Category Archives: Christianity

Arts, Books, Christianity, Natural History, Philosophy, Religion

The beehive tells us much about the soul

THE COMPLETE BEEKEEPER

Intro: The beekeeper at Douai Abbey has applied the wisdom of bee care to living well

During the vigil on the eve of Easter Sunday, the dark church is lit only by the Paschal candle (representing Christ, “Light from Light”, as the Creed says) and by the candles lit from it and held by those present. Then an ancient chant is sung by the deacon towards the candle, and in praise of it.

This chant, the Exsultet (“Rejoice”), written between 1400 and 1600 years ago, is of an astonishing poetical character. Its text refers to Adam’s sin as felix culpa, “happy fault that earned for us so great, so glorious a Redeemer”.

It speaks of “this candle, a solemn offering, the work of bees and of your servants’ hands”. But there should be another mention of bees – of the candle flame being “fed by melting wax, drawn out by mother bees to build a torch so precious”. The natural history may be awry in calling the female workers “mother bees”, but it is good to see them given due praise. Alas, some choose an abbreviated form of the Exsultent and the mother bees perished. To make up for that shortfall, a delightful new book is being published by Gracewing: The Complete Beekeeper by Dom Gabriel Wilson, OSB (Order of Saint Benedict).  

He has been Prior of the Benedictine Abbey of Douai in Berkshire since 2022, but its beekeeper since 2015. His tenure was a turning point in beekeeping history. He was in charge during the devastating Isle of Wight disease (now known to be caused by the Acarine mite) in the early 20th century, which wiped out the native British Black Bee. His writings capture a pivotal moment when beekeeping shifted from old-world methods to more scientific, selective breeding.

The book’s title mirrors The Compleat Angler, first published by Isaac Walton in 1653, which made the angler symbolise the ideal human being living a balanced life. Similarly, Dom Gabriel feels that “within the hive lives and moves an allegory for the sacred mysteries not only of nature, but of the human soul”.

The beehive speaks to the human heart, he suggests, not by logical syllogisms but by symbol. As Pascal wrote: “The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.”

Dom Gabriel notes that the social virtues of bees were recognised in the pre-Christian world. Virgil devoted a quarter of his poem the Georgics to bees as a model of a structured, co-operative, and selfless society. Today we still wonder: “Who taught the bee to make its wax hexagons, those most perfect forms? Who instructed her to gather nectar and guard her queen, to sacrifice herself to relentless work without any thought of reward?”

Nonetheless, The Complete Beekeeper is more than natural history or self-help; it is a contemplation of spirituality. “To keep bees is … a form of devotion, akin to an intimate spiritual practice that mirrors the tending of one’s inner life.”

The author’s experience at the beehive informs this meta-science: which, governs the care of the faculty for living well – the soul. “Each hive is its own living universe. Within its wooden walls, thousands of bees work in miraculous harmony: foraging, building, cleaning, dancing, feeding the queen, and protecting the whole. So too is the soul made up of countless thoughts, memories, desires, and instincts.”

The Complete Beekeeper taps inherited wisdom. It quotes poets such as Coleridge and Hopkins, and masters of the spiritual life such as St John of the Cross, and, naturally, St Benedict. It critically considers philosophers such as Plato, Seneca, and Sartre – and of course cites beekeepers, in peace and war.

The work of making one’s soul is deadly serious, but it should not be anxious. “Bees are not tame creatures; nor is the moral life a safe one. But it is, in the end, very beautiful and full of joy.” Underneath is a confidence in the ultimate goodness of the world, which, like the garden where the beekeeper tends his hives, knows how to bud and mend, grow and yield again.

Throughout the text, Wilson weaves in the Benedictine philosophy of stewardship. He advocates for a “gentle hand,” suggesting that the best beekeeper is one who works with the bees’ instincts rather than fighting against them. This philosophy – known as the “Buckfast” philosophy – of breeding for docility and productivity became the hallmark of the Buckfast Bee.

Many associate Buckfast Abbey primarily with Brother Adam (the creator of the Buckfast Bee), but it was actually Dom Gabriel who served as the Abbey’s head beekeeper before him. The bigger picture of the book implies that if Brother Adam was the “architect” of the Buckfast Bee, then Dom Gabriel was the “master builder” who cleared the ground. The analogy should not be overlooked.

