I made this, and I’m Baroque.
No please, don’t get up.
I can levitate all by myself.
I’m sure you must see lots of levitating clergymen.
It’s no big deal.
Yes, I know it’s not even a foot up, but still.
Just play your flute or whatever.
Go on, keep doing what you were doing.
Just gonna levitate for my own sake.
Sure is high up here.
All seven inches.
Oh, how I hope never to see the Sun.
To be honest, the best thing about the novitiate is all the restrictions.
It must be unpleasant to have to do all sorts of things that other people do.
Like eating, or going outside, or breathing more than thrice an hour.
Well it has been great holding you.
Really just a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Sure am gonna have to tell my friends about this.
Anyway, you are…uh, kinda heavy.
So uh, I think I’m gonna maybe put you dow—no, get your hand away from me…
OKAY THEN well I guess we’re just gonna stay like this a little longer.
Oh sorry, you caught me at a bad time. I was just dying clear away.
I can never pray without my little blue bow.
You must pray, Iphigenia, you must pray harder.
But Mother, we’ve been doing it for six hours.
If you do not pray, Iphigenia, you can never be well.
We don’t have any more candles left.
Iphigenia, how shall you feel when you are dead and gone far from your own home and all its earthly lights and all who love you?
I only had a small cough—
Shhhh, Iphigenia, shhhhh…
Yes, I said “Come down here at once.”
I’ve even got a little space for you to sit here.
Yes, I know there are bones on it.
Well you’ll just have to move them.
It’s not hard. Really.
How long are we gonna keep saying grace, Jimmy?
Probably a while.
Because I’m using the Roman Canon.
I love how this new makeup makes my face match my surplice.
And please bless mommy and daddy.
And please let us eat lots of desert.
And please crush the Modernist heresy in all its damnable ways.
I hate. every. inch. of it.
John…there’s, there’s a light all about you.
Well I certainly am the most glittering ornament in the room.
I’m sorry, Cecil, but the Church does teach that you have no immortal soul.
Yes, they are rather nice wings, thank you.
Unfortunately I can’t move them at all.
But they look great.
I had no idea such a thing could happen to me.
I feel personally victimized.
I walk into the room and what do I see?
What? You don’t pray to your poetry books?
Deathly pale is the new black.
Little Peter enjoys his prayers.
He smiles as he prays.
He smiles because he thinks about how, at the Judgment Day, the Lord will cast down the heretics, the wicked, and the reprobate into the everlasting flames of Hell forever, where the demons shall rend the very flesh of their bones and devour them.
Little Peter enjoys his prayers.
And eating watermelons, and throwing cakes to swans, and delightedly casting books into the fire…all courtesy of 19th century anticlerical academic painters!
See this Cardinal?
He’s not worried about the Church.
Look at him.
Look at his cat.
Look at the PRECIOUS LITTLE BOW on his cat.
(His cat, incidentally, is named Dom Paphnutius).
Just look at that watermelon.
He’s not worried about whether or not the Barque of Peter can handle a dangerous destabilization of the sacrament of marriage through the undermining of Canon Law in various quasi-magisterial documents and interviews.
His only worry is whether or not he can handle the PRECIOUSNESS of his cat’s little bow.
These two fine gentlemen are out for a stroll.
There seem to be sweets involved.
The Cardinal is very cross, perhaps because said sweets have attracted a flock of unwanted water birds. Or because the liturgy wars have been needlessly reignited by Rome itself and liberal bishops’ conferences are probably going to start forcing people to say “and also with you” and “one in being” in the English Novus Ordo.
I’m not really sure why. Probably the first reason.
Anyway, he should have expected it. Water birds are notorious for their sweet teeth.
Give ’em a few bonbons and they’ll love you forever.
Though tbh I’d be more angry at the other guy for not telling me where he got that fabulous scrolly-hat.
(Note: 19th century priests were very fashion-forward.)
Speaking of which, this Cardinal is too busy tearing up the runway to care about who’s tearing up the Reform of the Reform.
Apparently this is “Champagne Toast,” which I guess is one of those new brunch fads like Avocado Toast.
Thanks for killing EVERYTHING, Millenials.
