For all those in this parish that practice and teach the Catholic faith that has been handed down to us from the Apostles, may we be reunited as one flock under our true shepherd, Jesus Christ. We pray to the Lord.

I may still do so. But I was really pleased and touched that Father Ken Howell, the administrator of Saint Mary’s, was moved to compose his own ex tempore prayer at the vigil Mass tonight for Trinity Sunday:

We pray for Father Peter Kennedy and all those who gather with him. May they be brought to the truth. We pray to the Lord.

I think there was a little more to it than this, but that’s the bit I recall.

In light of recent events, I think it was a very appropriate and generous gesture. No one in the local church, I think, has ever wanted to be separated from those who regard themselves as truly Catholic, and the separation that has occurred is a source of pain. We all hope it will not be an enduring one.

The god who keeps us on the road to wisdom, he made it law that men learn from experience. But still, in sleep the pain of memory drips down inside the heart; the calm of reason comes to even those who do not want it. I think the favours of the gods who sit on sacred thrones are gifts that hurt.

I’d like to say more on the structure of the work at a later point. Suffice to observe now that there are a number of appendices or supplements to the Exercises (more explicitly addressed to the director than the text proper) among which is the “Rules for the Discernment of Spirits”.

I’m still studying this text in its conjunction with the Exercises, but the Fifth Rule in the initial sequence struck me as very good advice indeed, for all sorts of conjunctures. So I’m resolved to try to heed it:

In time of desolation never to make a change; but to be firm and constant in the resolutions and determination in which one was the day preceding such desolation, or in the determination in which he was in the preceding consolation. Because, as in consolation it is rather the good spirit who guides and counsels us, so in desolation it is the bad, with whose counsels we cannot take a course to decide rightly.

…”tradition” connotes something more than mere conservatism; something deeper is involved, namely, the continual presence of a spirit and of a moral attitude, the continuity of an ethos. We might even say that just as rites are the expression of a profound religious reality, so these traditions, which enshrine and safeguard a certain spirit, should comprise external forms and customs in such perfect harmony with this spirit that they mold it, surround it, embody and clothe it, so to speak, without stifling its natural spontaneity or checking its innate strength and freedom.

Tradition, then, is not just a matter of the text and its transmission or dissemination, even, after Jacques Derrida, its citation and iteration throughout the ages. The German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer – exponent of hermeneutics in a somewhat phenomenological mode – insisted, rightly, that tradition is a relation. We are thrown into the world, and our horizons of understanding are inevitably situated within our culture. But it would be completely wrong to see this as some sort of linguistic relativism or historical determinism. Rather, we constantly negotiate through and beyond texts – mediated by our lived experience – with the past that has been handed down to us and by looking forward to those who will come after. We live, and speak to ghosts, and spirits live in us. It is a matter of understanding, and harnessing, the good that moves in our hearts.

If the hermeneutics of living tradition is in part a process, then, it is also a creative one. It offers us options, within a particular field, for re-appropriation, reshaping and creativity. But it also requires of us a responsibility to those who have gone before, a relation to the truth, and an appreciation of the endless horizons of the things we create and inhabit. Tradition, then, is an ethical thing. And there is a freedom, a true freedom because one which is lived in response to the other, within a tradition.

Congar again puts this well:

Paul Claudel compared tradition with a man walking. In order to move forward he must push off from the ground, with one foot raised and the other on the ground; if he kept both feet on the ground or lifted both in the air, he would be unable to advance. If tradition is a continuity that goes beyond conservatism, it is also a movement and a progress that goes beyond mere continuity, but only on condition that, going beyond conservation for its own sake, it includes and preserves the positive values gained, to allow a progress that is not simply a repetition of the past. Tradition is memory, and memory enriches experience. If we remembered nothing it would be impossible to advance; the same would be true if we were bound to a slavish imitation of the past. True tradition is not servility but fidelity.

