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A brief note on Ingmar Bergman’s film, “Winter Light” (1962, in Swedish).
I have come across several claims online and in a video commentary on DVD that Ingmar Bergman considered the film titled “Winter Light” in English to be his best film. Quite a claim for one of the foremost directors of film. "I think I have made just one picture that I really like, and that is `Winter Light.' Everything is exactly as I wanted to have it, in every second of this picture." Ingmar Bergman. (Note again: the film has the double entendre title in Swedish, “The Communicants,” which gets more at the inner meaning than the external, visual title in English, “Winter Light,” although both are suitable.) In the film, there is no communion with God, or with nature, and minimal communion between human beings. That is why the Swedish title is paradoxically fitting: “Communicants.” I’ve been re-watching scenes from the film last night and again this morning, and I did some reading online. The movie is often ranked among the best ever made. Watching it, I do not feel a need to watch other Bergman films right now, not even three that I saw years ago, and which burned into my memory: “The Seventh Seal,” “Autumn Sonata” (perhaps actress Ingrid Bergman’s last film), and “Fanny and Alexander.” Others of his movies did not speak to me as much. One could dismiss these films as “neurotic,” or “atheistic,” or “existentialist,” but I think that they capture much of the spirit of 20th century western world. There’s no pretense in “Winter Light,” no place to hide behind “faith” or “love.” It is starkly painful. Björnstrand’s performance, aided outwardly by his suffering at the time from bronchitis, is superb. He is an utter spiritual and emotional wasteland. I noticed that some reviewer complained that he could not relate to the character played by Björnstrand at all; I suspect the writer was a little superficial, and did not want to see the void within himself, or other, or in our “modern world” generally. Yes, it is painful, but realistic. No doubt the film portrays Ingmar Bergman himself, and it is his portrait of his father, too—a Lutheran pastor. Bergman’s existential void is common in the generation after Nietzsche (Bergman was born in 1918, died in 2007—so born just 17 years after Nietzsche’s death). But this spiritual void was alive and active in Europe already by the 15th century. It is “modernity” displayed for the viewer in utterly stark, black-and-white, no-thrill images, photographed (as I wrote recently) by the unsurpassed Sven Nyqvist ("new twig"). My father would have been awed by the photography if he had seen the film. It is not “spectacular scenery” at all, but piercingly stark black and white that leave the viewer no place to hide from what is displayed. This is typified or heightened in a 6-minute vignette in which nothing but the leading lady’s face is shown as she recites the letter she wrote to her pastor-lover. There is nothing to see but her face as she reveals his utter self-absorption and lovelessness. I think that many Americans would not want to see such a mirror on screen. It is a mirror of our own inner void. The last scene / final visual shot of the film could not have been more perfect. In a virtually empty church, one sees nothing but the pastor who opens the Lutheran service with the Swedish for: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD God. Heaven and earth are full of his glory.” No moving shots, the pastor is viewed from a low angle, pinned against an image of the crucified. His tone is flat and dead, like his soul. Then immediately the film ends. I think that the movie is more than most viewers want to bear. A lady I spoke to after our home Mass last evening said that she finds Bergman too “heavy,” and wants lighter films. Forgive my comment, but I would say, “And that is typically American, the desire to hide from stark reality.” Not many here stomach Nietzsche or Kafka. Far more appealing to Americans would be “The Sound of Music” (which I also enjoyed). We do not like seeing the wasteland that we as a people in history have become. As I write I hear nothing but the ticking of my grand-father clock near me. And that is all one hears in a scene from “Winter Light:” The loud ticking of an old clock, and Pastor Eriksson’s starkly empty expression. —21 June 2020 Painful—not pleasant—to see and to understand That what I took for education in America Is not worth much at all, much of it an empty show. Even worse, my “education” was not worth much, Although I had some good teachers and professors. Were we deceived, or did we deceive ourselves, Thinking that we were “educated,” had some learning, But in reality, we are clever fools and often scoundrels? Having graduated from high school, from undergraduate university studies, from “earning” a Master’s and then a doctorate (Ph.D); and having studied in the monastery and an additional three or four years of graduate work in theology for ordination—I must ask: Was it worthwhile? How much money was spent on this “education”? More importantly, how many years of my life were to some degree wasted being “educated,” but not truly becoming educated in any real sense of the word? What could I have done with my life that would have been more worthwhile than “earning degrees,” especially in so-called “political science”?