Oh yeah I’m just enjoying ‘A Quiet Smoke.’ Haha.
Nope, I’m not thinking about Amoris Laetitia footnotes 329 and 351 at all.
Just enjoying my Cuban here.
Sure is nice.
Also, don’t ever talk to me or my son again.
What’s that? Oh, this old thing? Lemme see…why, it’s a relic! A piece of the Holy Napkin of the Trastevere!
So then I says to him, I says, why don’t we elect an Argentinian?
Mmmmmmyessss of course I could tell you about the Synod mmmmmbut I wouldn’t know anything mmmmmmmmmmmbout that….
This Cardinal is deeply disturbed that his new parrot’s first word is “Accompaniment.”
Ah Lafontaine, so glad you could come here have some Dom Perignon for your loyal service
Uh sir I’m just here to tell you that the revolutionaries have subordinated the spiritual to the temporal authorit—
Haha Lafontaine, always one with the jokes
But sir the Reds are comin—
JUST TAKE THE DAMN CHAMPAGNE
His Eminence is thinking up clever new ways to show #mercy and to #meetpeoplewheretheyare and to #judgenot and to #accompany the #youth who are #unemployed in the #interiorforum and to stay #relevant while #BeingChurch, all without ever using the word “sin.”
Here I am.
Just sittin’ here.
With some milk.
Overcomin’ gluttony like a BOSS.
screams internally forever
The Cardinal stared with horror…
Before he saw the bird, he was sure that the vase had been pushed by that mysterious, frightful ghost once spoken of in legend…
The dark creature that was said to stalk the halls of the Vatican even today…
The Spirit of the Council.
Well, Pancrazio, just look at the time.
Half past four.
Funny…they told us they’d sing a new Church into being hours ago.
What a shame.
These gentlemen are enjoying a roundup of the day’s tweets from spiffy, popular Jesuits.
Kasper? Never heard of him…
I haven’t written much this week, as I’ve been traveling. However, on this beautiful St. Bernard’s Day, I thought I’d share this brief and wonderful gem of a piece by Fr. John Hunwicke of the Ordinariate.
I’m sure there are zillions of you out there who have the following sort of information right at your snuff-stained finger tips: did prelates eo fere tempore wear their wigs all through Mass? Even after their zucchetto had been removed as they approached the Consecration? When did Catholic bishops stop wearing wigs? (I think it went out of fashion in Anglican cicles in the 1830s.)
He also gets into the question of blue episcopal choir dress, mainly used in France and Ireland. Read the whole thing.
Clerical dress is one of my longstanding interests, as is the history of 18th century Catholicism. I’m glad Fr. Hunwicke is using his formidable celebrity to draw attention to these matters. While some may dismiss clerical fashion (particularly that of the Ancien Régime) as a trivial matter, I beg to differ. Clerical dress both during and outside of the liturgy is one more aesthetic component by which we can present “the beauty of holiness.” The nondescript threads worn by so many clergy and religious today are, alas, one more surrender to the cult of stark utility, false equality, failed individuality, and, in the end, boring homogeneity.
At the moment, I don’t have the time or capacity to research the questions Fr. Hunwicke raises. But The Amish Catholic will follow this story with all due attention and gravity. You can count on that. In the meantime, I’ll feast my eyes on this doozy of a cappa magna.
- Gregorian Chant
- Byzantine Chant
- Old Roman Chant
- Ambrosian Chant
- Mozarabic Chant
- Hildegard Von Bingen
- Thomas Tallis
- John Tavener
- John Taverner
- Henryk Gorecki
- Arvo Part
- Ralph Vaughan Williams
- Old Negro Spirituals
- The Mormon Tabernacle Choir
- Appalachian Shape-Note Singing
- Mongolian Throat Singing
- Swedish Black Metal
- Broadway Showtunes
- Spanish Versions of Broadway Showtunes
- Esperanto Versions of Broadway Showtunes
- Crappy Bootlegged Esperanto Versions of Broadway Showtunes
- Patsy Cline
- Irish Folk Ceol
- The Game of Thrones Theme Song
- Melanie Martinez
- All 7 Hours of a Castro Speech
- Chris Tomlin (shudder)
- YouTube videos about Fitness
- RuPaul’s Drag Race
- “Shall We Gather at the River?”
