I journeyed to fair Albion to provide a lecture at Oxford University, sponsored by the Thomistic Institute at Blackfriars, around which accumulated other pleasant obligations, appointments and connections with old friends.
I packed my raincoat, not knowing that I would enjoy four perfect days of 60 degrees Fahrenheit weather (if you will permit me my American loyalty to old ways when it comes to units of measure).
The 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time found me at the London Oratory High Mass. I’m not a regular Latin Mass-goer and did not know what to expect, other than “a very fine liturgy”, as a knowledgeable friend informed me. I was taken aback by the excellence of the music and the accessibility of the Mass. One would think a Latin-challenged Philistine such as myself would feel like an outsider. Yet the use of the Novus Ordo means that a regular Mass-goer knows where he is in the liturgy, even if he doesn’t know the meaning of the words. The liturgical formality was dignified, not fussy, and the voices of the choir were angelic.
There is nothing like this in New York City, where I live. I’m not sure why. It’s not as though we lack the talent. Perhaps we’re fearful of the beauty of holiness, which humiliates us in our mediocrity. That’s an understandable fear, though not one the Church ought to accommodate.
After Mass, my knowledgeable friend and I went out for a festive midday meal, at which we shocked the London bourgeoisie by saying grace in something more than a whisper. “Very countercultural,” he commented after we crossed ourselves, smiling a wicked smile.
On Monday I met some young pro-life activists and was encouraged by their zeal and determination. In the evening I hosted some friends for a dinner discussion on whether there was a crisis in the West, and if so, of what sort? Globalisation. Immigration. Islam. De-Christianisation. Wir haben keine Alternative, or so it seems. And what of America and her non-imperial empire? Is it sustainable? Will it become the instrument of a post-national global oligarchy, something America’s national self-image facilitates rather than restrains? Questions were more raised and chewed over than answered.
On the train to Oxford on Tuesday I was again reminded of how utterly dreadful our trains are in the States. Even the most advanced service rocks and lurches like a 19th-century frontier railroad with uneven track. In hell, Americans will be in charge of public transportation.
I was accommodated by my Dominican hosts at Blackfriars Hall, and during the course of my two days in the university’s environs I met a number of intelligent and clear-minded Christian students and faculties. The evangelical Anglican divinity students and the Dominican brothers recognised that there’s no point in being a Laodicean Christian or a milquetoast church. This should be appreciated for what it is: the purification of intention brought about by the collapse of cultural Christianity in the West, more advanced in some places than in others, but glaringly obvious in today’s universities, where the new secular theologies of liberation, multiculturalism and “fact-based reason” are ascendant in an uneasy but powerful coalition government. I was encouraged by the clarity of mind and firmness of purpose. We are living at a moment when the political and cultural consensus in the West is both punitive and brittle – or better, punitive because brittle. When the great and the good are paralysed, feeling as though there are no alternatives, and at the same time frenetic in their efforts to find new causes to renew their superannuated leadership, a sober few who speak unapologetically about metaphysical truths and spiritual realities can make a big difference.
Jordan Peterson is no Thomist. But among other things, he directs our attention to the differences between men and women, a natural truth woven into the fabric of creation. Thousands attend his lectures. Millions watch his videos. A sign, perhaps, that the wheel of history is turning.
On the feast day of Blessed John Henry Newman, I delivered my lecture, “The Return of the Strong Gods”. The strong gods are the objects of our love. They have the power to evoke loyalty and self-sacrifice in ways that cheer our hearts. My message was that we need to champion the strong gods, the sources of solidarity that come from above, from the benevolent hand of our Creator: marriage, family and, of course, the Church. For if we fail to do so, I fear the return of the dark gods who arise from below.
The next day, a well-read High Church Anglican who attended my talk suggested I read Archbishop Whately’s Essays on the Errors of Romanism, a nearly 200-year-old polemic against the young Turks at Oxford who were rebelling against Enlightenment rationalism’s invasion of the Church, and who set about to re-enchant the English imagination with thoughts of an intimate, active and arresting divine presence.
I noted the book’s title. Then, after our pleasant conversation on further topics ended, I wandered among the dreaming spires, finding myself eventually before the entrance to St Mary’s Church. The afternoon sun honeyed the ancient sandstone. “Romanism” has many errors. We can be misled by our desire for the sacred, lose our way when we outrun reason, betray love’s promise when we love what ought not to be loved. But we cannot live without love. I sent up a prayer to the thin-faced Cardinal, asking him to guide us as we navigate the return of the strong gods.
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