We are all Becket now

It's been said that art which disturbs forces the partaker into a realm of solitude that is not entirely welcome, for it forces one to confront his innermost thoughts, to enter "a world of aloneness, ineluctably insisting on one’s attuning oneself to one’s self.”

And it's in that sense that I use the word "disturbing" to describe Assassinio nella Cattedrale, Ildebrando Pizzetti's 1958 operatic version of T.S. Eliot's (equally disturbing) verse play Murder in the Cathedral, the story of the martyrdom of St. Thomas Becket in 1170.  I first mentioned this piece a couple of weeks ago, and I finally have the chance to come back to it today.

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The performance, from December 22, 2006, was staged at the Basilica di San Nicola in Bari, Italy, with Piergiorgio Morandi conducting the Orchestra Sinfonica della Provincia di Bari.  The grandeur and solemnity of the Basilica provides a unique but stunning location for the opera (with the orchestra situated between the audience in the nave and the singers at the altar), compelling us to consider the story in an atmosphere that for once justifies the correct use of the word "awesome." 

Most of us know, or should know, the basic story of Thomas Becket: his early life as friend and close associate of King Henry II, becoming Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury - and how a fatal rift developed between them over the authority of the State over the Church.  Eventually, Henry is (supposedly) heard to utter the famous words "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?", whereupon four of his knights travel to Canterbury and there murder the Archbishop in his cathedral.

The question of man's relationship to authority, and the legitimacy of said authority, is timeless. Eliot's play, which premiered in 1935, was taken by many as a commentary on Nazi Germany and its growing oppression of religious freedom.  However, it was difficult in watching Assassinio not to think of today; of the growing religious oppression in America, of the recent abdication of Benedict XVI, of our own futures.

As the opera opens, it is December 2, 1170.  Becket has returned from exile in France.  There is a truce between Becket and King Henry, but nobody expects it to last.  Becket's congregation fears that the Archbishop's return can end only in tragedy, for themselves as well as him.  Becket is unfazed by the prospect of martyrdom, but is it a measure of the man's spirituality - or ego?  The answer is soon to come.

Becket (Ruggero Raimondi) faces the four Tempters

In a stunning first act confrontation, Becket meets four Tempters - manifestations of Becket's own intellect, they converse with him in a reflection of the inner dialogue tearing through the Archbishop.  The first three offer the usual - safety (by running away), power (by compromising with the king), and rebellion (joining the barons against the king).  Thomas is able to deal with these temptations easily; it is the fourth that gives him pause, for the fourth temptation is martyrdom itself, the chance for eternal fame and influence through giving up his life.

This one proves the most dangerous, for it is easy to convince yourself that you're dying to draw attention to a cause, when in reality it is you to which you draw attention.  Is this why Becket returned to England?  Does he look for the ultimate "I told you so" moment?  As the tempter says, it would put everyone under Becket's heel: king, emperor, bishop, baron.

It is here that Becket must provide the ultimate measure of who he is and what he believes - and he does, defiantly casting aside the temper, saying "The last temptation is the greatest treason/To do the right thing for the wrong reason."With this act, Becket finds a kind of peace; he comes to the knowledge that he is not looking for martyrdom, but is prepared to accept it as part of sharing Christ's Cross.

In his Christmas Day sermon, Becket gives us a profound meditation on the meaning of Christmas.  Yes, it is a day to rejoice in the birth of the Savior, but also to realize the price that salvation will ultimately exact from Him*.  It is in this spirit of unity - and love - that one embraces martyrdom, Thomas says, warning the congregation that "It is possible that in a short time you may have yet another martyr."

*I've always thought that the ideal Nativity set should somehow cast a shadow of a Cross over the crib where Christ lays.  The Creed celebrates both His birth and death, and at no time is this more clear than at Christmas.

The denouement of Act Two is, at once, tragic, inevitable, and joyous.  Four of Henry's knights, played by the same four singers of Act One's tempters, confront Becket, accusing him of disloyalty, and calling on him to surrender or face death at their hands.  Becket refuses all attempts by his priests to protect him, either by locking the doors of the Cathedral or by fleeing, but Becket refuses, in a sense recalling Pilate's words that what has been written is written.  He accepts the savage act of martyrdom with peace, and meets his death on December 29, 1170, vested for the liturgy, sprawled on the steps of the altar. 

Bass Ruggero Raimondi delivers a dignified, powerfully moving performance as Becket, a man walking at the same time with both truth and death.  The New York Times once described Eliot's play as "an opera libretto waiting to be set to music," and Pizzetti, working from an Italian translation of Eliot's play, is faithful to both the story and the underlying meaning.  Events are condensed, as they often must be in opera, but at all times Eliot's message comes through without distortion.  The music is clearly modern but never lacking in melody, and it creates an atmosphere that will stay with the viewer long after the opera ends.

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So what does it all mean to us, and why should we care about Assassinio nella Cattedrale as anything other than a work of art?  There are a couple of reasons why, I think.