- David Lynch Cooking Quinoa
- That Weird Russian Guy Who Dances and Makes That Noise with his Lips (you know the one)
- The Interviews of Edward Gorey
- The Collected Works of Charles Dickens Played Backwards
- Machine Metal Music
- The Sound of Two Hundred Bees Copulating Simultaneously
- A Giant Saw Cutting Off California from the Rest of the Union
- Musique concrète
- Dissertation Defenses by Statistics Ph.D’s
- Mark Zuckerberg (shudder)
- The Sound Made by Nikita Kruschev’s Shoe on the Podium, But on Infinite Loop
- The Sound Made by Justin Trudeau When He Announced The Year as If It Mattered, But on Infinite Loop
- Ayn Rand Interviews
- Vaporwave Remixes of Ayn Rand Interviews
- Vaporwave Anything, Really
- “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life!”
- Mr. G’s Dance from Summer Heights High
- A Theory of Justice: The Musical
- “Universal Love, Said the Cactus Person”
- The Ambient Sounds Recorded at the Varsity in Atlanta
- Twelve Germans Arguing About Philology
- John Oliver
- Ethel Merman
- Untranslated Korean Horror Movies
- Buskers in the Tube
- Robert Nozick Gently Asking Me to Kill 10,000 Contented Cows
- Gypsy Music
- Fleet Foxes (actually this would be pretty great and like the only good “folk mass” conceivable in any way, shape, or form)
- “The Sash”
- Ambient Noise Recorded at the Louvre
- The Sound of Praying Mantises Fighting Each Other
- The Sound of Praying Nuns Fighting Each Other
- The Sound of Music
- Oral Histories of the Tennessee Valley Authority
- Smash Mouth
- The Collected Oeuvre of Insane Clown Posse
- Untranslatable Russian Poetry
- Donald Trump (shudder)
- Gordon Ramsay Insulting Hell’s Kitchen Contestants
- Hideous Yak Noises
- The Broken Wind of an Unusually Flatulent Old Vicar in Surrey
- Tracey Emin Talking About Her Work As If It Mattered
- That Flute Played by Mr. Tumnus
- Road Rage
- Chevy Chase Reciting Edward Lear
- “Your Mom Goes to College”
- Lobsters, but Fighting
- Gilbert Gottfried Reciting The Faerie Queene
- “Just You…And I…Just You…And I…”
- The Unrestrained Moans of Passion from the Majestic Wombat in Rut
- All the Burps from Arlo: The Burping Pig
- All the Burps from Arlo Guthrie Over His Entire Life
- “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree” On A Day Other Than Thanksgiving
- This List, Recited in Swahili
- Little Jimmy Scott
- The National Anthem of the USSR
- “MacArthur Park” (the original, performed by Richard Harris)
- Cardinal Richelieu as Petula Clark
- A Medley from Die Dreigroschenoper
- Mark Gormley’s “Without You”
- A Headline Act from Branson
- Wing’s cover of “Dancing Queen”
In honor of the anniversary of his death, I reproduce for you here G.K. Chesterton’s marvelous essay, “Cheese.” I have taken the text from G.K. Chesterton Daily.
MY forthcoming work in five volumes, “The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature,” is a work of such unprecedented and laborious detail that it is doubtful if I shall live to finish it. Some overflowings from such a fountain of information may therefore be permitted to sprinkle these pages. I cannot yet wholly explain the neglect to which I refer. Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I remember right, refers to it several times, but with too much Roman restraint. He does not let himself go on cheese. The only other poet I can think of just now who seems to have had some sensibility on the point was the nameless author of the nursery rhyme which says: “If all the trees were bread and cheese” — which is, indeed a rich and gigantic vision of the higher gluttony. If all the trees were bread and cheese there would be considerable deforestation in any part of England where I was living. Wild and wide woodlands would reel and fade before me as rapidly as they ran after Orpheus. Except Virgil and this anonymous rhymer, I can recall no verse about cheese. Yet it has every quality which we require in exalted poetry. It is a short, strong word; it rhymes to “breeze” and “seas” (an essential point); that it is emphatic in sound is admitted even by the civilisation of the modern cities. For their citizens, with no apparent intention except emphasis, will often say, “Cheese it!” or even “Quite the cheese.” The substance itself is imaginative. It is ancient — sometimes in the individual case, always in the type and custom. It is simple, being directly derived from milk, which is one of the ancestral drinks, not lightly to be corrupted with soda-water. You know, I hope (though I myself have only just thought of it), that the four rivers of Eden were milk, water, wine, and ale. Aerated waters only appeared after the Fall.
