A Eulogy for My Son

Yesterday, I buried my unborn child, Charles Dominic.

In these latest days, I have often been Theoden at Theodred's tomb. Simbelmynë I have planted in my imagination, ever minding the loss of his brief and bright life.

This great-souled little one has gone from us almost as soon as his arrival. The fiery joys set and burst at his coming have been swallowed at our grasping like will-o'-the-wisps, leading me on to an empty place forlorn.

More than ever, I am alone in that I know and honor the dignity of his life like a child with a raggedy plush that no one wants. Only the child can see its worth. And who in this world will see his worth?

With the same conviction, I know that he is my son. We felt it, and we named him before we knew the Feast of St. Charles would soon follow his death. My first born too early born.

That he was too early for this world is clear. He wanted only one thing, and only one thing I taught him without knowing -- or myself and my ancestors taught him by striving. To seek God only. He learned too well for my weakness.

He has died after the fathers who made his death seem insignificant, and so he has died alone. Laid to rest alone, he sleeps in an open field beneath the stars and simbelmynë, who, like me, only mind him ever -- only we mind. Because the watchful flowers have covered his grave after and before his fathers. They are gone and cannot see him.



My son. Why?



Like you, purpose has come and gone like so much uncaring wind. It did not stay for a fortnight.

Dreadful purpose fulfilled in weeks, to send you where I am to -- I was to -- and would send you to again and again and call you back wanting you without wishing.

Tiny intercessor. Stronger than soldiers. Having suffered the greatest loss -- the loss of even a worthy and blessed trial, a worthy and blessed love of the earth. How could you have despised what you did not know?

Your brothers and sisters will not forget your name, nor your mystery, wisest of us. Love me, son. Please love me from where you are.

Wish me so much pain that the miracle of my empty hands may teach your siblings what I somehow, unknowing, taught you.

Oh my son.

Charles, do not rest while we waste in this vale of tears. You have gone to the house of my fathers. Let them make your spirit great for the wars. And do not forget your weary father. Be ever mindful -- with the fair bright eyes in the grass! -- and await the opening of the world for me.

Relativism: The Scourge of the West

Relativism is, surely, a loaded term in the West today. Generally, when spoken, the word carries a negative connotation; even those who believe in some strain of relativism do not like the label. I find this topic interesting largely because of the way the phenomenon of relativism has seized western culture, while relativism as a philosophy has experienced a less than robust life. Up until the last couple of centuries, serious minded thinkers viewed relativistic thought as a nonviable way to understand and describe reality. With modern science and the spreading compartmentalization of knowledge, and modern philosophy and its replacing of God with the self, relativism began its forceful and flattening march on western culture.

One might look around now and easily find at least a couple manifestations of relativism – the one, paralyzing, the other, emboldening. Before continuing, let us have a general definition of relativism from which to build our discussion: the idea that any truth or knowledge is relative to a specified framework (i.e. culture, history, society). Of the two manifestations, the former follows very closely the definition above. The relativist of this manner may be a somewhat thoughtful person. Seeing the irrefutable fact that different peoples in different times and places have formed varying beliefs and behaviors, the relativist concludes that his judgments about other cultures or societies or the good or ill therein are nullified by the fact that all he believes is relative to his own time and place. There may be knowable truths, and judgments that follow, within his specific framework, but he does not believe that “his truth” applies to those outside his framework, thus he is paralyzed and unable to act. As one narrows the appropriate realm of human reason, one widens the chasm between himself and truth.

The second manifestation of relativism magnifies the narrowing effect seen above, for the framework in which one is locked is no longer one’s culture, society, or position in history but one’s self. The threat of this relativism is far more than the frustrating experiences of hearing someone say, “Well, that’s just your opinion.” If we take the proportionality statement above, this second kind of relativism creates even more separation from the truth, and therefore, is more dangerous than the first. With all things relative to the self, the self becomes radically independent, disconnected from others and society.