“There’s no use crying over spilled milk.” Now in my seventieth year, I surely cannot redeem so much lost time, or make good on this so-called “education.” On the other hand, I am genuinely thankful for some things I learned, and for some of the good teachers who sought to inspire, instruct, guide me in learning. My mind often returns to Miss Bradley and Miss Stevenson, grades 5 and 6 at P.S. 15 in Crestwood, New York. These two matronly, unmarried women were genuine teachers, and surely helped to educate me in a good sense. And I had other teachers in school, high school, at in the universities at which I studied who were educators, and not mere instructors. And I studied a number of works that were well worth my time—Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Aristotle’s Ethics, Plato’s dialogues, the Hebrew and Christian scriptures, some other works of philosophy and theology. The study of classical Greek was some of the most useful learning I did (as well as studying Latin, Spanish, French, and German). So not everything was wasted by any means. What is it I missed? Growing up. I missed the development of practical skills, and learning common sense through physical work and dealing with people outside of “academia.” I learned virtually no skill with my hands, other than typing, and a little keyboard work. What I really missed was a solid personal, emotional, moral foundation from home life, and then opportunities to develop “life skills” learned. My early life and upbringing were so disordered and often painful that it nearly guaranteed that anything learned would be “bookish,” and not of much use to one so stunted within. I could say, “I tried,” but as one hears in AA, “triers are liars.” So I shall not claim that I actually tried. On the contrary, often I wasted time and “goofed off” in my “education,” and rarely was I challenged to work hard, truly to apply myself to studying. Hence, overall, much of this “education” was for me a waste of time, and much of that is my own fault. More than this I need not write at this time. Anything said about education in America may be painful to hear, so I limit myself now to a few sentences: Much of what is offered in our schools and universities is propaganda and a con game. Why do so many students attend colleges and universities, and learn so little? What they receive is very expensive brain-washing, and a removal from the kinds of work in life in which young people might properly grow up and mature. Education in America is largely a vast effort of malformation. Enough said for the present. Wm. Paul McKane 17 February 2020 A note on stars, planets, the gods, and the discovery of reason
“One thing leads to another,” and one moment of wonder leads to more wonder. As Plato has Socrates declare in his dialogue, the Theatetus, “Wonder is the feeling of a philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder.” Philosophy, or the Greek word, philosophia, literally means, of course, “the love of wisdom.” One gains wisdom through loving it, and wondering at what is. When I first let Moses and Elijah (my dogs) outside this morning, at 0130, I was immediately struck by the brightness of the stars. The sky was cloudless, the waning moon had not yet risen, and the stars and (I thought) some planets stood out, inspired awe, and provoked a few questions. “What am I seeing” I wondered. “Surely that very bright object in the southern sky must be a planet. If so, which one?” I surmised that it was Jupiter, which I have seen on a number of occasions. As I walked around my yard in the dark, I also remembered the ancient Greek story that one of the philosophers—Thales, I believe—was said to have been so enraptured looking up at the stars that he fell into a well. That account also comes from Plato’s Theatetus. I wondered, “Which is that planet I am seeing in the southern sky?” A quick search using Bing online convinced me that it was not a planet, for no planet was visible in my location (not far south of Butte, Montana) at 0130 this morning. As the object was stationary, it would not have been a plane or a satellite. Well, it was surely not the moon. Hence, by deduction, it is a star. Which star it was I will search out in coming days, as I seek to learn which constellations are visible at my location at this time of the year. In youth and as a young man, I could identify a number of constellations. Now I recognize few, although I can clearly identify the Large Dipper (Ursa Major) as I lean back and gaze outside my living room window, when the electric light has been turned off. And so I began to wonder about the names of the planets, and especially of Jupiter, which I was not seeing. Jupiter, as I’ve long known, is the Roman derivation from the Greek designation of the “chief god” as “Zeus Pater,” “Father Zeus.” Zeus, and derivatively the Roman god Jupiter, were thought of as the head god. For some reason, the ancient Romans named the second brightest planet Jupiter, reserving Venus—the goddess of love and of beauty—for what seems to be the brightest of the planets, when visible. In the Greek understanding, Zeus was not “from the beginning,” but was the son of Kronos (Chronos), the Greek name for a older god, and their word for Time (hence the origin of our word “chronology,” an account of time, of of a series in time). Again, the ancient Romans derived their names for gods and a large part of their fundamental mythology from the Greeks; as Zeus was the son of Kronos, so Jupiter was conceived as the son of Saturn, a Latin word thought to be related to a verb meaning, “to devour,” for “Time devours all things.” Saturn is devouring time, and his son, Jupiter, must confine him within limits, lest Saturn destroy all things. The Roman thinker, Cicero, wrote c 45 BC in his book, De Natura Deorum, On the Nature of the gods, the following. Note how Cicero shows concern for real natural processes, and is not just engaging in mythical speculation for its own