But cheese has another quality, which is also the very soul of song. Once in endeavouring to lecture in several places at once, I made an eccentric journey across England, a journey of so irregular and even illogical shape that it necessitated my having lunch on four successive days in four roadside inns in four different counties. In each inn they had nothing but bread and cheese; nor can I imagine why a man should want more than bread and cheese, if he can get enough of it. In each inn the cheese was good; and in each inn it was different. There was a noble Wensleydale cheese in Yorkshire, a Cheshire cheese in Cheshire, and so on. Now, it is just here that true poetic civilisation differs from that paltry and mechanical civilisation which holds us all in bondage. Bad customs are universal and rigid, like modern militarism. Good customs are universal and varied, like native chivalry and self-defence. Both the good and bad civilisation cover us as with a canopy, and protect us from all that is outside. But a good civilisation spreads over us freely like a tree, varying and yielding because it is alive. A bad civilisation stands up and sticks out above us like an umbrella — artificial, mathematical in shape; not merely universal, but uniform. So it is with the contrast between the substances that vary and the substances that are the same wherever they penetrate. By a wise doom of heaven men were commanded to eat cheese, but not the same cheese. Being really universal it varies from valley to valley. But if, let us say, we compare cheese with soap (that vastly inferior substance), we shall see that soap tends more and more to be merely Smith’s Soap or Brown’s Soap, sent automatically all over the world. If the Red Indians have soap it is Smith’s Soap. If the Grand Lama has soap it is Brown’s soap. There is nothing subtly and strangely Buddhist, nothing tenderly Tibetan, about his soap. I fancy the Grand Lama does not eat cheese (he is not worthy), but if he does it is probably a local cheese, having some real relation to his life and outlook. Safety matches, tinned foods, patent medicines are sent all over the world; but they are not produced all over the world. Therefore there is in them a mere dead identity, never that soft play of slight variation which exists in things produced everywhere out of the soil, in the milk of the kine, or the fruits of the orchard. You can get a whisky and soda at every outpost of the Empire: that is why so many Empire-builders go mad. But you are not tasting or touching any environment, as in the cider of Devonshire or the grapes of the Rhine. You are not approaching Nature in one of her myriad tints of mood, as in the holy act of eating cheese.
When I had done my pilgrimage in the four wayside public-houses I reached one of the great northern cities, and there I proceeded, with great rapidity and complete inconsistency, to a large and elaborate restaurant, where I knew I could get many other things besides bread and cheese. I could get that also, however; or at least I expected to get it; but I was sharply reminded that I had entered Babylon, and left England behind. The waiter brought me cheese, indeed, but cheese cut up into contemptibly small pieces; and it is the awful fact that, instead of Christian bread, he brought me biscuits. Biscuits — to one who had eaten the cheese of four great countrysides! Biscuits — to one who had proved anew for himself the sanctity of the ancient wedding between cheese and bread! I addressed the waiter in warm and moving terms. I asked him who he was that he should put asunder those whom Humanity had joined. I asked him if he did not feel, as an artist, that a solid but yielding substance like cheese went naturally with a solid, yielding substance like bread; to eat it off biscuits is like eating it off slates. I asked him if, when he said his prayers, he was so supercilious as to pray for his daily biscuits. He gave me generally to understand that he was only obeying a custom of Modern Society. I have therefore resolved to raise my voice, not against the waiter, but against Modern Society, for this huge and unparalleled modern wrong.
This won’t come as a surprise to those of you who know me personally, but in the interest of honesty, archiving, and my own historical interests, I thought I’d post here that I have decided to attend the University of Oxford next year in pursuit of an M.Phil. in Theology, with a concentration in Ecclesiastical History. I will be living at St. Stephen’s House.