It should be clear why this phenomenon of relativism continues to spread and take hold: it is easy, convenient, requiring only a weak mind, and a weaker will. This kind of relativism is what Joseph Ratzinger once called “a dictatorship of relativism.”¹ With nothing definite, there is nothing demanded, and so this relativism brings forth an illusion of freedom while in reality, the independent and distorted self turns inward and becomes enslaved to its own desires.

We find ourselves under this “dictatorship of relativism” today – the battle for men’s souls rages. As man narrows his horizon and moves further from the truth, the question of what is to be done becomes more difficult still. One answer, one hope, is beauty. Somehow, the relativist must experience ecstasy, must come out of himself. The artist, then, is charged with the highest of tasks: making men free. Beauty has the power to awaken in man new desires, to turn his gaze upward towards heavenly things, to crack his hardened heart so that the light of truth might begin to shine through. In his unique relationship to the Beautiful, the artist plays a central role in broadening the narrow vision of the relativist. The relativists are correct that we all live, think, and interact within a specified framework – how small have you made yours?

Fiction: "Kronos: A Fable"

Eyvind Earle, "Garden of Eden"

Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres


1.

2127. And the world is happy – all the world. Having returned to the woods, the fields, away from the deathly cities, and back to the earth, where loving plants grow and animals become less frightful. Back to the farms and to the peace of the country, in which all people find their natural home.

The change in climate over the last century has had the great effect of rendering vesture unnecessary. The days are warm though the wind blows cool at times. And the great labor is to keep fruit-bearing plants to their plots, for they outstretch in gangly fronds their slow-swelling stalks.

There are many such colonies as ours upon moundy green high grounds among the swaths of bog and wetland. The mountains of what was the Blue Ridge untouched except their mysterious fogs and mists now merge with the smoky evaporation steaming from the staid water below, in the mornings leaving bright greeny mounds glistening, an ancient land of reptiles with hot stones and earthy crevasses.

And in all of this the joys of love. My lover himself is in the woods today to harvest honey as I sit here writing the journal of this our new life. Years of utter waste and darkness behind. Who could have said with any hope we would be here in the perfection of bliss? And yet it is so.

Who knows what happiness will befall me next. I keep this record of my joys for recollection. Many days from now I will have flowered – spread colorful wings, known inexplicable ecstasies. I write now as from the heart of one initiate of pleasure, a mere acolyte of happiness, but destined to burst through the very bounds of sense.

2.

No need to count the days in any urgency. As if our lives constantly prepare for demanding events created to justify them. A tyranny. I live, and today is a life of flowers, blooms of this eternal spring. I awaken to the scent of a bright yellow bundle laid upon my lap. My lover is broader than I with dark curls on the chest, dark curls above the brow. He stands and bares healthy teeth. We embrace.

He walks me through the field outside our wall. The dew bites but briefly before sun restores comfort to the little toes. He takes me to the bee hives. Harmless creatures after the quietus, the purest most efficient natural adaptation in history: immortality and harmony.

We walk the natural bridge to watch the Falls. The crashing water steams up from far below, blessing the pores and refreshing the senses beyond possibility. Possibility is overthrown. A lilting call from the eastern bank and we disappear.

With the Perfection we all know instinctively the greatest pleasure available in any circumstance, and we nearly always act accordingly. My lover, for instance, bears the scent of sweet daylily and fresh lavender – his hair is fluid, thick, affirmative of the hand that strokes it. We recount the joys of each day. There is no pleasure mindful we together leave untouched.

I am still chased by dreams.

3.

I dreamed last night that I bathed alone at the Falls. My hair streamed behind as I surfaced and turned to the shore. There a solitary bloom hung over in the midnight darkness. I stretched out my hand to touch the stem and a shock of intoxicating agony transfixed it there. I awoke with tears.

4.

Again at the pool beneath the Falls. The water of such a temperature to quicken the mind, burst the heart. I dove deep into the center but could not reach the bottom. As I swam towards the surface, I thought I saw a wavering form retreat from the water's edge, but slow.

