Essays in Idleness

Gentle readers may stop emailing, to say I have a doppelganger at Crisis (here). I know this now. What makes it especially galling, is that the magazine in question still owes me a few thousand for the last dozen or so of columns I wrote for them (see here), through earlier years of this century. In the end, I found their promises to pay more annoying than their non-payments. Had they candidly told me they were broke, I might have written for nothing; finally I tired of being strung along. I suppose they think I am dead now. Well, just between us, I’m not.

*

Among my first galling experiences as a Catholic, was as a fresh convert back in 2004. I was invited to a Shrove Tuesday feast by a young lady among my earnest new friends. I was promised lots of pancakes and sausages. There were a few people, perhaps a couple more than she expected, and on my arrival she announced herself tired of cooking, and put me by the stove. Much hearty call for those pancakes and sausages: it was my vita nuova, as a Roman short-order cook. Much alcohol consumed, too, including all of the bottle of single malt I brought. Finally, all were filled, and I had the opportunity to serve myself. There was enough batter left for about one-quarter pancake, and the sausages were all gone. The wine had run out, too: a kind of reverse Cana.

*

I could go on like this for a few more anecdotes; perhaps a few dozen. For instance, speaking engagements. In my old Anglican days I was often asked to speak, to various “Christian,” i.e. Protestant congregations, and on the subject of our common religion. Many happy moments, and wonderful people were met in those proceedings. I was always offered some honorarium, which I sometimes declined; but I don’t recall a single cheque bouncing. My public speaking invitations dried up promptly when I declared my Catholic conversion. There were no hard feelings; I could easily understand. From Catholics, hardly any invitations followed. The first was cancelled when it was discovered that I might be a “controversial” speaker; some kind of fire-breathing “traditionalist.” When I told another I couldn’t afford to donate my time — that writing a long speech is a serious undertaking — I was given a smart slap-down for my greed. Elsewhere, I spoke but was stiffed, leaving me out of pocket for transport and expenses, including memorably a rather expensive hotel my host had insisted on checking me into. (Had I known I’d be paying, I’d have picked some cheap dive.)

*

From conversation with other converts, over the years, I learn that my experiences aren’t unusual. As we say, the “cradle cases” aren’t very good on money. If you want to be paid, make sure the invitation has come through the diocesan bureaucracy, with the bishop’s good name stated somewhere. However, I have never once been invited by a bishop to take any part in ecclesiastical life, paid or unpaid. The cash was always for some more reliable Catholic he was promoting, such as Michael Coren.

*

For balance, I should mention that I have had happy relations with two conspicuously Catholic operations, which don’t pay much, but do consistently deliver. And then there was that basilica in Ottawa, that left no bad taste in my mouth. My advice to others in my situation is, make sure they pray in Latin. Among parish Catholics, that’s the best and perhaps the only predictor of payment.

*

I notice from the more reliable news feeds that my pope has betrayed me a few more times, since the last time I mentioned him. I could list the instances, but those interested will most likely be aware of them already. One may trawl Sandro Magister for the latest (here) then scroll through the last four years. Or read Edward Pentin’s reports in the National Catholic Register (articles, blogs, tweets). Or the Rorate Caeli website, though I find it over-emotional. Or Father Zed, or Father Hunwicke, et cetera. Several times my “liberal” fellow Catholics have used the words of the old Peronist to rub in their despication of “conservatives” like me.

*

Today is the fourth anniversary of the sudden retirement of beloved Benedict XVI. I remember feeling outraged by the first announcement, and desolate thereafter. How much better I think it would have been for all the faithful if, sick and exhausted, he had carried on, doing nothing for years, maybe decades. One thinks of Hippocrates. (“First, do no harm.”) Of course, we cannot know this.

*

None of these items quite match the grievances of Saint Paul (see his beautiful rant in the eleventh chapter of Second Corinthians, which was the long Sexagesimal epistle).

Yet on the eve of Ash Wednesday, and another tour of Lent, one might still make one’s own quick heap. The Holy Spirit, so often falsely invoked, is about His business. Our wayward Church remains that which was founded by Our Lord, in the foresight of Our Father in Heaven. Our task is to remain faithful to her, each of us, though we be abluted by all of our neighbours, and back-stabbed by our friends. Christ was Himself abandoned and betrayed.

Our place is at the foot of His Cross. Paradoxically, it is the only safety; the one place to look for justice and mercy; and the ground of all Hope.