[My emphasis]

The liberal spirit of the modern age, it seems to me, often posed a false antinomy between tradition and freedom. It was as if to choose was to liberate oneself. But that misunderstands the nature of choice, which is always bounded by situatedness in culture. If the relation to culture, and the ethics of the decision, is not foregrounded, then there is no genuine choice. And decisions are taken for us by structures which constrain our actions and intentions, and by the shards of old traditions and their spirits which surround us as ineffably as the air we breathe.

Any decision requires a leap in the dark, an act of faith, again something Derrida has emphasised. The moment of decision is incalculable and inexpressible, and not, and should not be, limited to rational calculation. The very way in which we rationalise decisions we might not wisely have chosen proves the principle. A decision must be, Derrida suggests, one for the other, and one made by the other in me. The other moving in me. The spirit.

So, true creativity, then, is an ethical act, which exists in a temporal relation outside time, but which breaks into time. We are bound to those who have gone before us, and bound to consider those who come after us, as well as the other paths of those others whom our choices affect, and the way our choices shape an overall field of action or configuration of choices. It is here that the art of discernment, about which I’ve been writing lately, is key.

It is vital to reflect that we might be in error in our thoughts and deeds, and to parse, if you like, the spirit in which choices and paths are taken. One need not be a slave to a tradition. And a tradition is not just a text. But a meditation on a text can be an aid to choice, not in some mantic way, but through an infusion of the spirit through which that text has been read; read collectively, and the spiritual fruits it has inspired, throughout the ages.

The liturgy is such a text – a living text, to which we have an anagogical relation. It is an enacted text, and when we enact it, we give it life, draw life from it, and cite and re-iterate its spirit. It is a sign which also marks us with a sign, inwardly and outwardly. We are its signification, or can be. It is a work, a sacramental work. We co-create its effects through opening ourselves up to its spirit. It is a path trod by others, but one which offers us our own turnings, in the spirit of truth, and the spirit of justice.

The late Cardinal Avery Dulles SJ wrote of Congar’s understanding of tradition:

For Congar, tradition is a real, living self-communication of God. Its content is the whole Christian reality disclosed in Jesus Christ, including the implicit contents of that disclosure. The Holy Spirit is the transcendent subject of tradition; the whole Church is its bearer. Thus tradition is an essentially social and ecclesial reality; its locus is the Church as a communion. It is transmitted not only by written and spoken words but equally by prayer, sacramental worship and participation in the Church’s life. Tradition, while consisting primarily in the process of transmission, is not sheer process.

Its content is expressed to a greater or lesser degree in a variety of documents and other “monuments”, as Congar calls them. Interacting with the consciousness of those who receive it, tradition develops and is enriched in the course of centuries. Continual meditation on the inspired Scriptures on the part of those who obey the Gospel gives rise to new insights as to what was tacitly communicated in the original Revelation.

Much of the task lying before us, and it is a task philosophers such as Derrida and Gadamer took up as much as theologians like Congar, is to revive, transmit and recreate the traditions which have formed us. Continuity in and outside time is an incredibly precious thing which our ‘post modern’ age denies, at its peril. To cultivate the seeds sown and to sew the seed that will bear fruit is not a form of conservative obscurantism. If it is, it will not be a productive spirituality, but another arid and empty space. Living tradition, ethically, requires discernment but it also requires living tradition radically, and situatedly.

The second day of the Octave of Pentecost.

I was watching the Australian Story episode tonight on Peter Kennedy, Terry Fitzpatrick and the St Mary’s In Exile crew. I don’t want to comment much on it – except to note that for a pair who are supposedly opposed to patriarchy, the trope of ‘fatherhood’ and ‘fathers’ was at the heart of its rhetoric. And that in a way, it was a weird sort of coming out story. [Not implying that Peter and Terry are anything but heterosexual - if anything, perhaps they're too much. Paul Collins, whose commentary was by his book, did hit on something when he referred to 'alpha males'...]

It must also be said that the show approached the genre of hagiography, and was full of half-truths at best. Unfortunately, Australian Story generally appears to be an outlet for PR spin, under the guise of human interest, and almost every episode, really, is quite an indictment of what the ABC should be about… But, for my thoughts on the continuing life of St Mary’s Catholic Parish, South Brisbane, see here. Anyway, the show, through a sort of association of themes coalescing into a memory and a spirit, did conjure up a remarkable spirit for me tonight.

