraculous. It is another body, endowed with a soul. Another creature, it is procreation. Friendship is sterile; marriage begets and conceives.

But then, a lover is so demanding! A woman can merely smile at her friend during a festivity, embrace her, drop a word of fondness, and consider her obligation as a friend fulfilled. However, the man who loves her wants to dance with her. The more intense his devotion, the more turns he wishes for. When his love is disappointed, he is pained, and the more ardent his temperament, the less he can hide it. And the sight of pain is so disagreeable! Even more so when one is expected to repent for having caused that pain.

The lover proves even less reasonable in that he would actually prefer his beloved to be alone with him, and expects her to leave behind the gay company of others to be at his side. It would be pleasant to laugh with and engage with other people at a feast, but there is that earnest lover entreating fervently (and rather embarrassingly at your elbow) 'How long will you keep putting Me off?' (Sister Faustina Kowalska's Diary: Divine Mercy in My Soul).

Scripture and Saints have said again and again that Our Lord is a Divine Lover, and how hated does that fact make the Catholic Church in this age. Before her, it was the prologue of this Love that caused the Hebraic people to be so despised by their enemies. Why would they not simply sacrifice to the local gods in their places of exile? Why could they not just pacify maniacal rulers by patting them on the head and humour them with the affirmation that they were divine? No, they had to put their stubborn feet down and say that their jealous Lord would not allow for their hearts to be devoted to any other thing, even an imaginary one.

Nor would He even allow for an exterior show of honour to false deities. A woman can lie with a man without loving him, but a true husband will not stand for his wife prostituting herself, whatever the reason. The Hebrew God was not a distant force into which a man could tap for his personal welfare, nor a capricious superhuman who would in turn be bored or interested by the inferior creatures scurrying below his throne on Olympus. Nor again was He the figurehead of a philosophy-not actually existent, but the culmination of a very fine principle which one ought to adhere to for the sake of one's own virtue. He instead presented Himself as both an omniscient, omnipotent Being and a pitifully desperate Wooer.

If a king leapt from his throne to throw himself at the feet of a lowly woman in the crowd, he might find his people, and her, bewildered and scornful enough to knock his crown off. The person of his gentle, beautiful mother is not likely to bear any of this ill feeling. Her crown is thus often left in tact.

Returning to the wilful young woman and her devotee, it is not necessary that any of the resentment arising in her at her admirer's demands should apply itself to his gently tempered mother or sister. This does however depend on her loving them to begin with. The iconoclastic soul who cannot move past the phase where she envies the gentle soul that has known her beau longer than she (and knows better how to please him) is not the soul being discussed at present. This soul has moved past pettiness and grown to love that dear woman who has been with her beloved one all his life, the mother whose love for him has moved her maternal heart to invite this soul into her affection as well.

Yet, as time wears on, the young woman may find it easier and easier to love her wooer's mother, and discover it to be harder and harder to wax in affection for him as she ought. Selfishness does not prevent gratitude, but it does inhibit the growth of fervour and the submission of one's own will. If the girl casts the young man off, she may find herself regretting more the loss of friendship with his mother than with him-at least, at that short-sighted moment.

Such is the case with souls that had once embraced Christ in His Church. In the dawn of His light, they erect a throne for the magnificent Lover, the first streams of Grace being sweet to their parched souls. Some of these converts may at first meet with suspicion the other souls attached to Him and in devotion to Him, e.g. his foster father, Joseph, his chief apostle, Peter, but most especially His spotless mother. Yet, in the humble, loving soul, a creature so perfect and so devoted to the Lord they both love can only finally win a prominent place in their affection.

However, as man is matter and matter wearies, either in the individual soul or in the coming generations of nations, rebellion may seed itself in the heart of man. Who is this distant God that not only demands the adherence of one's intellect, but also the intimate devotion of his heart? No ruler asks his subject to abstain from gluttony at meals, no teacher pries so deeply into his student's volition as to expect inward affirmation, and no friends believe they have the right to know a man's innermost thoughts, much less the right to command them.

Forgetting that he owes his very being to Christ the King, man's selfishness is all too keen to topple His crown when it so pleases him. Forgetting the original sweetness of faith either in his own soul or in the ages before him, he plants his insolent mallet in the image of his Lord. When he turns from Christ's crown to the mother's, his hand may find itself restrained. Why demolish any devotion to that harmless creature, with no power of her own, who offers only love, and does not ask that anyone should come to her to seek forgiveness for she judges no one? With either a patronizing sneer or a grudging nod of decrepit piety, she is left alone.