Wind rustled the cold dewy wild blooms, settled weighted resting stalks. The night was still, and memory left me; I knew not myself or why I sat there by a pool on a rock. I withheld the pride of some cause, but could not place it. An owl jeered.

I made the mild climb to the grassy clifftop and morning broke though dawn could not. A soft breeze tousled fern fronds and the fine hairs on my head; the birds called from their early waking as the sky turned the very color of dreams. Still shadow with a rising blue.

The figure reappeared. She lay down oddly shaped amid the river stones. She seemed soft and rounded in all parts. Her eyes half-closed, she released low sighs, musical moans from out the water babble. Brown hair splayed out upon the mottled pebbles as she loosed small cries, drawing legs up around her bulbous middle. She pressed her curved back against a low rounded boulder and in one bright moment a call that reverberated from tree boles on the stream-side to nighted cliffs through the little vale and surging into space – a small noisy creature appeared between her thighs glowing by the weakening moonlight.

She lifted the little one to her breast wiping free the blood and fluids. She gazed awhile at the sleeping form until she shook violently, her head falling back upon the rock.

Days passed. The water coursing livened and spoke. The coiling breezes played in her hair and the babe wailed. It's feeble shape slid fortunately toward her standing nipple, and it sucked forth life.

Weeks. Months. Years. The child grew. He lingered, at times moaned sweetly; he would, at times, sit quite still at her side, clasp her face between his little hands and seem to pray. He wet her cheeks with tears that wet his own, brushed back her flowing hair and was quiet in the loneliness of grief. She lay and breathed.

The sun rose one morning glowing; a vast wine-drenched sky hung over the vale. The water, catching the light, dyed blue rocky banks with a rosy hue. And for the first time the boy upraised his eyes to the cresting mass upon the horizon. He climbed the stone steps of the Falls and gazed out from a body that hung upon forgotten will.

Now I could see his eyes open upon worlds of hope, fear, despair, love. Torn by agony he yet did not turn his face from the wonder in the sky. The earth unrolled its rich tapestry before his feet, and with a cry that struck my heart to stone he sprang forward like a bucking antelope. I watched his flying form until another cry bewildered my ears, wrenched my gaze to the stream-side. There the terrified mother wrestled with stoney limbs to rise and cast about with racing breath and pained look.

Footprints in the wet earth. Pursuit. Without a thought running weeping seeing every trace with a longing that effaced her. Her form – wind blowing the grass unknowing going. The orb over all the earth let forth a new radiance of volatile swallowing fire – blood and wine from the sky.

Black figures recede into the gargantuan sun like crust of dross in a crucible and I wonder what pitiless curse plagues mother and child. The sun grows ever closer, the land vanishing, subsumed into its mass while the wind's searing torrent knocks me flat like streaming beach-grass – abandoned pawn on the sands. The cooked earth coughs up flares upon the wastes and I am wracked with pangs.

* * *

Upon my awakening, the eyes of the youngest Prefect a mile distant burst open. His heart flutters – he searches reasonless.

My lover looks at me. I nod. He smiles, caresses my ears, my hair, but in his eyes there is the sickest dread. He brings me with every effort to where I must forget myself in the extenuation of every sense.

Concerning Music

Part III: Voices of Heaven

The human voice, almost unlimited in its range of application and its potential for communication, is truly a wonderful gift. In its very nature as intrinsic to humanity lies its unique quality of being the only musical instrument created directly by God Himself. In the Incarnation, God became man and took on a human body. Because of this act, there is something of the divine nature in the human voice. In this divine quality rests the capacity to be raised to the level of the sublime, and also lowered to that of the profane.