A memory – or rather, a set of memories – I hadn’t recalled for years was summoned up. Perhaps because I was thinking – pace Peter’s discourse – about what being a ‘radical Catholic priest’ actually means. [To be fair to Peter, I think that interpolation was made editorially by the programme, and not a label he applied to himself, though I wouldn't swear to it.]

One of the things I have a problem with in the Exilist discourse is the implication that Peter and Terry are somehow the only Catholic priests – living or dead – in the Brisbane Archdiocese who are living social justice. Whatever one thinks about their good works, that is simply a falsehood. And somewhat of a pernicious one, if I may say.

In my previous post, I referred to the Discernment of Spirits.

I thought of Father Ferdy Parer OFM tonight, a most remarkable priest. I first met him when I was a teenager, attending mass at the Little Flower Church at Kedron, which was was (and is) under the care of the Franciscan Fathers (perhaps better known through its attachment to Padua College).

Fr Ferdy had a remarkable life, which is documented in a book by Mary Mennis. I used to own a copy. It appears to have disappeared. It may come back one day, or if not, I’m sure it’s doing what books do, when like cats, they just wander off to do their thing in the world. I must buy a new copy!

Ferdy helped me when I was very troubled, around 1981, when I was 13. He resurfaced in my life about ten years later. I was at Labour Day, after the annual march. Back then, the Labour Day speeches, market day and general merriment used to take place in Albert Park. Albert Park itself has many stories to tell. But, in any case, I was wandering around, looking for some friends, or someone to hang out with and have a beer with, I guess. It was another confusing time in my life.

I’d been embroiled in student politics, and I was beginning to question both my political position and the ethics of some of what was involved in party politics. I’d been at uni doing a BA forever, and wasn’t sure whether I would ever finish it… or what path would open afterwards. My personal life was in a bit of a mess. Perhaps none of this is unusual for a 23 year old… and when I was pouring out my heart on the phone to a friend on Friday night, and mentioned I’d been going through some more emotional upheaval – aet 41, she said – and with some reason – “when have you not worn your heart on your sleeve, Mark?”…

There’s another story there, which I don’t want to tell…

But, circling back in time, I spotted, in my own wanderings, Fr Parer, dressed in the characteristic brown habit of the Friars Minor. By this stage, Ferdy was in his 80s, I think. His sight was fading, and he walked with a cane. I was worried about him. I approached him, and remembered myself to him and asked if I could be of any help. He seemed a little disoriented, but recognised me – though he could hardly see – and told me he knew it was Labour Day, and that he often walked in Albert Park, because he liked walking in parks. He’d sort of meander, I was later told, and all sorts of strange folk would come and talk to him. He radiated a sort of calm you could feel – literally – almost from ten metres away. Later, not years later, but later on that day, I wondered whether I’d been patronising in assuming he didn’t know exactly what he was doing. But I’m sure he knew I thought that, and he forgave me.

Ferdy’s art was to know – with incredible acuity – what was in anyone’s heart, and what they needed. All of us have that to some degree. There are all sorts of words like ‘empathy’ which kinda gesture to it. But they’re not quite right. With Ferdy, he saw into your heart and knew what was written on it, and knew everything he needed to know… while respecting your privacy totally. He was almost without any pretention, but at the same time, abnegation of self didn’t describe him at all. He was a most distinct and loveable personality, despite – or because of – being so oriented to others.

He lived the spirituality, or better, the charism of Saint Francis.

I got Ferdy a lemonade. We sat under a tree, and he asked if I’d help him home. He was tired. I did – taking him by the arm. He was living in a sort of informal Franciscan House of Hospitality in Spring Hill, then still somewhat of a rundown suburb. He’d be picked up every morning – at the crack of dawn – I don’t think he slept, really – and driven by another priest to say mass in the Franciscan Order’s chapel at Kedron, but he was sleeping in this ramshackle old house with anyone who cared to wander in – people with disabilities, Indigenous people, released prisoners, crazy folk, anyone. It wasn’t a ‘boarding house’ or a ‘halfway house’ or any sort of registered or regulated charity. It was a work he’d initiated.