And so we have nations whose rulers and peoples who do not attempt to live by His law. The Kingship of Christ is a dirty phrase, even amongst those who profess to house Him in their hearts. Yet, in the strangest places, at the oddest times, an undertow trips the feet of powerful in the world. Pragmatic Ireland fights to keep abortion from staining her land, and the fight goes on in the rudderless Americas to dam that tide of blood. Accommodating Poland wears the mark of Our Lord upon her sleeve, and refuses to let the direst of ungodly acts within her borders. Why? What have these nations in common? On the soil of Erin, there is a queen in Knock. Over the Americas waves the tilma of a Lady. Circling the higher tower of the basilica in Kraków is the golden crown of Regina Poloniae.

Man's eyes must grow very owl-like and dim, and his acts must sink to the blackest depravity to hate the light of the Moon. As he is matter and ever changing, man will either decline or rise throughout his course. It is a most likely event then, that he who truly loves the light of the Moon, will yearn for that light's Source again.

Observing the limp of one of those dear animals prompted me to share again this essay.

Previously published on 20/12/2007 at foolishnessntears.blog.com.

Making my way down the roughly beaten sidewalks of Seoul , causeways that must bear the tramp of human feet and motorcycles alike, I frequently see young children running up far ahead of their parents. Crime in Seoul is infrequent, but my nervous disposition tenses on seeing babes just old enough to run so mixed with the crowd.

A boy and a girl, perhaps four and five, were running with breathless haste one warm, summer night, when they passed by the pet shop I always go by on my way to and from work. Immediately, the boy stopped to look through the glass, and the girl threw her arms up in squeals of joy. I had to steal a glance myself at the puppies frisking about in the window.

Before then, some had been white and fluffy with large eyes of umber brown and sweet little snouts nosing against the window and occasionally each other. Some were motley coloured with eyes that were so unfortunately placed amidst long hair, that streams of brown muck run from the tear ducts down either side of the nose. Some have blunted faces, whilst others have no puppy fat but are already scrawny miniatures of the adult form to come. On this night, there were none but these specimens in the window, and a little girl was so overjoyed at the sight, that even this foreigner knew she was making inarticulate noises.

A little one that doesn’t love a puppy worries me, though perhaps one that doesn’t love kittens may be excused. For when a child begins to see the world in the context of loving, as well as being loved, animals play a pivotal role. However delighted a child is with human affection, these humans are not yet within his power for him to do them good of his own accord. He is given first dominion over his toys to love or abuse as he pleases. Girls cuddle and spank their dolls; boys cautiously steer cars through the legs of chairs and then crash them into the wall.

Amidst this world of artificial plush, a child may one day be introduced to something that moves. The first puppy placed in the arms of a littlie awakens him to new pleasures and terrible responsibility. The soft thing in his lap is too dense to be hefted in one hand; it has bones that cannot be squeezed and flesh that must not be pinched or bitten. With delight, the toddler sees that the creature is warm and moving.

Better than all the pretty dolls and painted trains is the being moving with a will of its own. However much the teddy bear was embraced, it never gave back a hug worthy of its name. Dolls with painted or embroidered lips never kissed their apprentice mother back, but now something reaches up with a curious wet snout and gives a warm lick to the owner’s mouth. The child sees not the face, but the warm eyes and wagging tail of its worshipper, and I pray God’s grace that he renders well back the love he is given.

Years ago, as I was organizing the children’s clothing in the store where I worked, I saw a customer pushing a stroller that had obviously been in the pet shop a floor above us. The little girl within, a pretty wee thing with blond curls, was not restlessly stirring about as her momma shopped, but contemplating something in her lap.

I saw a rather mucky mixture of black and brown fur sitting there. A little terrier (I assume) of some sort was glancing about, its bristling hair sticking out comically from all sides of its face. Certainly not a colour or make to intrigue the child in the sky blue jumper. It turned to her with its wet, nervously sniffing snout--the sort of thing one would paint on a goblin. Yet, she gently pet its back with her soft, plump hand. Tentatively, she lowered her chubby, little cheek to it. A stripe of pink showed against the black mouth, and it caressed her back with a furiously wagging tail. She smiled sweetly and took up her face to look at it again, oblivious to the brilliant colours and pretty dresses hanging about her, and stroked the animal as though it were cut glass.

Rarely have I seen two beings so contented with one another, and never could I have again said that a loyal dog was ugly, anymore than a loving face is displeasing. The gift is bestowed on us intact; it is we that sully and spoil it with our jaded derision. A special grace at a pivotal time is given in the face of a dog turned trustingly to a child, and a sorry outcome would be yet another instance of man's wretched Fall.


No Dog Is Ugly by Rachel Rudd is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at foolishnessntears.blogspot.com.