sake. For in reality, “Time devours all things.” Cicero writes: "By Saturn they [the mythologizers] seek to represent that power which maintains the cyclic course of times and seasons. This is the sense that the Greek name of that god bears, for he is called Kronos, which is the same as Chronos, or Time. Saturn for his part got his name because he was "sated" with years; the story that he regularly devoured his own children is explained by the fact that time devours the courses of the seasons, and gorges itself "insatiably" on the years that are past. Saturn was enchained by [his son] Jupiter to ensure that his circuits did not get out of control, and to constrain him with the bonds of the stars." I would add to Cicero: Note that the divine Zeus / Jupiter must constrain Time (Kronos), the Roman Saturn, and keep its devouring within limits. The discovery of limits—and hence being-things or things—were historically essential to the discovery of reason, and of what we call “natural science.” Limited being has “a nature,” a way of being within limits. To know the nature of something, one must know its limits—not only what it is, but what it is not. In the words from Delphi in Greece that Socrates took as his watchword, “Know thyself; that thou art a human being, and not a god.” We are limited or bounded in ways that gods are not. The gods of the ancient Greek and Roman myths (among others) were not bound by time going forward, as they were understood to be “deathless,” or immortal; but they were bound by time in the past, as even the gods were thought to have a beginning in time, an origin. The ancient Greek philosophers made a major discovery: there are not only limited beings in the world, or “being-things” (Homer, Hesiod), but “being itself,” unlimited. This significant discovery took place in the mind of Parmenides of Elea, born c 515 B.C. Parmenides was filled with wonder at unbounded being, being itself. (Note the “Unbounded” was already discovered and named by Anaximander, slightly before Parmenides.) Parmenides worked out in his thought the contrast between being-things, all of which are limited; and unlimited being, which is One, utterly simple, eternal, and divine. Now the concern with divinity was moved from the gods, who were still bounded or limited, and the unlimited being itself, or what Thomas Aquinas would later explain as the sheer act of to be, “esse per se subsistens.” At the same time, Parmenides was aware that he discovered being itself by a power at work in his own mind, in his psyche; and he called this power “nous,” or intellect, reason. By reason man becomes aware of unlimited being. Here we have a major, decisive breakthrough in the history of philosophy, but more fundamentally, in the history of human consciousness: Man or human being is that being-thing, that limited being, which becomes aware of unlimited being, the truly divine. The stars and planets were losing some of their shine to what was present in human being as human being, and in all of reality as being itself. The discovery of unlimited being, and its contrast to things with limits and hence “having a nature,” was a decisive breakthrough both for philosophy, and for what in time would come to be called “science,” or “natural science,” as it explores the limits in things and processes. Philosophy explores the unlimited; science explores the limited. *** A further note on myths: There is usually far more meaning and truth to these ancient myths than one would guess. If one allows Positivistic bias to blind one’s mind, myths are “falsehoods,” untrue, and “primitive.” One would do well to know that myth is derived from the Greek word, mythos, which does not mean fiction or falsehood (that would be pseudos); rather, mythos means story, tale, myth. Ancient cosmological myths, tales of the gods, are stories, and our contemporary stories are myths. Movies are myths presented with pictures and sounds, actors and actions. So Greek myths were often about the gods, or forces of nature. What was the main purpose of the myth? Just as with our stories: myths are meant to communicate some truths about reality, and ultimately to explain the cause of things, and what we would call the nature of things—the way the world works, and why. I have often noted that frequently, there is more truth in stories (myths) than in literal accounts; so called “fiction” is often more true to reality than “non-fiction,” as I realized in childhood. So-called “fiction,” or myths, stories, can be profoundly insightful into reality. Consider for example the biblical story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, an ancient Hebrew story (myth). It says more about what it is to be human than probably any few pages of analytical text ever written. In a story, the writer or speaker is free to explore and express reality without worrying about “what exactly happened.” That a snake can talk, and ask, “Did God really tell you not to eat the fruit of this tree?" communicates profound insight into the susceptibility of human being to evil provocations; the fact that snakes do not talk is irrelevant to the meaning of the story—and hence to existential truth. Often, myths or stories are rooted in concrete, everyday experience. In the case of ancient myths, insights into the workings of nature, of the divine, and of human being are expressed using divine personages, or “beings,” such as gods who dwell in the skies, or on Mount Olympus, and so on. The tellers of myths are not seeking to understand scientific processes, or what we might naively say, “really happens.” They saw lightning, and imagined Zeus the Father god in the sky hurling lightning bolts because he was angry (a belief encouraged, no doubt, by loud bursts of thunder). Or they saw a planet (literally, a “wanderer” in the night sky) that appeared red in color, and they associated red with anger, bloodshed, and war, and so they named that wandering body “Ares” (Greek) or “Mars” (Romans), and