Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief

… which must mean I have finally got over my nun phobia.

One of Mr E’s fervent interests is chess, which is lucky for me because it means that I often get to see parts of England I would not normally otherwise visit. I have a particular fondness for the seaside, in or out of season, and this year chess took us to Blackpool and Torquay. Small pleasures.

But sometimes the attraction of the chess congress palls even for the most dedicated chess WAG, and so this weekend just past I didn’t accompany Mr E to A City I Shall Not Name. Friday evening, he called soon after arrival. “You know I’m staying at the venue, don’t you?” he asked. “That’s a good thing, right?” I replied. It would mean that he doesn’t have to get up too early, and also if The City turned out not to be a very nice place (I have never been to This Particular City and can make no judgement on the matter) he wouldn’t actually have to go out in it. “Well, normally it would be a good thing,” he said. “But they omitted to tell us something about the centre.”

It turns out that it is some sort of  convent-turned-conference-centre run by nuns. Or rather nun, singular. “As soon as we got here, we were met by a nun asking us if we wanted sandwiches the next day! And there are pictures of the pope grinning at me!” He was not happy, although of course I found it very funny.

Now, I know some people have preferences for what a nun should wear. In this instance, it was a definite bonus that she was not attired in a wimple. Mr E is not one to notice much what people wear (although he would notice a wimple), and described her outfit as “some sort of a purple jumper.” But he said that she looked like a nun somehow, although that might have been something to do with the large crucifix she was wearing.

And apparently she was everywhere, always busy, completely engaging with her visitors and doing things like making sandwiches and collecting teacups and generally bustling in a welcoming manner. Come Sunday evening when he returned, I asked him about the singular nun and behold, she had completely won him over. “She was brilliant,” he said.

I had been a bit sceptical about the centre, because the way Mr E described it on the phone made it sound not very spiritual at all. There was a huge chapel, which would have been used for the congress if there were more participants. “What about all the pews?” Mr E had asked. “Oh, we would just move those out,” he was told. He was grateful there had not been enough numbers to warrant playing chess there. I don’t think he liked the idea of playing chess under a crucifix.

I was a bit puzzled. “What about the blessed sacrament?” I asked, mostly to myself because Mr E doesn’t really know what that is. “Oh, there was something called a Blessed Sacrament chapel, where people could pray.” So that was separate, which was a relief. “Were you sleeping in the same building as the Blessed Sacrament chapel?” I asked when he came home. “Well, I suppose so, it was all one place,” he said. And I thought that was a nice thing.

I don’t know if it is a convent that has fallen on hard times (or run out of nuns), or maybe it was never a convent at all; but although at first I thought it was a bit off to have a religious place used as a conference centre I’ve changed my mind. Although I think the key thing here was the nun; if it had been a catholic building run by lay-people as a secular conference centre, that would still feel off-key to me. (Nuns are still lay-people aren’t they? But you know what I mean…) However, the Sister was so hospitable and charming, and Mr E has never said such accomodating things about catholics before (general and particular) as he has in the past day.

…otherwise known as the Morbid Monday Rant.

A couple of weeks ago I posted a link to Frank Skinner’s article in The Times, where he defended the church (or perhaps, his vision of the church) in the wake of secular mockery that followed the Intelligence Squared debate and the perceived ‘bigot-rustling’ of the announced Anglican Ordinariate thingie. I was so relieved to read what he had to say and mostly agreed with him.

Then I read a few comments about it on some other blogs, which were at best dismissive. One person even said it would have been better if Skinner had stayed lapsed. And I was completely disgusted and in a fit of childish rage I wished that the church in England & Wales would just die out. (The rage passed and I skipped off happily to Mass).

And then, what do you know? It turns out I am no better than those who don’t want to share a church with Mr F Skinner. This weekend I was horrified – yes, I think that is the right word – to find out that GP Taylor is converting to catholicism. Admittedly my opinion of him as ‘that religious prick’ was formed when I was an atheist so it was due a re-evaluation; but when I read that he was leaving “the sinking ship” of the CofE, because it had become a “liberal pit”, I did not feel the warm glow of christian love towards my fellow man that I am meant to.

So. There are two main issues here.

One. If I think God (probably) does love me even if I’m a judgemental disobedient liberal, then he probably also loves GP Taylor.

Two. If God is as the church describes, being loved by God is not enough to save you from being separated from him for all eternity. I think this must be what they call ’tough love’. He loves you, and grace is freely given, and you can’t earn salvation, but you can nevertheless earn damnation (or is it that you have already earned damnation as the default option? not sure).

Have run out of 1 and 2. Correction: there are three main issues.

Three. Is it really the case that, although God loves us all, he genuinely prefers all the people on the right? (insert joke here about goats to the left).

So. God loves me and He also loves all the people I wouldn’t want to be stuck with in a lift. Which isn’t necessarily a problem because if I’m doing all the things that lead to hell and they’re doing all the things that lead to heaven, it’s unlikely I’ll have to spend any significant time with them.

Which leads to issue no. 4 out of my two main issues. Is the barque big enough for all the people who want to be in it even if they’re the sort to light up a fag under the non-smoking sign, or is it a tiny little boat where the always-on-message few can watch the rest of us drown?

p.s. apologies to GP Taylor. I know I’m being horrible.

Am trying to be more Bernard-ish, but really I still heart Abelard. Sigh.

See also Idle Speculations

The Catholic Women’s Book Club next meets on Friday 13th November 12 – 2 pm to discuss “Understanding Medjugorje ” by Donal Anthony Foley, who will give a talk on Fatima after the 11 a.m. Mass at the Oratory, on Saturday 21st November.

More info from Jackie Parkes

“In one sense we are always travelling, and travelling as if we did not know where we are going.

But oh! How far have I to go to find You in Whom I have already arrived!”

- Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain

Woohoo! I have finally finished Thomas Merton’s autobiography The Seven Storey Mountain. It’s only taken about a year. And was it worth reading? In the end, yes. The last 150 or so pages were the most interesting, in which he tries to work out his vocation after baptism. Does it make me want to run off to join a monastery in Kentucky (or whatever the female equivalent would be)? Er… no.

Anyway. I am trying not to accumulate even more clutter (am sure Thomas Merton would approve) and so if anyone wants the book, please email me at madame dot evangelista @ gmail dot com and I’ll happily send it to you. Otherwise I’ll just be chucking it to Oxfam.[this has now been claimed]