I’m very happy to be at St. Stephen’s. It is the Anglo-Catholic seminary in Oxford. I am guaranteed to be around people who are seeking ordination in the Church of England. And very high Anglo-Catholics at that. I’m really looking forward to morning and evening prayer every day. While it may not be the prayer of the whole Church in the Divine Office, the Book of Common Prayer is nevertheless a fine, beautiful way to pray and meditate on Scripture in community. I also think that the liturgical rhythms of life at “Staggers,” as it’s called, will be salutary on the whole. It’s even motivated me to try to memorize a few of the old collects, as Peter Hitchens demonstrates in this debate.
While I realize it has changed a great deal over time, the history of St. Stephen’s House is one of the reasons I’m happy to be here. It may not be one of the well-known colleges (it doesn’t even seem to have very much merchandising in the way of scarves, ties, pins, cufflinks, etc., like all the other ones). But Staggers did play its part in the history of Anglo-Catholicism. Founded by Bishop Edward King of Lincoln in 1876, the house soon became a major center of Anglo-Catholicism. It started to produce Tractarian priests by the dozens, and eventually gained a reputation as a factory of bishops and deans of cathedrals. This prolific connection to the Church of England’s highest chambers has continued into its more recent years.
Its relationship with Oxford, on the other hand, has varied. It only attained Permanent Private Hall status in 2003. In moving to that arrangement, it joined other historically religious foundations at Oxford: Blackfriars for the Dominicans, St. Benet’s for the Benedictines of Ampleforth, Wycliffe Hall for Evangelicals, Campion Hall for the Jesuits, and Regent’s Park (nominally) for the Baptists. It was at that time that the House broadened its emphasis to include those who were not seeking ordination in the C of E.
Moreover, Staggers has moved around Oxford. It started as a small community near the heart of town, and only much later moved to its present location across the Cherwell. To wit:
For the House’s first years, it was situated near the centre of Oxford, where the New Bodleian Library now stands. From 1919, the House had a site in Norham Gardens, near to the University Parks. In 1980 it moved to the current site…(St. Stephen’s House Blog).
The accommodations that the House took up were built by the Society of St. John the Evangelist, named alongside the parish church they ran (although it is now largely a concert venue, the House clergy still conduct liturgies there each week). The Society priests were also known as the Cowley Fathers. T.S. Eliot conducted at least one retreat there, although he was generally closer to the Benedictines at Nashdom and the Society of the Sacred Mission at Kelham (see Spurr’s biography, Anglo-Catholic in Religion).
Although its ethos remains largely Anglican, the House has offered a few important alumni to the Church of Rome. Balthasar scholar and theologian Father John Saward graduated there, as did the one-time Bishop of Ebbsfleet and current priest of the English Ordinariate, Monsignor Andrew Burnham. Indeed, they’ve even produced the Primate of the Western Diocese of the Armenian Church of North America, Hovnan Derderian. He is the youngest Armenian archbishop.
Staggers also gave the Church of England Fr. Kenneth Leach, an important Christian Socialist priest. He was trained at St. Stephen’s when it had become a rather homoerotic place, and Leach would famously sum up his time there as “gin, lace, and backbiting.” The writer and Staggers alum A.N. Wilson composed a bitingly comedic satire of the House in those years, entitled Unguarded Hours—which, as Ignatius Press’s reviewer puts it, is decidedly “not a Catholic novel.” Alas. Wilson, who would eventually return to Christianity after years of very public atheism, would later recall the custom formerly in vogue at Staggers of taking “religious names” that were actually rather saucy nicknames, often of the opposite sex. If Father Couratin was “Noël Coward in a clerical collar,” it seems that by the 1970’s, you were more likely to find Julian and Sandy in soutanes.
I seriously doubt that any of that persists. Women’s ordination in the C of E means that, while many Anglo-Catholics have become more liberal, their seminaries no longer smack of the kinds of homoerotic associations that fueled so many stereotypes (see Cousin Jasper’s famous quip in Brideshead Revisited). Staggers seems to remain as a pillar of sensible, ornate, properly Anglo-Catholic liturgy at its best.