in both cases, the god of war. Or Mary, the virgin Mother of Jesus, understood as the carrier of divine grace and not as its origin, could be portrayed as the Moon, which does not generate light (as does the sun), but reflects it: “My soul magnifies the LORD; my spirit rejoices in God my Savior” (Luke 1). Myths are means of communicating truths about reality. I often recall words attributed to Aristotle, the great lover of wisdom, in his relative “old age” (he died around age 62). The Elderly Aristotle wrote, “The older I grow, and the more I am alone, the more I love myths.” Why? We can guess: Because myths communicate much meaning and insight into reality succinctly—unlike discursive philosophy and science. Myths pack meaning into fewer words, or at least more imaginatively rich words. *** The spiritual-intellectual break from myth to philosophy and its offspring, science—which occurred primarily and essentially in Ancient Greece, and elsewhere only following from the Greek breakthrough—was a major revolution in human history, in the history of the mind (in what Hegel would call the “history of consciousness”). Philosophy and science are still full of wonder and wonders, as are myths, but they proceed with the aid of a Greek discovery of the foremost significance: the discovery of nous, the divine intellect in human beings, and not just “in the gods.” Nous is the human mode of participating in the divine nous, in the mind of God. I still study the "pre-Socratic philosophers" of Greece, and especially Herakleitos and Parmenides, as well as others, to observe this gradual discovery of reason, and the revolutionary effects it had on thinking and on understanding human being and our place in the Kosmos. Even the tales of the gods get “cleaned up” on account of being deemed “unseemly,’ as by Xenophanes, and later Plato. Poets such as Homer and Hesiod already helped pave the way for the break, but the discovery of reason within human being, our critical faculty, was decisive. One of the most helpful documents on the history of the development of philosophy out of myth is in the opening book of Aristotle’s so-called “Metaphysics,” on which I shall write at a later time. And note, by way of contrast, that there is neither science nor a concept of “nature” as the givenness in reality in the Hebrew bible. Nor is their a conception of human beings sharing in the divine intellect through reason. But patterns in the world, and in what came to be called “history,” were observed, as in “animals of various kinds,” or “a woman’s way” (referring to menstruation). Nor do we find science or nature (reality) in ancient Hindu texts, or Egyptian, etc. Human beings used reason as in mathematics, observation, historical writing, but it was among Greek thinkers that reason “turned on itself,” became “self-conscious” in Hegel’s term, and was discovered as the presence of the eternal wisdom (divine) in human being (This great leap is clearly seen in Parmenides, Heracleitos, and later in Socrates-Plato, Aristotle, and Plotinus [AD 204-270]). I find the discovery of reason to be one of the truly most fascinating processes in human history. Another unsurpassed revolution in human history is what happened in Moses and the prophets of Israel: the discovery of the presence of the I AM in and to human being, as in the story of YHWH encountering Moses out of the burning bush (and the bush was not consumed by fire, hence a non-natural phenomenon). Is it not amazing how the ancient Israelites, then Jews, then early Christians, did not interest themselves in “natural processes,” or “nature,” or realty as such—and did not discover reason—but were so pre-occupied with the in-breaking of the divine as Spirit, not as intellect? That is both their strength and weakness, and it took centuries to work out the balance of insights, to give scope to both the divine in-breaking as pneuma (Spirit) and the divine presence as intellect, reason. The Greek philosophers had it both ways, because the divine broke in as “reason” (nous), but was also understood to present itself as non-rational pneumatic activity, as in the Greek prophets, in the Delphic Oracle, in the Orphic cults and rites. That the ancient Greeks were well familiar with prophesy, and sudden inspiration from the gods, is clearly displayed in some of the Greek tragedies (such as Oedipus Rex), and in Plato, who even praises Eros as “divine madness.” But the seminal discovery of ancient Greece was in the gradual discovery of nous, of reason: that human being is essentially the “being having nous” (Aristotle; translated into Latin as the animal rationale). No wonder, then, that philosophers turned their attention to history as the “realm of reason” (Hegel’s phrase), as the locus of the divine-human encounter (Plato, Aristotle, and some philosophers in our time). Patterns begin to appear to the wondering mind; and the search for wisdom continues as a fundamental human quest. —Wm. Paul McKane 22 November 2019 A brief note on the three greatest composers in western music
I have written before that if one wishes to appreciate and understand something of the sweep, beauty, and depth of western music, there are three composers to whom one must especially attend: Johann Sebastian Bach; Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; and Ludwig van Beethoven. Together, they span the years from 1685-1827, about one hundred and fifty years that witnessed such magnificent achievements in serious music. By selecting these three men, I do not wish to exclude others, and surely not such towering geniuses as Palestrina, Thomas Tallis, Heinrich Schütz, Antonio Vivaldi, Joseph Haydn, Richard Wagner, to mention a few. What I am suggesting is that if a person listens attentively to considerable amounts of music from the hands of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, s/he will not only be hearing some of the finest music ever composed, but with thought, be able to discern much that