I mentioned earlier that it was impossible to watch this without thinking of Benedict XVI.  A couple of weeks ago I wrote of Benedict's renunciation as an act of martyrdom, and I think anyone who sees this opera will understand what I mean.  In the act of renunciation, Benedict lays down his office and prostrates himself before the coming persecution, offering his (figurative) death in order that one coming after him, the next pope, might lead the Church Militant in the coming battle.  This is truly disturbing, according to every definition of the word.  It is awful and awesome at the same time, and it indicts all of us, the unruly faithful who have given the shepherd so much trouble. 

The Martyrdom of St. Thomas Becket,
by Michael D. O’Brien

And then there is the question which it forces us to ask ourselves: what kind of stuff are we made of?  It's something that all of us will confront, eventually.  We may hope that it does not occur in as public a venue as it did for Becket and Benedict, but in truth we don't know.  As Joyce Carol Oates once wrote, "You won't know until it beckons. To you. So long as it temps others you can judge - can sneer - can express shock, disgust, outrage, and prim distain - the usual emotions of punitive people. But you won't know."

It may be pessimistic to see in these days the twilight of America, if not the world, but then there are reasons to be pessimistic.  For we may be far closer to the times of Becket than we think.  Benedict perhaps saw this, and we must consider it as well.  Francis Cardinal George, the Archbishop of Chicago, said a few years ago that "I expect to die in bed, my successor will die in prison and his successor will die a martyr in the public square."

The time is coming, I think, when we will find out what we're made of.  It will beckon, as Oates says, and then we will find out. The battle is not merely fought among the high-ranking, the statesmen and prelates; its battlefields not confined to the ancient histories of centuries past.  No, history is here and now, and each of us will be called upon to take up our own roles in this drama.  And then we will find out, we will know. ◙

The (heart) break of dawn

It would be hard to imagine a day more emotional than yesterday, when Benedict XVI made his final public appearance in his Wednesday General Audience.  For all the talk, all the discussion, all the controversy - yesterday was the day of heartbreak, when it all started to become real.  Perhaps it was the shot at the right, of many of the Cardinals in attendance overcome by emotion.  Perhaps it was the caption on EWTN's live coverage, which read "Final General Audience of Benedict XVI."

Usually we don't have this knowledge in the Catholic Church - sure, in the last days of John Paul II and Paul VI and John XXIII we knew that the end was near, that it wasn't long now - but this was so different.  The Holy Father standing before us, giving his love to his flock and receiving theirs in return, everyone knowing that this was the end (or near it) and yet he was still with us, among us for the time being.  It was a scene of indescribable drama, which is why these words themselves do so little to encapsulate it.  Benedict's farewell tour of St. Peter's Square, jammed with over 200,000 people coming to say goodbye - again, we don't generally get the chance to say goodbye to our popes, and after witnessing the scene one can understand why so many people hate goodbyes.

And now begins the time of Benedict's martyrdom. I mentioned in yesterday's Opera Wednesday having recently seen the opera Assassinio nella cattedrale, Pizzetti's adaptation of Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, in which Thomas Becket faces down his impending death at the hands of Henry II's henchmen.   I do plan to write about this opera next week, because it is timely on so many levels, but here a word or two seems appropriate.  I mention Benedict's martyrdom, because when a man becomes pope his old life dies, and he is (in a sense) reborn into a new ministry, a new relationship with both God and man.  Some of the traddies who've been having kittens about Benedict's abdication sputter "He can't do this!  He's supposed to die as pope!"

What they miss, I think, is that in abdicating the papacy Benedict is dying, in a sense.  He is laying down his new life - that of being pope - in order that his people might be saved from what he sees as a grave threat, one that requires a younger and more physically vigorous man to act as shepherd.  He is, in other words, laying down his papacy for love of his flock.  He now becomes evermore a man in this world, but not of it.  He enters into a new and likely deeper relationship with God, uniting himself through prayer, continuing to lead - but in a new, perhaps more profound, dimension.

And as we continue through this penitential season of Lent it might do us some good to pause for a moment and consider how we, his most difficult sheep, have contributed to this drama.  In the Good Friday liturgy it is the congregation who assume the role of the mobs at Christ's Passion, and we are given the lines "Crucify Him!  Crucify Him!" It is an uncomfortable moment to be sure, because it strikes so close to the bone.  So perhaps we should all take time to think of how we've helped to create the martyrdom of Benedict, through our disobedience, our obstinance, our so often hearing his words but not listening to them.

Benedict reassured us yesterday that "I do not abandon the cross, but remain in a new way near to the Crucified Lord."  John the Evangelist reminds us that when Christ came into the world His people knew Him not, and I think it's fair to say that many (most? all?) of us have helped to drive a nail or two into the Cross that Benedict now carries.