Of course, I could also emphasize the importance of Oxford in general as a center of Catholicism—Roman and otherwise. Here, the Subtle Doctor “fired France for Mary without spot.” Here, Cardinal Wolsey established a college named for his office and, later, all of Christ’s Body on earth. Here, Archbishop Laud attempted to bring back devotion to Our Lady through a little portico on her church in town. Here, Charles I took refuge while his queen heard the Mass of Ages in Merton Chapel. Here, Keble railed against a “National Apostasy.” Here, Newman battled the liberals, and in doing so, broke ground for the Second Spring. Here, Gerard Manley Hopkins served briefly as curate. Here, Oscar Wilde flirted with men and the Church for the first time. Here, Monsignor Ronald Knox cut his clerical teeth as the chaplain of Trinity College. Here, Montague Summers was first haunted by the Vampyre’s shadow. Here, Tolkien and Lewis and Williams and their friends spoke about God long into the stout-softened night. Here, T.S. Eliot studied briefly before going on to greatness in London. Here, Evelyn Waugh thought up a story about two men and a teddy bear. Here, Father Martin D’Arcy pondered the ways of divine and human love. Here, the Oratory finally arrived in 1990 to fulfill Newman’s dream. Here, the late Stratford Caldecott wrote of God’s undying beauty in all things.
I could name more ways in which Oxford has played a special role in the life of the Catholic Church. Perhaps I will do so in another post, or a series of posts. For now, I’m just happy to say that I’ll be in a place with a lot of Catholic history, learning about that history. And thank God for that.
Recently, a minor storm of controversy has erupted over an unusual proceeding at Worcester Cathedral. For those of us blissfully unaware of the agrarian culture of the British Isles, the local Asparagus Festival celebrating the fine crop of the Vale of Evesham just opened to considerable acclaim. While there are, admittedly, a few suspect elements of the Festival, it does seem to be rather harmless on the whole. The kind of thing that would make a nice weekend in the country.
The rustic peace of the celebration was soon shattered. As The Telegraph reports, organizers of the Festival asked the Dean of the Cathedral if they might have a blessing of the asparagus to kick off the harvest season. And so, at evensong on Sunday, the 23rd of April, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Seventeen, a block of the stuff was carried in a procession up the chancel alongside two costumèd festival mascots, St. George and Gus the Asparagus Man. While it was indeed St. George’s Day, we can only imagine that this is the first liturgical appearance of the humanoid Asparagacea. As we read in The Telegraph:
Angela Tidmarsh, co-founder of the festival and tourism officer for Wychavon, said the cathedral’s management had been “really enthusiastic” about the idea. “We had the asparagus blessed by the vicar of Bretforton and then we took it to the cathedral, so it’s twice-blessed asparagus,” she said.
This really did happen in real life.
The reactions have been fairly predictable. Archbishop Cranmer has led the chorus of detractors, writing in an extremely English timbre,
Would the Church of England permit a man dressed up as a baked bean to process behind a Heinz tin of the things, and sanctify the mummery with a facade of thanksgiving? And why only adoration of asparagus? Where’s the sprout liturgy, or equality for mushrooms? Would the Dean really permit a walking fungus to participate in an act of divine worship?
In a note of (understandable) exasperation, he writes, “This is church, for God’s sake. Really, for His sake, can the Church of England not offer something clean and undefiled in the worship of God?”
While I would not normally wish to disagree with His Grace on issues of the liturgy (except, of course, when it comes to the validity of Anglican Orders), I must dissent from his wholesale condemnation of the procession. Yes, the costumes were silly in the extreme. Both St. George and Gus the Asparagus Man should have been excluded from any kind of religious ritual within the Cathedral. Insofar as His Grace and others assail the ceremony on those grounds, I agree.
Nevertheless, on principle, I think the blessing of the asparagus—nay, even its double blessing!—is a good thing. Along with Rod Dreher, I say, “Still, I am in my heart of hearts an Asparagus-Blesser; here I stand, I can do nothing other.”