forms the living heart of modern western civilization. I maintain that more than any other art, music reveals the Spirit and the spirit of the one composing. If we date the high point of western civilization from roughly 1600 to 1900 or even extending into the late phase, into the twentieth century, then the three aforementioned composers indeed stand out, and form excellent guides into the mind, the spirit, the life of modern western civilization. And for those with ears to hear, these three composers also offer, at least at times, guides on the soul’s journey into God, however understood, and beyond all understanding. Rather than list compositions by these three men which I would most recommend, I leave it to each reader to discover works on their own—or, if you wish, ask me for personal recommendations. I wish to make a few broad generalizations to give you some perspective on these masters of western music. Each of these three composers excelled in virtually every field of composition for which they wrote, and composed major works in those areas of composition. Still, I think it just to say that each of these three men is best understood in one or two genres of music at which he not only excelled, but in which he seems most to be at home, most himself, most able to put into music that which he longs to say. This is a bold claim, but it is based on years of listening, study, and thinking about serious music, and these mens’ compositions. Bach’s genius and unsurpassed achievement is most seen in two highly recurring patterns of phenomena: his exceptional compositional skill that allowed him to be foremost in numerous genres of music; and above all, Bach’s solid and unashamed faith and joy in Jesus Christ. During Bach’s lifetime (1685-1750), Christian faith was already bleaching out and fading from the center of western consciousness. Most of the leading thinkers (and far more popular composers) had already become more secular-minded, often with little interest in the things of God. (For example, Descartes, whom can be called the father of modern philosophy, had already died by 1650; here the preoccupation with self takes a giant leap forward.) Bach was in this regard more of a throw-back to early modern western composers, such as Tallis, Palestrina, Byrd, and Schütz (born in 1585, a century before J S Bach). I think that a major reason Bach’s Cantatas were not given their due in his lifetime, or even for many years after their composition and performance at Lutheran church services, was their explicit religious content. As noted, by the early 18th century, Bach’s time, leading minds of western culture and popular tastes had largely left Christian faith (whether Catholic, Lutheran, or Protestant) behind on what Hegel would call “the dust heap of history.” As Hegel wrote c 1803 in his Phenomenology of the Spirit, “God is dead,” replaced by human consciousness (and consciousness of self) as the decisive center of existence; and that was already clear for the reader of Descartes’ Meditations (1641), with its famous declaration: Cogito ergo sum—I think, therefore I am. (Note the deliberate play on God’s self-revelation to Moses in the Book of Exodus, “I AM that I AM.”) Bach’s faith in the world-transcendent God—in the I AM incarnate in Jesus Christ—had experientially died and “decomposed” (as Nietzsche graphically phrased it) even as Bach composed such profoundly spiritual music pointing to, and embodying in sound, God and Christ. The heart of Johann Sebastian Bach’s musical output is clearly to be found in his enormous number of church Cantatas, of which about two-thirds are thought to be extant today. These roughly 200 compositions, when recorded, fill about 70-80 CD’s of music. In my opinion, if there are two enormous mountains of creative genius in the arts of our civilization, they would be the plays of Shakespeare and the Cantatas of J.S. Bach. This does not mean that Bach does not have many other masterful compositions, some of which excel individual Cantatas by a long distance: the St. Matthew and St. John Passions; the Mass in b minor; the orchestral suites, the Brandenburg concertos, the harpsichord and violin concertos; the Well-Tempered Clavier and so many other polished keyboard works; works for solo violin, cello, and other chamber compositions; and so on and on. It is in the Cantatas, however, taken as a collection, and experienced individually, with special attention to the finest compositions, that one sees in an overview and in detail the sweeping genius and the vibrant faith of J S Bach. Truly to hear some of these cantatas movements is to have one’s soul lifted up into the presence of God. Such is the power and art of Bach’s musical genius in expressing his solid faith. The living center of Mozart’s output is, I deem, two-fold: it is in his 27 piano concertos, and in the more mature works among his roughly 20 dramatic compositions for stage—usually called “operas,” many of which are rarely performed now. Nearly all of the 27 piano concerti, and perhaps 7 or so of the operas, serve to give one appreciation for, and insight into, the musical mind of Mozart. Now, whereas Bach’s motives seem ever to be the communication of his faith and joy in Christ with as much technical skill as his highly developed German mastery permits, Mozart’s goal is different. Of every serious composer I have ever heard, I would maintain that Mozart has the most acutely developed sense of the beautiful in music; his aesthetic sense is acute, and highly developed, and it clearly guides his compositions. Mozart is not primarily interested in communicating faith in God in sound; rather, Mozart reveals the beautiful, or Beauty itself, which he may well have interpreted as the divine, but we leave that for a fuller study of Mozart. Listen to the slow, inner movements of Mozart’s piano concertos, and one is often brought to tears, or nearly so, by the sheer, simple beauty of his melodies, and the exquisite, tender