Friday Links, March 5, 2021

Joshua Hren reviews Canticle for Liebowitz; Jessica Hooten Wilson argues that classics are for all humans; Leah Libresco Sargeant shows how bad art warps our vision; Charles A. Coulombe examines Henry Wadsworth Longfellow' s relation to the Catholic faith, and I add a Longfellow poem quite Catholic in its Lenten-themed message. 

“Mistakes were made”: Apocalypse of Truth in A Canticle for Leibowitz

Katy Carl, Dappled Things Editor in Chief, recommends this article by Joshua Hren at Catholic World Report.

What healing would come if (even one of) our rulers would not exit the press conference when invited to chant that hymn of Christian remedy: the trouble with the world is me."

The Classics Are Not White. They Are Human.

Katy Carl also recommends this piece by Jessica Hooten Wilson from Wilson's "Scandalous Holy" newsletter.

I've been flustered the past several months about the attacks on classical education--first, when the DisruptTexts movement came after Homer, then, from within the Classics discipline, when Dan-el Padilla Peralta, decided to dismantle it to rebuild something in his own image. As Andrew Sullivan points out, such a critique of classics as 'white,' is 'not just bigoted; it's ahistorical, anachronistic, and reductionist, and it ignores the vast range of classical thought, in which radicals and liberals have found as much intellectual nourishment as conservatives and reactionaries.'. . ."Rather than substitute white authors with marginalized voices, why not include them? Why not add to the conversation rather than subtract from it?"

BAD ART WARPS OUR VISION

On January 27, Katy Carl wrote about this article by Leah Libresco Sargeant at First Things, "Just now discovering this take by Leah Libresco Sargeant on what art is, and isn't, for."  And I'm just now getting around to including it in a Friday Links post.

We should object to prurient songs and stories not because they made our cultural landscape too narrow, but because they are fundamentally untruthful—and thus bad art."

Longfellow and the Faith

Katy Carl also recommends this post at Catholicism.org by Charles A. Coulombe.

"Although Longfellow, like most his friends, was a member of the Unitarian Church, he was fascinated by Jesus and orthodox Christianity’s claims for His divinity in a way that reminds one of Flannery O’Connor’s description of the South: to put it plainly, he was 'Christ-haunted.'”

Besides also recommending the thought-provoking article by Coulombe, I want to add a few more remarks about Longfellow and the Catholic faith. I never noticed when we read his poetry in school how reverently he wrote about Catholics and Catholic practices in many of his poems. For example, one of his most famous poems, "Evangeline," was about the separation of two lovers during the expulsion by the British of the Acadians, who were the descendants of 17th and 18th century French settlers in the northeastern region of North America. Longfellow portrayed the Acadians as reverent Catholics,

Evangeline

as a sweet beautiful girl admired by all as she walked to Mass, carrying her rosary beads, and the village priest as pedagogue and prophet.  For another example, close to the end of Hiawatha, another of  Longfellow's most famous poems, the noble Native American leader tells his people to follow what the black robed missionaries had traveled so far to teach them.

Here's a poem by this great American Unitarian writer with a message surprisingly applicable to our Catholic Lent. It's about a monk, who learns from a vision how much giving to the homeless poor pleases the Lord.

The Theologian's Tale; The Legend Beautiful
Published in 1863From Tales of a Wayside Inn

In his chamber all alone,
Kneeling on the floor of stone,
Prayed the Monk in deep contrition
For his sins of indecision,
Prayed for greater self-denial
In temptation and in trial;
It was noonday by the dial,
And the Monk was all alone.
Suddenly, as if it lightened,
An unwonted splendor brightened
All within him and without him
In that narrow cell of stone;
And he saw the Blessed Vision
Of our Lord, with light Elysian
Like a vesture wrapped about him,
Like a garment round him thrown.
Not as crucified and slain,
Not in agonies of pain,
Not with bleeding hands and feet,
Did the Monk his Master see;
But as in the village street,
In the house or harvest-field,
Halt and lame and blind he healed,
When he walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring,
Hands upon his bosom crossed,
Wondering, worshipping, adoring,
Knelt the Monk in rapture lost.
Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,
Who am I, that thus thou deignest
To reveal thyself to me?
Who am I, that from the centre
Of thy glory thou shouldst enter
This poor cell, my guest to be?
Then amid his exaltation,
Loud the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling,
Rang through court and corridor
With persistent iteration
He had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour
When alike in shine or shower,
Winter’s cold or summer's heat,
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Dealt them by the brotherhood;
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendor.
Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go, or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate,
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate?
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear
As if to the outward ear:
“Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!”
Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent,
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavor,
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they knew not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise,
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure;
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
“Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!”
Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar’s clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision,
And have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face,
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.

Postcards of Evangeline from the turn of the 20th century