In song, the words commonly used for communication are given a quality which rises above spoken words. A person must pour all of his musical skill into the words in order to make them resound with the beauty of musical art. Simply put, the singer endows his words with all the beauty he can give them. Because of the spiritual quality of the human voice, the words he chooses to hallow by making them into song become very important. Transform sacred words into song, and they become divine. Adapt depraved and vulgar words or stories into song, and they become a mockery, and in this mockery the singer commits blasphemy against the divine nature of the instrument, against the Giver and Bearer of this instrument Himself.

It is in this mockery that we find hidden and subversive elements of Satan's influence. After all, what can Satan do apart from make a mockery of what is good? It is in the demonic hallowing of depravity under the disguise of music that the fallen angel of light dupes us into overlooking one of his greatest deceptions. We see the evidence of this lie everywhere. Songs whose words celebrate every form of human concupiscence have subtly made their way into the enjoyment of those in even the most pious of social circles. These songs have gained acceptance because they bear the disguise of music, which may be appealing by itself. But in truth, what greater mockery is there than to make a divine instrument sing the praises of sin itself? The hideousness of this great perversion is as frightening in its reality as it is powerful in its infernal practice.

Now a word on the unfortunate phenomenon spearheaded by the growth of mediocrity in music. In the popular music industry, there is a severe lack of appreciation for true vocal talent. The predominant idea, cemented in our minds by such exhibitions as "American Idol", is that that anyone with a flair for performance and who can prolong words into a semi-rhythmic or melodic pattern can make good music. The aid of technology has been a great boon to this mediocre industry. This cheapening and commercialization of music, in particular the human voice, has led to a society with wide-ranging ignorance of the existence of true beauty in vocal music.

In the classical tradition we see a vast deposit of beautiful vocal compositions. Yet the classically trained singer is perhaps one of the most under-appreciated of musical artists. Their talents can be seen most prominently in the great classical operas. In modern times they have become more diversified in their range of musical selections, yet the beauty and purity of the trained human voice remains. But it is in the choral tradition that the human voice achieves its highest musical function. There is little in our world that can contend with the awe-inspiring beauty of many human voices raised in harmonic unison. In secular music it achieves an unparalleled level of beauty. In sacred music it rises to entirely new level. From the majestic and powerful polyphony of the Byzantine tradition to the haunting and ethereal chant of the Gregorian tradition, we see the true perfection of the human voice, of the art of music, and of communal worship. The works of Bach, Handel, Allegri, Palestrina, Vaughan-Williams, Rachmaninov, Tavener, and many others will forever be paradigmatic of this wonderful tradition of choral music.

I hope it is now easy to understand how the human voice in musical art can not only make the art as perfect as humanly possible, but in its sacred capacity, as in worship, it becomes the epitome of artistic beauty while transcending art itself. It is in the great choral compositions, where the words of worship have been transformed into the beauty of music, that we find ourselves wondering if the angelic choirs would sound much different if given human voices. There is such a pure and ethereal quality about such music, that it often seems out of place in our fallen world, and indeed it might be. It has been said that the language of heaven is music. I am convinced that our voices, raised in worship and endowed with all the beauty of music, are but a small taste and foreshadowing of Paradise.

The Anti-Realism of Marcel Duchamp

In Oscar Wilde's dialogue entitled, "The Decay of Lying," Vivian says that “Art is a veil, not a mirror” This is a very indirect, but ultimately a very pessimistic, statement. A mirror offers us a distorted picture of actuality. A veil covers up something in order to make it appear mysterious – only appropriate if the object is also a boundless subject, and thus mysterious. Nevertheless, a veil obscures. Art is a window. Art is a 60 megapixel lens to our 2 megapixel lens: the artist allows the real to be actualized by means of an appeal to the imagination. Art attempts to reveal the mystery that is reality which we see with clouded vision because of our imperfections. Art is corrective therapy. Sometimes it is laser surgery.