I went back there with him, stayed for a simple meal, and chatted to his friends. Later, a younger priest arrived. He said the Fathers and Brothers were worried about Ferdy. He might be taken advantage of. I don’t think he would have been – he had the gift not to be – a gift of love and reciprocity. But he was obviously old, ill and weakening.

I don’t know what happened to that House after Ferdy was taken back into the Franciscan fold – he’d kind of wandered off, the younger priest said. I suspect it was normalised, regularised, in some way, though I have no doubt that much of his spirit remained.

I won’t go into exactly how, but in a way, Ferdy, in such a lovely way that respected what I thought – mistakenly – about where I was, and didn’t openly call that into question – put me on a path of calm that night. He knew exactly what to say, and he’d ask – quite innocently – if I wanted a blessing. The blessing was wordless, and really just the sign of the cross made over me. He then touched me on the head, and I felt an incredible transfer of healing power. It was a sacramental.

Some years later, I attended his funeral.

I treasured the memory of that night, though I don’t think I ever saw Ferdy in this life again. Tonight, I’ve been thinking about him – someone who meant a lot to me a long time ago, and touched my heart – in the true meaning of those words – and who passed away many years ago. A strange set of circumstances conjured up his beneficent spirit tonight, and I so am very grateful for the ghostly love!

In an odd way, as Michael remarked, Peter Kennedy was the segue. A good work, though not one that was intended.

But I also think that I’m in a similar emotional space as I was eighteen years ago, and perhaps Ferdy came like a stranger in the night, to remind me of the power of love.

The radical love of a radical priest, who saw into hearts, and not in a naive way, but with intelligence, discernment, and … well, love.

Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine, ab omnibus malis, da propitius pacem in diebus nostris, ut, ope misericordiae tuae adiuti, et a peccato simus semper liberi et ab omni perturbatione securi: exspectantes beatam spem et adventum Salvatoris nostri Iesu Christi.

Michael discusses Terry’s equation of himself with those on the margins, and questions how that equation can be effectively articulated without a reflection on Terry’s own privilege.

Michael zeroes in on the rather odd ‘Buddhist’ references in the homily. I think it’s absolutely right to query how Terry has gone about composing the margins of his own discourse. I have no objection to, and rich praise for, those who find points of articulation with Buddhist traditions and their own cultural background exploring those – and many do so from a place of absolute respect. Sociologically, we live in a post-traditionalist society where one can’t simply say that because of ethnicity or heritage that ‘we’ are Christian.

While we – in this place and at this time – no doubt remain within a broader culture that’s been formed by Christianity – there are many for whom their own life and formation is not in any real sense Christian, and some for whom ‘other’ faiths and mysteries provide a point of articulation in their own spiritual practice. I, myself, am becoming increasingly interested in (or perhaps reinteresting myself in) some connections that can be made between Taoist motifs and a certain sense of time and the articulation of events to each other that could be named Jewish. It’s a work of thought, and a practice, that I think is bearing immense fruit for me.

But we do need to question our own place in regard to margins, and whether, why, where and how we inscribe them.

Michael is right to say Terry’s choice of ‘Buddhists’ as a name for the marginalised is a strange one. Perhaps it’s a personal one. But there’s a sort of lack of respect for the real others – all those named and more – Indigenous, women, queer – which he conjures and summons up in his homily. I think it does go to the crux of something which has caused the pain I think we all feel, if we are separated from one another when we should be united by and in love.

I think the Exilists’ story does show a strange sort of pull away from an absent centre – towards the other. But a certain imaginary other, rather than the others in our midst. The centre might be the institutional church, or a space of privilege. But what’s not going on, I don’t think, is any decentring. There’s something in that centre, still – the priestly authority, and the particular priestly authority of Terry and Peter Kennedy. There’s a gesture towards the other, but I question how much the other is listened to, and more broadly – and here I think Michael is spot on – there’s something of a spiritual emptiness within that core place.