   

Standard
Arts, Christianity, Culture, Poetry

TS Eliot’s ‘Ash Wednesday’

ASH WEDNESDAY

Intro: The prayers of Lent are a key guide to Eliot’s obscure sequence of poetry

Sometimes, people read TS Eliot’s sequence of six poems, Ash Wednesday, in the hope of better understanding this first day of Lent in the Western Christian Church. The poem is meditative and pivotal which marks his conversion to Anglicanism, and chronicles a journey from spiritual despair to tentative faith. 

Structured around the Lenten season, the poem moves through themes of repentance, purgation, and the desire for divine, transcendent love amidst the emptiness of modern life.

Knowledge of Ash Wednesday – and the rest of Lent – which falls on February 18 this year, is a prerequisite to understand Eliot’s poetry.

Ash Wednesday is obscure. It begins: “Because I do not hope to turn again.” This is a quotation from Guido Cavalcanti, who died in 1300, a friend of Dante’s. How the reader is meant to know that, I’m not sure.

The words had been translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti in 1861, as: “Because I think not ever to return”, a reference to Cavalcanti’s exile from Tuscany. But Eliot knew that “to turn again” is an aspect of repentance, as the Authorised Version of the Bible in 1611 translated the Greek word metanoia, “change of mind”, found in the New Testament. The Ash Wednesday Epistle, from the prophet Joel, begins: “Turn ye even to me, saith the Lord, with all your heart.”

In St Mark’s Gospel, the first words of Jesus are: “Repent and believe the gospel,” and those are now one of the forms of words to accompany the imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday. But in Eliot’s day the Latin formula was: Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris, “Remember man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” In his poem, Eliot, with his Cavalcanti quotation, picks up both the return to dust and the turning again or repentance.

In Ash Wednesday, Eliot incorporates unsignalled quotations from church prayers. In a letter to Bishop George Bell of Chichester in 1930, Eliot addressed Ash Wednesday’s obscurity: “Most of the people who have written to say that they couldn’t understand it seemed to be uncertain at any point whether I was referring to the Old Testament or to the New; and the reviewers took refuge in the comprehensive word “liturgy”. It appears that almost none of the people who review books have ever read any of these things!”

In Part I of Ash Wednesday Eliot quotes the popular Catholic prayer, the Hail Mary.

In Part II he uses the question “Shall these bones live?” to make reference to the extraordinarily vivid passage in Ezekiel 37, where dry bones are reclothed in flesh and live.

In Part III, on the stairs, he ends with, “Lord, I am not worthy”, a prayer in the Mass before Communion: “Lord, I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof; but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed,” an echo of the Centurion’s words in Matthew 8:8.

In Part IV, “And after this our exile” is taken from a medieval prayer, the Salve Regina, where Mary is asked to “Show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

In Part V, “O my people, what I have I done unto thee” is taken from the Improperia or Reproaches in the Good Friday liturgy, based on the prophet Micah (5:3).

In Part VI, the last line, “And let my cry come unto Thee” is also in the Good Friday liturgy, from Psalm 102 (101 in the Vulgate) – in Latin: Domine, exaudi orationem meam, et clamor meus ad te veniat.

Before that, Eliot puts a line, “Suffer me not to be separated”, which is from the 14th-century prayer Anima Christi (taken up by Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Jesuits). The context is: “Within Thy wounds hide me /Suffer me not to be separated from Thee.”

All these would have been very familiar to a practising Roman Catholic, less so to most Anglicans and utterly unfamiliar to the leading critics of the 1930s.

Standard
Arts, Books, Christianity, Culture, Middle East

Book Review: The Vanishing and The Twilight of Christianity

LITERARY REVIEW

Intro: Janine di Giovanni provides a deeply personal and journalistic account of the rapid decline of Christian communities in the Middle East. As a former war correspondent, and a practicing Catholic, di Giovanni blends political analysis with oral testimonies and histories to document what she describes as a “vanishing” world

THE veteran war reporter Janine di Giovanni roams far and wide to find out why 2,000 years of Christianity and its history in the Middle East may be nearing an end. In trying to understand the exodus, she tours monasteries in Syria’s warzones, visits embattled enclaves in Egypt, and meets Iraqi Christians from Mosul, who had “N” for “Nazarene” daubed on their doors by Islamic State.