manner in which he presents and develops their beauty. He requires musicians with a delicate touch, and who have a cultivated sense of the beautiful; Bach requires in his instrumental works performers with highly developed technical skills. Beethoven would have been a young man of twenty when the Mozart died. His music, and that of the great Joseph Haydn, formed and directed Beethoven’s early compositions. But Beethoven was no mere interpreter or imitator of anyone. He was a genius of the highest order in music, and his genius was not primarily or essentially lived out in faith or in a highly developed sense of the beautiful. Rather, Beethoven is the foremost genius (in my opinion) of self-expression in sound. In whatever he composed, Beethoven was revealing himself—not the divine, not Christ, not the Beautiful, but Beethoven himself. His compositions could be called the first and foremost example of egophany (self-revelation) in musical history. I classify his word as egophanic, not to be critical, but to be analytical, and to do justice to Beethoven, for whose compositional skills and achievements I have utmost respect. As befits his goal of self-expression, there are two genres that seem most typical and the best way to hear and to appreciate Beethoven: the 32 piano sonatas, which fairly span his entire period of composition, and his 9 symphonies, composed roughly from age thirty into his early fifties (about three years before his death in 1827). In general terms, Beethoven worked out his feelings and thoughts in the piano sonatas, and then could make them more public, and on a grander scale, in his symphonies. As I recall, unlike Bach or Mozart, Beethoven usually drafted his orchestral compositions at the keyboard, the instrument at which he clearly felt most at home—where he could be himself, express himself, work out his feelings and thoughts in sound. There is one additional body of works from Beethoven that I must mention. If most of his music is primarily personal self-expression—well documented in the piano sonatas and symphonies—I find a profound degree of self-transcendence in his last and highly important set of string quartets. Composed in the last 2-3 years of his life, and in a period in which Beethoven suffered much from serious health problems, these quartets still express the mind and heart of Beethoven; but they also lead the attentive listener out of Beethoven, out of oneself as listener, into a realm beyond time and space, into eternal peace and beauty, to a degree rarely achieved in western music. Here Beethoven transcends and to an extent fulfills the promise of Beethoven, and does so with unexcelled compositional skill. Sensitive souls who actively enter into these last compositions by the great Beethoven rarely cease to praise their magnificent achievement. It is in the slow movements, especially, that I most hear the heart and mind of Beethoven in meditation—Beethoven alone with the Alone, or with his attentively listening friends, moving into the unknown depths of God. Wm. Paul McKane 18 November 2019 I do not know what my life would be like without the beauty and joy of magnificent music. Fortunately, recordings make so much great music available to one without leaving home, or in the car with playlists, and so on. I subscribe to Apple Music, and hence have access to millions of compositions and often as performed by various artists. One can also use YouTube, and listen and watch as some outstanding musicians share their art with us.
Again and again I return to certain compositions, including the set of Beethoven’s “Late String Quartets,” which number five or six, depending on how one counts the Great Fugue. These quartets constitute the bulk of Beethoven’s last compositions, composed the two years before he died (26 March 1827). For some reason, it is especially the slow movements that have most appealed to me. They bespeak a spirit at rest, after the turmoils of one’s earlier years are over. Here one does not hear the storms and outbursts of younger Beethoven, but soulful meditations composed by a man living on the edge of eternity. The listener is drawn with Beethoven into a realm that is not altogether of this world. And it is quiet bliss into which one enters. I truly thank God that Beethoven suffered as he did, and rose above his sufferings into sublime peace and transcendental love. How far Beethoven’s spirit advanced beyond the rage of the Eroica (Symphony #3 in E-flat, a truly revolutionary accomplishment) into the sublime language of the late Quartets. As I listen to chamber music such as these string quartets, I often recall the words a fundamentalist preacher spoke to me one day in Iowa. The man was a farmer and a minister, who had attended college, and purportedly had a degree of education. One day when I mentioned the pleasure I take in chamber music, he asked me, “Why would you ever listen to chamber music?” He asked as if I were engaged in some truly bizarre activity, such as bungee jumping off a bridge with nothing but sharp boulders below. His question utterly puzzled me. How does one answer such a question? “Why do you love the ocean?” “Why do you enjoy viewing the greatest works of sculpture?” “Why would you ever read Shakespeare?” The questions are similar: If asked without a living appreciation of such beauty, the one asking is apparently dead (or numb) to the experience of beauty or truth in great works of art or nature. For me, such questions are incomprehensible. “Taste and see for yourself,” perhaps I should have said to him. But he would not have known how or where to begin in order to awaken his appreciation for such works of art. It requires hard work, and many are unwilling to make the effort to climb the mountain. So much is lacking in American education. I wonder how many adults in Montana, where I live, would be willing to sit and listen to a late Beethoven Quartet, or to a Schubert Trio, or to a Brahms Piano Quartet, or a Bach Sonata