There’s a weird, and to me, a striking contrast between that sense of an absent centre and the immense sacrality of the space that is itself (among other things) St Mary’s Church.

We’re all inscribed within cultures and practices which often do the work of choice for us. We are human and we have assembled an amazing creation – the social realm – but we often fail to see ourselves as co-creators, and hypostasise and reify the social and forget that we can reassemble it. There’s a work that’s involved in that art of recombination – and it’s a work of love. Love dissolves margins, summons up new relations, fructifies and endures. Often it’s frightening. But it is that love which knows no bounds, no distinction between Jew and Greek, between man or woman, which is the creative force which sustains and liberates.

For we Catholics, we cannot but understand that work of love in terms of the person of Christ – the figures of the suffering holy mother, the outcast, those who are ‘marginalised’ – all are united and woven together and brought into new relation through love. That’s no flip statement. Love is a work. It works its magic on us, and we often resist because we are all too human while God is Love. For us, that work is mediated through the re-presentation, the re-memorialisation, the re-incarnation of Divine Love through the Eucharist. We need to remember that the Spirit is always with us, that we always have another walking by our side, and that love never dies.

It’s that sense of connectedness and of the bonds love weaves which bear lasting fruit which I think St Mary’s itself incarnates. It’s an amazing place, standing on Indigenous land which has its own sacrality. I’ve felt my own journey through St Mary’s over the last month or so to be an astonishing one. It’s been a return to a space in my own heart I thought I had lost. I have been led where I had not anticipated going, and literally reworked and renewed. There’ve been intriguingly meaningful coincidences, and more than a little alchemy. Possibilities in that small city block abound, and wonders can happen.

I was thinking about all this last night as I once again celebrated the Eucharist at St Mary’s.

I was sitting at the left of the altar, which is centrally positioned within the nave. Communion had been received, and the holy mysteries were doing their work. It was a cool, still night. Quite suddenly, a wind blew in from the south, and I watched – in warmth and wonder – the flames of the altar candles dance with joy.

It blew where it willed.

At that moment, I felt joined – conjoined – to so many spirits, immaterial and material, known and unknown. I had brought some to that space as had others. Many were the spirits of that place, of all the love that has been spoken, lived and performed there over so many many years, almost to time immemorial. None of us are ever lost to each other, if we abide in love. These holy things transcend how we live ordinary time, and re-present, re-memorialise, re-create us anew.

So much lives in that sacred place. There is a reason why the words ‘guest’, ‘host’ and ‘ghost’ are the same radically – at root.

I wept there last week. Last night, I felt an incredible joy.

I feel the journey which has taken Terry Fitzpatrick, Peter Kennedy and those of the St Mary’s community who have gone into ‘Exile’ has been a very sad one. Much could be said about paths not taken. I think there’s a work of mourning which sometimes hasn’t been recognised, or channeled.

It’s so sad that the words of the Eucharistic prayer itself have been one flashpoint for the alarums and dramas which have befallen so many. Last night, it seemed to me once again, how they articulate so lovingly the spirit and the Eucharistic body. We need to transcend the inscription of margins, and remember how to re-present each of us, one to the other. In the love that renews. We need to remember how to bring what is disparate, and unique, into conjunction. In the love that revives. We need to remember we are co-workers of the Spirit. In the love that bears fruit.

We have already been changed and transformed. But we need to remember!

Part of living love is to recall what is something that has always been known in our own faith tradition – the art of the Discernment of Spirits. I think it’s that work – a work of mercy, healing and justice, that remains to be done. It is a work that must be nourished in love, a Eucharistic and truly Catholic love.

Last night, at the vigil Mass at St Mary’s, we read and were nourished on the words of John. I hope and trust that the same words were proclaimed at the TLC Building. My prayer is that those words will bear fruit for all of us, if we cherish them in our hearts, and live them, and come together as one in a love that has no margin, that extends infinitely and lasts forever and ever.

Children, our love must be not just words or mere talk, but something active and genuine.

Whoever keeps his commandments remains in God, and God in him. And this is the proof that he remains in us: the Spirit that he has given us.