As Oscar Wilde's Vivian says, referring to the character of Hamlet: “The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy.” This is exactly right. In the volatile conditions that surround such a dangerous enterprise as creating art, one is constantly in peril of making mistakes. The lens can become convex, concave, variously distorted. The lens can focus on one part at the expense of the whole, or vice versa, and when Art has gained a whole host of disciples, magnified unreality can cause great harm.

“Art,” then, can be “a veil” – e.g. Duchamp's "Fountaine" – but ideally it reveals the real, the beauty that lies hidden, and thus affects the course of human life positively. Marcel Duchamp asserts that the real (and the beautiful) is exactly what he perceives – in this particular case, a urinal. This assertion would rest on the infallibility of human reason as its foundation. Fortunately -- for this case -- human reason often fails. However, because of the authority of art – “the world has become sad because a puppet was melancholy” – Duchamp set off a current that has caused a great “veil,” if not a black curtain, to fall over reality: the anti-avante-garde in art.

Religious Freedom or Toleration: Which one is American?

We talk much about religious freedom both in public debate and in common conversation in America. What does religious freedom mean in the United States? How did our founders understand it? For a Catholic wishing to enter into dialogue on the topic of religious freedom in the United States, these questions become highly important, as the Lockean “doctrine of toleration” written into our law by the founding fathers and others thereafter differs from the idea of religious freedom that grows out of a respect for the inherent dignity of the human person as a child of God. These differences cause much of the frustration that arises when the government – technically acting within the bounds of law in the spirit of toleration – encroaches on true religious freedom.

The idea of toleration is a great political idea, at least for the development of a smooth functioning secular state. The so-called “doctrine of toleration” one finds in Locke’s Second Treatise seems very reasonable: rather than muddy itself in the affairs of religion – as it did for many years before – the state will simply tolerate all forms of religion. I can worship in my way, you can worship in yours, and the state will stay out of it all (sort of). At this point, Locke and the Church seem pretty well aligned, at least until one asks, “Why should men be given religious freedom?”

For Locke, men should be given religious freedom because men are radically free in their natural state. There is no real end to the toleration found in Locke; it is largely determined by political practicality. You will not find objective standards against which to measure the worth of one religion or religious practice to another, because men are simply free to worship and congregate as they sit fit. Not much of an anthropology happening there. Locke offers a kind of religious freedom because it allows him to dismiss the more difficult question of how to incorporate the role of religion into the common welfare. The Church, however, has a different end in mind for human and religious freedom.

After trudging through the pages of Locke’s Treatise, one will find delight in the grand vision of humanity found in Dignitatis Humanae. In this document promulgated by the Second Vatican Council, there is a beautiful declaration on religious freedom beginning with the fundamental proposition that at the core of the human person an irremovable dignity arises from the joint gifts of reason and free will. The primary task of men is to respond in worship to the Creator and Grantor of such gifts, and “immunity from coercion in civil society” (i.e. religious freedom) is required for that response. Religious freedom or human freedom as such, is not an end in itself; rather, freedom from coercion creates the atmosphere necessary for the quest for truth, a quest that freedom, in turn, demands. 

The doctrine of toleration guiding lawmakers yesterday and today falls short of the full vision of man, the freedom given him and the right response to it. So often, the United States is associated with Christianity – for good reason, mind you – but that association does not mean that we are a Christian nation. We look back at our founders with awe and reverence – again, for good reason – but their guide was much more Locke than it was the Catholic Church. Our nation is a great product of Enlightenment thought, not of a rich theological tradition. Understanding these fundamental differences between the philosophical groundwork of our nation and the theology of the Christian tradition will help to limit the frustration often directed toward our government when good law comes in conflict with the interests of Christians. Maybe its not the way you would like, but our government is working just as intended. 

Poetry: "All Souls' Day, A.D. 2013"

The trees shed from lissom limbs
the fruiting season's bloody glory.
Burgeoning berries perk, plump and fall --
a short journey from seed to oblivion.
These on the ground no hand will grace with lips
or fanciful loving the veins of death
unique, unrepeatable.

Oh! beloved by God.