for Violin and Harpsichord. Not many, I dare say. Many here think nothing of drinking beer even to the point of drunkenness, or of driving pick-up trucks speeding down a road, or of yelling themselves hoarse at some high school basketball game. But sitting still and listening to musicians perform some of the masterpieces of musical composition is probably beyond the limits of their imagination. They simply have not been exposed to such works, nor have they made the effort to discover them. As I just stated, so much is lacking in American education. We do not know or care to know how dead we are to so much beauty, or to works of philosophy, or to achievements of science. “Professing ourselves wise, we became fools.” Most sadly, education in America often means instruction, if not propagandizing and brain-washing; it rarely means inspiring a human being to seek the truth for himself or herself. In reality, one must choose to educate his own mind, his own soul. There is no substitution for self-education, and its work requires a lifetime of devotion and hard work. As I reflect back on my years in high school, college, and graduate school, although I am truly thankful to a number of my teachers and professors for the learning they shared, I am also strongly aware that much of what I gained from formal education was done outside the classroom, through browsing library shelves of books, through listening intently to great music, from visiting museums, from sharing thoughts with fellow students, and so on. Formal education is at best a shell, a skeleton. If one is to flesh one’s learning, one must spend years educating oneself in the best that human minds and spirits have brought forth over time. And that requires a searching mind, and discipline, and one of the greatest of all gifts: a genuine love for learning, grounded in a humble awareness of one’s own ignorance, and need for right education. The day one thinks, “I am an educated man,” that day one’s true learning ceases. Learning is watered by the disturbing sense of one’s ignorance and shortcomings, not in pride in one’s accomplishments. “Seek and you will find,” not “Think that you have found, you have arrived.” As I see life: “Baby, you’ve just begun!” Now, to what shall I turn my attention? There is so much lacking in my knowledge of truth and appreciation of beauty, how shall I begin? Who or what can guide me on the quest out of relative darkness into a greater light, into a deeper and fuller vision of the whole of reality? What little steps shall I now take on this journey of a thousand years? —Wm. P. McKane 3 August 2019  Several people have said to me recently, “Priests do not retire.” I cannot speak justly for diocesan priests, because I am not one, but for my part, I think that parish priests can and do retire, and in many cases, deservedly so. I am happy for a retiring diocesan priest who served his parishioners for years, who proclaimed Christ faithfully in word and deed, who truly dedicated himself to “the care of souls,” that is, to the spiritual well-being of his parishioners. Such priests—and bishops—deserve to retire, and to continue to serve in a pastoral role if and when they wish to do so. Such service is optional after retirement, and how much one does, and the kinds of work, would depend on the individual priest’s willingness, interests, and health. That they continue assisting with some pastoral duties is not required, but their own personal choice—with the permission of the local bishop, of course.
But I am not a diocesan priest, but a Benedictine monk, who was selected for ordination to the priesthood by my Abbot to serve our monastic community and, at times, to assist others who are linked to our monastery. A Benedictine monastic, male or female, has one primary goal: to seek God with all of one’s resources, with the grace of God, until death. The work of seeking God does not end, and from this task, one does not retire. For those monks who are also ordained as priests, there is always a tension, if not a contradiction, between the life of a monk and active priestly ministry. Normally, the monk seeks God within the walls of the monastery. With my Abbot’s permission, I temporarily served as a Navy Chaplain with Marines and Sailors during the Gulf War because of emergency need. Later he asked me to assist in a parish a few miles from our monastery. Then with his permission, I served as a parish priest in the Midwest, and in 2009 I returned to serve temporarily in parishes in my home state of Montana. I serve here only with the permission of my Abbot, to whom I belong as a monk, and with the permission of Bishop Michael. Whether or not a bishop permits me to function as a priest in his diocese after retirement is his decision. As of early this year my Abbot granted me permission to remain living outside of the monastic walls, at least “for the duration.” He has the authority to call me back to St. Anselm’s Abbey at any time, and for any reason. As I retire from active pastoral duty, my monastic calling and vows must return to the fore: to give my energies to seeking the presence of the living God. This search requires many hours of solitude, profound peace, contemplative prayer, and nourishing study. Having been formed as a Benedictine monk of St. Anselm’s Abbey (Washington, DC), and having lived the life for years in our monastery, I have a good sense of what is required of me. It will necessitate making considerable changes as I retire from active ministry on 1 July: it will take time and prayer for me to know how best to live as a faithful Benedictine monk. To help me adjust to returning to the life of a Benedictine, I will in effect be taking a sabbatical, and not be available for pastoral substitute work at least for some time. I must also limit social invitations, as befits a more contemplative lifestyle. The best way to contact me, should you wish to do so, is by email. My iPhone will be turned off much of the time, as