In the Western, the great American contribution to storytelling, the story usually ends with the hero walking into the sunset.  This is oftentimes a bittersweet moment in the movies, for while the hero may emerge triumphant, he frequently does so at great human cost.  Today, Benedict himself will walk into the sunset, his papacy done, his work just beginning.  I began this piece by saying that it was hard to imagine how today could be more difficult than yesterday.  But, at 2:00 ET this afternoon, the reality will sink in.  We will be in sede vacante, the papal crest will change, and we will be left to wait and pray that we get the pope we need, not the one we deserve.  And though I am not an emotional man, it will be difficult to restrain a lump in the throat, a tear in the corner of the eye, for as the reality sinks in, we will all find out just how much more difficult the day can be.

UPDATE: For a touching tribute to Benedict's papacy, I recommend this article from Rorate-Coeli.  ◙

The inside story behind the Pope's abdication

"Holy straw sack!  Tomorrow I'll quit!"

Stray thoughts on Benedict XVI

For many of us, it's been a year or so of klongs*.   First there was the surprise Obamacare decision by the Supreme Court; next it was the not-particularly-suprising-but-still-disappointing reelection of the President in November.  Now it's the abdication of Benedict XVI.  One wonders how many more klongs the heart can take before it blows up completely.

*This is a wonderful term I've used now for many years, which comes from William Safire's novel Full Disclosure, which he describes as  "A sudden rush of s**t to the heart" (minus the asterisks).  As Safire puts it, "It's the feeling you get when you're having a drink with a friend at your friendly tavern and all of a sudden it dawns on you that at that exact moment four people are standing on your doorstep, ringing the bell and expecting the dinner to which you've invited them." 

Of the three, Benedict's announcement on Monday was probably the biggest klong of all.  Whereas there had been at least a possibility of the other two events happening, this one was completely out of left field.  Yes, I know that in the past he'd talked about the propriety of a pope resigning, but it still wasn't something one could expect. 

One of the reasons this ranked as a particularly brutal klong was the knowledge of how the story would be played.  Predictably, the media have made a hash of it, trying to apply theories of temporal politics to a spiritual situation, with an added dollop of ideological hatred thrown in.  And in truth, it is a hard situation to grasp.  As the American Spectator's Aaron Goldstein recounted a conversation he had with co-workers, "The consensus [which Goldstein did not share] was that he was either forced out or that he had done something untoward."

The Catholic blogosphere has been equally alive with speculation, rumor and opinion, and - in my opinion* - most of it has been just as ill-informed and, let's not beat around the bush here, stupid. (One reason I've largely abandoned that arena.)  Some of it has been negative ("Benedict is shirking his responsibility!  Why couldn't he have hung in there like JPII?") while others, like Goldstein's co-workers, see an ulterior motive ("The Curia forced him out!  He finally threw up his hands and gave up!").  Some are emotional ("I feel betrayed!  When I heard the news I wept uncontrollably!"), and some are coldly Machiavellian ("He's using his German cunning to prepare a trap for the Wolves chomping at his heels!").  Some despair, seeing nothing but calamity in store for the Church. Some even look at the prophesies of Malachy and see the end of the world approaching.

*An opinion which I happen to hold in high regard.

The ones I like the most, the ones that mirror my own feeling, say simply - we can't know.  Understanding this is above our pay grade.  I don't know the truth of what goes on in the Vatican.  I don't know the truth of Benedict's health.  I don't know what he feels the Holy Spirit is compelling him to do, and I'm not privy to his conversations with God.  I don't know what the future of the Catholic Church looks like other than Christ's assurance that the Gates of Hell would not prevail against it.

If you were to ask for my educated guess, I'd say that Benedict believes the Church is in a perilous time, facing a grave and immediate threat - one that requires a Pontiff with physical as well as mental energy, one who can not only stand up to the threat, but fight back.  It's all well and good to suggest, as some do, that God would have provided whatever Benedict might have lacked, but as Christ says, His ways are not our ways.  Perhaps what God provided him with was the courage to abdicate in the face of people who would not understand.  But again, this is just speculation, and I've no more insight into this than the average man on the street.

Again, we don't know, and we shouldn't pretend that we do.  It's time for us to take "His ways, not ours" a little more seriously.  Don't second-guess the Pope - if we believe that he is indeed the Vicar of Christ, we have to assume that he might have just a little more insight into things than we do.  If we believe that the Gates of Hell will not prevail, we shouldn't worry unduly about the future.  If the Holy Spirit does indeed drive the Cardinal electors, let's let the Spirit do his thing.  And, in the name of all that is good and holy, let's stop analyzing this as if it was American politics and the Pope was the president.  Let's quit thinking of Benedict as a CEO and the Papacy as a "job."   If we direct our minds in the spiritual, rather than temporal, direction, I think we'll all feel a lot better about it.

This rampant speculation, opining and, no pun intended, pontificating, isn't doing anyone any good, and in some cases it may be causing scandal.  Want to do something?  Try prayer instead.  Take our Lent a little more seriously.  Sacrifice and do penance.  Release the burden of worry and uncertainty - a very real burden, by the way, which I think a lot of us feel - and, in the immortal words of Bart Simpson, "Don't have a cow, man."  ◙