Yet, among the more poignant symbols she notes are not the bombed-out churches on the frontlines, but the crucifix tattoos on the young restaurateurs who serve her lunch in the tranquil northern Iraqi city of Irbil. The tattoos are not hipster affectations, but symbols of a creed whose adherents no longer know their place – “the garish link depicting a permanence belied by their current predicament”.

Di Giovanni spoke to them about their insecurities. She sought to understand how they had been separated from family during the ISIS invasion, how they fear the future, and how they are saving their wages in a quest to pay illegal smugglers to get them out of Iraq. “But once out, where would they go?” she asks. 

To quite a few places, actually. Such has been the turbulence in the Middle East over the last half-century that its Christians have been forced out: diasporas range from Chicago to Ealing in west London. The exodus is particularly marked in Iraq and Syria, where the Christian minority had traditionally enjoyed the protection of secular strongmen such as Saddam Hussein and Bashar al-Assad. In Iraq, where an estimated 1.4 million Christians once lived, there are now only 250,000. In Syria, around 700,000 Christians of the pre-civil-war population of 1.1 million have departed.

The author, who has been covering the Middle East for more than three decades for high-end publications such as Vanity Fair, is well placed to chronicle the mass retreat – and astute enough not to blame it all on some sinister grand scheme by the region’s Muslims. In recent years, after all, some in the West have been quick to portray this as close to a genocide, underplayed by a liberal media that now finds Christianity a bit embarrassing. But while Christians have suffered at the hands of Sunni fanatics like ISIS, so too have many Muslims, Yazidis in northern Iraq, and other minorities: the reason they are fleeing is often just the general lawlessness, lousy government, and a desire to seek a better life abroad.

Still, di Giovanni makes it clear why many Christians in the Middle East feel their fortunes to be particularly on the wane. After 1945, they often formed an educated middle class, whose acumen in commerce, medicine, and teaching was appreciated by progressive-minded despots. For example, the courteous and urbane Christian Tariq Aziz, Iraq’s foreign minister, was for many years the acceptable face of Saddam Hussein’s regime.

Even after Saddam’s 2003 downfall – which many saw as a US “crusade” – there were no organised reprisals against the invaders’ co-religionists. And while al-Qaeda’s Sunni extremists focused on murdering fellow Muslims, Christians in the region also suffered. Then, in 2010, Islamic State gunmen stormed Our Lady of Salvation Church in Baghdad, killing 58. The group’s subsequent seizure of northern Iraq, including ancient Christian towns such as Qaraqosh, was for many the final straw. Many are leaving because there is no life and very little or no incentive to stay.

In Syria, things are scarcely better. Christians have had little choice but to rely on the Mafia-like protection of President Assad, himself a minority Alawite. A Syrian bishop tells di Giovanni that only Assad can hold Syria together – aware, presumably, that by taking sides, his flock may be tainted.

Indeed, the only Christians whose future seems reasonably assured in the Middle East are Egypt’s Copts, who, at up to 10 million, are perhaps simply too numerous to be pushed out. Ironically, it is here that community tensions seem worst. In 2013, mobs attacked 42 churches, and in the Christian districts di Giovanni visits, locals bitterly complain of being treated as second-class citizens.

Di Giovanni writes elegantly, her reporting and careful analysis informed partly by being a Catholic herself. However, the focus of this book is likely to surprise many readers’: nearly half of it is about Christians in Egypt and Gaza, where now barely 1,000 live. It is a source of amazement her editors didn’t ask her to concentrate mainly on Iraq and Syria, where the Christian decline has been at its most dramatic.

As such, it underplays some key chapters in the “exodus” narrative. The reason Christians first fled post-Saddam Iraq in droves was because their prosperity made them targets for criminal activity, and because they tended to turn the other cheek rather than form militias. There is no mention of how the Baghdad Christian enclave of Doura – once labelled “The Vatican” – was overrun by al-Qaeda in 2006, or how the Iraqi capital’s Christian flock is now among those most at risk of becoming extinct, having reached a tipping point where most Christian families have more relatives outside of Iraq than in.

On which note, it would also have been interesting to read about life for the diaspora in the “Little Baghdads” of Chicago and Ealing. The irony is that, by offering Christian sanctuary, the West is inadvertently hastening Middle Eastern Christianity’s demise all the more.

– The Vanishing: Faith, Loss, and the Twilight of Christianity in the land of the Prophets is published by Bloomsbury, 272pp      

Standard