There is good Biblical precedent for precisely this kind of rite. In the twenty sixth chapter of the Book of Deuteronomy, we read,
And when thou art come into the land which the Lord thy God will give thee to possess, and hast conquered it, and dwellest in it: Thou shalt take the first of all thy fruits, and put them in a basket, and shalt go to the place which the Lord thy God shall choose, that his name may be invocated there: And thou shalt go to the priest that shall be in those days, and say to him: I profess this day before the Lord thy God, that I am come into the land, for which he swore to our fathers, that he would give it us. And the priest taking the basket at thy hand, shall set it before the altar of the Lord thy God…And therefore now I offer the firstfruits of the land which the Lord hath given me. And thou shalt leave them in the sight of the Lord thy God, adoring the Lord thy God.
As a matter of Biblical principle, the good people of the Vale of Evesham ought to be allowed to bring their own first fruits to the Cathedral, the seat of their bishop, and receive the Lord’s blessing. Moreover, similar practices are not unknown in the Church Universal. Byzantine Catholics and Eastern Orthodox bring forth their first-fruits on Transfiguration Day to be blessed. Indeed, Orthodox priests have been caught blessing all manner of strange articles. And within Anglicanism, the Book of Common Prayer (1928) allows for the following pious sentence to be recited at the beginning of Morning Prayer on occasions of thanksgiving:
Honour the LORD with thy substance, and with the first-fruits of all thine increase: so shall thy barns be filled with plenty, and thy presses shall burst out with new wine. Prov. iii. 9,10.
It is unclear whether the same can be said of the Ordinariate, which inherited so much of the 1928 Prayer Book’s “patrimony.” Within the Roman Ritual, we find all kinds of blessings – including some for herbs and seeds, though these are tied to specific, Marian days in the Church kalendar. One could write an intriguing sophiological meditation on this liturgical feature – but I digress. I will merely say that, all in all, it makes perfect theological sense to offer the crop to God. The cosmic character of the liturgy, the way it gathers in all the world in the offertory, was an insight suggested by the C of E’s own Dom Gregory Dix and brought to fruition in the work of theologians like, inter alia, Alexander Schmemann, Joseph Ratzinger, and William T. Cavanaugh, though of course it is a much older idea. While this procession did not occur at the offertory of a Mass, its placement during evensong suggests the deeper implications of the Eucharistic liturgy.
There are, as I can tell, only a few concerns worth considering here:
1) Those ridiculous costumed figures in the procession – or even in the Cathedral to begin with. I wouldn’t want either at a liturgical function.
2) The blessing wasn’t tied to any liturgical date, such as the blessing of Roses on the Feast of St. Rita or the blessing of animals on the Feast of St. Anthony the Abbot.
3) It’s not clear that the blessing should have taken place at Choral Evensong, within the nave of the Cathedral, during a procession. Most of the similar traditions don’t seem to involve that kind of performative element within the temple.
Point 1 stands. The photo above speaks for itself.
However, I do think Points 2 and 3 can be open to discretion. Priests bless things all the time when they are asked, and while there are some regulations governing that act (such as those surrounding the imposition of the Brown Scapular), most priests bless freely and willingly. Nor am I convinced it’s a problem that the good folk of Worcestershire wanted to incorporate the Church into their festival. Indeed, they went so far as to have their prize vegetable blessed twice! After all, ought not the Church stand as an institution blessing the communal life of the people, correcting their morals, teaching them the Way of Life, and communicating sanctifying grace to them in the sacraments? While it is certainly an open question as to whether the Church of England does this effectively (or even has the power to do so), the principle remains one that the English have always cherished in their own, peculiar way. There is an earthiness to English communal spirituality. One cannot imagine the same scene happening in Ireland or France or even Spain (though possibly in Italy, as English Christianity since the 19th century has approximated Italian spirituality in various unexpected ways; as Dreher notes, the Church of Siena blesses the horses before the Palio, and within the temple!). I confess, my immediate reaction to the blessing of the asparagus was laughter. The whole thing struck me as, well, so very Chestertonian. G.K. even devoted a 1914 essay to the plant.
Of course, I ought to come clean about one of my own biases. Asparagus is my favorite vegetable. Steamed, grilled, or baked, I find it a surpassing delight. I suppose that the Good Lord, who so lovingly and approvingly gave it to us on the third day of creation, agrees with me. Whether He shares my amusement at the procession of the blessed asparagus is another matter, and one I don’t presume to find out any time soon.