Illuminating Sermons (9.viii.87)

Deliberate self-exposure is rare,
but all forms of public speaking
involve unconscious self-exposure.

Take sermons. I hear one every Sunday.

No matter what a preacher talks about,
if you hear him talk, week in, week out,
then the inner man appears.
You eventually get to know
what he really thinks about himself,
how important he thinks he is, and why,
how clever, how holy, how wise
he thinks he is, and is,
and how happy he is.

For instance, one devoted many sermons
to trying to convince himself (via us)
that his job was very important.
He plainly didn't believe it,
and was very miserable.

The serene certainty and charity of another
shone through the extreme seriousness and simplicity
of what he had to say.

One seemed an exception to the rule.
The sermons were exceedingly polished,
but nothing consistent of the man appeared.
Eventually, I figured it out.
The sermons came ready-made from various worthy books,
and the priest was acting simply as a conduit.
If his object was to reveal nothing,
then he had found the way.
It wasn't even possible to determine whether
he he was too humble to compose his own sermons,
or too lazy.

Class Prejudice (13.viii.87)

East of Suez, my friend,
always go first class.
Either that, or mind you
dress appropriately.

I remember, on the Lady Esmé,
the ferry from Mahé to Praslin,
all seating was on deck,
and first was aft, under an awning.

The South-east Monsoon was blowing,
shaping a decent swell.
The little steamer dug and
slapped the waves, in turn.

The spray would fly up twenty feet,
then curl across the bridge
and crash down where the second class
sat, huddled, sick and wet.

Some kids, of course, got wet
and thought no more of it,
and went out to the plunging prow
to laugh at flying fish.

Home (13.viii.87)

When we married and went to live together,
where we lived was not home.
We were just playing house,
and our separate homes were elsewhere.

Now home is here. When did it happen?
I don't remember.  The other houses
and our parents are still there,
but somewhere along the line
they stopped being home.

What makes this home?
What is home?

Home is refuge.
The place where I unstrap my armour
and relax, and know that
even thought there are a ridiculous number
of things to be fixed,
yet nothing can go wrong.

Will Someone Please Shoot the Guitarist? (13.viii.87)

A folk-mass is a Mass that is frequently interrupted
by bright folk with guitars and tambourines, etcetera,
who urge us to be cheerful, and who smile a lot.
I hate them, with a passion.

We are under no obligation to be cheerful.
No doubt, it is good to be alive,
drenched in the love of Christ,
but it doesn't always feel that way.

Life is full of wickedness, betrayal,
suffering, death, and putrefaction.
The lad who wrote Ecclesiastes
knew what he was about.

Of course, there are people sitting in church
who feel cheerful.  But the odds are that
some of the congregation are more in the humour
for the De Profundis than this hand-clapping.

The Mass should be grave and level,
and presume no particular mood.
Religion has nothing to do with moods,
and we are entitled to feel miserable
if we want to.