required for silence. Furthermore, I have planned day trips to areas in Montana in the summer months to exercise my dogs and me, and to see more of beautiful Montana then active life has permitted. I will also spend time with my brother in Utah, make a quiet retreat on the Oregon coast in the fall, and then visit my sister and her husband in San Diego over the Christmas holidays. I have not seen my family for several years. As several of you have truly said, I will need to be retired for a while to learn how to handle the changes well. Having worked full time since my student days, and having been busy serving in active priestly ministry since 1991, retirement will require major adjustments, as it does for everyone. Some folks have asked if I will be “bored.” My response is: “Are you serious? I have many interests and hobbies.” More fundamentally, retirement permits one to strive for peace in solitude and silence, as befits a Benedictine. In truth, retirement is a graced time for anyone to seek God; that is our human calling. Furthermore, writing would be a more suitable way to continue ministering to the faithful, as it requires solitude. The LORD will guide me to assist in pastoral duties, such as funerals, at the right time, if it is appropriate to do so. In all things, peace: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” Know that you will be with me in my heart and prayer. I will treasure the years we have spent together in this passing light. —Fr. Wm. Paul McKane, OSB (Benedictine monk of St. Anselm’s Abbey)  In writing these brief meditation-memos, I have usually avoided including much personal material, although I use some of my life-experiences to illustrate more general points in homilies. On this occasion I reverse the process: discussion of my vocations may be too difficult for some to hear in homilies, so I sketch it out here, rather than in a homily. My purpose is to explain to parishioners something few apparently understand, because of lack of experience with Benedictines monks (men and women): the nature of the monastic vocation is strongly different from the call to be a priest in the Church. If this memo fails to clarify my vocational situation for you, let me know and I shall write a longer version and post it on our website.
We all have multiple vocations from God, not just one. To focus on a single vocation is naive and misleading. Our foremost and common vocation is to become what we have been created to be: happy, virtuous, fulfilled, engaged human beings, who find our ultimate completion in God alone. Furthermore, some have a calling as men, some as women. Most human beings find considerable personal fulfillment in being married and raising loving children. Furthermore, our natural abilities and interests point to having other vocations. In my case, I have long been interested in learning and in teaching; in music, photography, literature; in philosophy and in spiritual life. We also share the vocation to be men and women in Christ Jesus, and to live out this calling as faithful Catholics. I have two additional vocations which have been highly significant in my life: I have been called by Christ and by a Benedictine community to live as a monk until death; and my abbot chose me to serve, at least at times, as a priest for the community, and in the larger church. Repeatedly I have learned that even life-time Catholics do not understand the monastic vocation; many consider it invalid, escapist, or inhuman. The essence of the Benedictine monastic calling is to seek God in community. We take three vows: obedience to the Rule of St. Benedict and to our abbot; stability of life as a monk until death; and a life of ongoing conversion to Christ. To seek God means that one truly trusts and acts as though “my happiness is in You alone.” Monks forsake marriage, family life, property. The vocation of priests is to serve parish families, helping to lead people to God. Priests keep their earthly families, are attached to place, may inherit and own property. In brief, whereas monks are called to seek God in prayer and study, Catholic priests are called to active ministry. They are very different and even conflicting vocations. Every monk who is a priest knows well the conflict, and seeks to find the right balance in his life. Let me be practical. I entered St. Anselm’s Abbey in 1982 to seek God. With chaplains needed for the Gulf War, I entered the Navy in 1991, and since then, have been a fully-engaged parish priest. My life as a Benedictine monk was not negated, but was at least partially suspended. Active ministry has left much less time for study and contemplation. As I approach retirement from active ministry, my monastic vocation returns to the fore. My abbot has chosen to restore my status as an active member of our monastery. As such, I am obligated to spend generous hours in prayer, study, and meditation every day, as well as do some manual work. Most of the monks of our monastery share in some pastoral ministry, including writing, teaching, preaching, care of the sick, and so on. When I retire on 1 July, I will no longer be a parish priest, nor am I a diocesan priest. I will return to full-time status as a Benedictine monk. I may on occasion preach in public, or offer a Mass, but my main form of teaching and preaching will take the form of writing. To write, I must meditate and study. To these ends, I will considerably reduce my social life, as Benedictine monks live a life of relative seclusion from the world, from business, from socializing. I am not leaving the planet, but please understand if I decline opportunities to socialize or to minister in public. Please understand: I am not a diocesan priest, but a man who vowed himself to seek God in prayer, study, and contemplation. This vocation requires large amounts of time in solitude. With the help of God, I will live out my Benedictine vocation until death. |
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