Tuesday, June 07, 2016

(3) In the Welsh Kingdoms


At Pennant Melangel

Wales proved to be the most surprising region of my travels through the U.K.  I had not attempted any systematic study of the Welsh until recent months.  I had some vague notions of a coal mines and poverty, largely from a few films half remembered.  And maybe there is that, but I didn't see it, spending the better part of 4 days crisscrossing the region.  True, there is a lot of industrialization in the far south of Wales, but no more so than you would expect from coastal areas along major shipping routes.  In terms of natural beauty, Wales takes second place to none on the island.  Without gushing about it, the Welsh countryside--south, north and central--is simply stunning.  And, the roads are wider and traffic a bit calmer, which means that you can actually savor the beauty, maybe even pull off the side of the road and walk about--imagine that!  I include the Welsh borderlands--Shropshire and Herefordshire--in this general commendation, as well.


St. Cadog
I realize that I sometimes draw sweeping generalizations from limited observations.  That said, I would have to say that yes, the Welsh are different from the English.  From what I saw, I would say that they are maybe more boisterous, a bit louder, and more direct--none of this English standing on ceremony.  Of all the places I visited in the U.K., Wales is the one region that I would definitely contemplate a return visit.

As in Wessex and Cornwall, my itinerary in Wales had to be trimmed due to rain, my miscalculation of realistic traveling times in the U.K, and my own absent-mindedness (on my first day in Wales, I had to first double back and retrieve the luggage I left behind in Cornwall--adding 140 miles to that day's travels.) The main casualties were the elimination of the Church of St. Tewdric (Arthur's grandfather), the Cathedral at Cardiff, and most importantly, my trek to the spot where King Arthur may be buried (not in Glastonbury).  Theories about King Arthur are something of a cottage industry in the U.K.  The places that play it up the most (Glastonbury and Tintangel) are probably the sites with the least connection to the actual historical figure.  For despite the stories and medieval myth-making that came later, there is at the heart of it, a real man, Athrwys.  Like I say, there are plenty of theories to pick from, but the one that I believe has the most historical legs to it is this one.  I had actually built my entire Welsh itinerary around visiting Mynydd-y-Gaer.  But due to running hours late, by the time I finally reached the site, it late in the day, steadily raining, and I realized that I would not be able to drive as close to the site as I had anticipated.  I was still a ways from my inn for the night, so I took a deep breath and chalked it up as something that was not meant to be.
At St. Cadog's Church

The fascinating thing about Athrwys is that he is right in the mix of the early Welsh saints and missionaries to Cornwall and Brittany.  I have it all charted out (but that is at home), but I do remember that he was a close kinsman of King Brychan, and of course, all of King Brychan's children.  There are stories of Athrwys visiting his kinsman, Nectan, at St. Nectan's Glen in Cornwall.  He is a kinsman of St. Cadog (of more later), and of St. Govan (Gawain).  So, the pursuit of Arthur (Athrwys) was really not at all removed from the main scope of my inquiries--the early Welsh saints.  
At. St. Cadog's Church

The highlight of my time in southern Wales (in the Vale of Glamorgan), was the Church of St. Cadog (or Cadoc) in the village of Llancarfan.  The present church dates to about 1200, but was built on a monastic foundation laid by St. Cadog, grandson of King Brychan, in the sixth century.  Llancarfan is as pretty a village as can be found on the island.  The church, unlike many, shows signs of active parish life, and interestingly enough, seemed to be of an extremely "high" nature.  If not known as being part of the Anglican communion, it showed every sign of being a Catholic church, with holy water outside the door, a sign saying that the Blessed Sacrament was reserved here, and a statue of the Virgin Mary, so placed for devotion.  
At St. Cadog's Church

The unique thing about this church, however, was the discovery several years ago of some incredible "wall paintings" underneath the limewashed walls.  The British are very careful, for some reason, not to call it "iconography."  Now admittedly, it is not of the same quality, or as stylized as Orthodox iconography, but at the end of the day, that is what it is.  As the church literature itself maintains, "encouraged by waves of Protestant reforms, the Puritan in us whitewashed away the decorative narratives of culture and belief."  The impression of English churches, even if you like the soaring Gothic nature of many of them, is that they are, well, austere and stark.  Llancarfan (and other churches) show that it was not always thus.  The old English church was colorful, with walls covered in iconography.  Candles would have been lit everywhere, with shrines to various saints filling in the sides of the churches.  With the Reformation of the 1530s, and the Puritanism of the 1640s, the walls were whitewashed, the shrines busted-up, and the devotion to the saints prohibited.  So, what we think as a typically English style of worship is a relatively new thing, not 500 years old--and the way things are going, it may not reach 500 years.
Pembrokeshire coast, above St. Govan's

At St. Brychan's Church, Nevern
I next visited the Church of St. Illtud in Llantwit Major.  This is one of the site of the oldest center of learning in the British isles.  St. Illtud was a disciple of St. Cadog who founded the first monastic school in Britain.  The church is one of the longest in the U.K., built in phases from about 1100 to 1300.  But I did not come to see the building, but rather their display of early Celtic stone crosses and pillars--primarily the "Samson Stone" of St. Samson.
Shrine of St. Melangel

I stayed one night on the Pembrokeshire coast--this to be close to St. Govan's.  This saint (also known as Gawain in the Arthurian legends) was a member of King Brychan's extensive connections, and retired here as a hermit.  His hermitage is wedged between the rocks, underneath the cliffs in Pembroke.  It's a lonely site, but I suppose that's what being a hermit is all about.  I skipped St. David's Cathedral, knowing it would press me for time as I was venturing into central and northern Wales.  But before I left southern Wales, I did stop at Nevern, the see the ancient stones in the churchyard there.  One dates to the 6th-century, and the Celtic cross stone to the 9th-century.
St. Melangel's grave

My stop in central Wales was the Church at Pennant Melangel, hidden at the end of the prettiest valley in the U.K.  There are Orthodox churches in the U.K, and there's a monastery or two on the island.  But outside of these sites, I would say the most Orthodox place on the island is this remote church--a true place of pilgrimage.  The pieces of the shrine to St. Melangel--smashed in the Reformation--has been carefully reconstructed.  The grave of St. Melangel has been discovered in what was once the altar of the church.  The church has a number of icons, and it is clear that they know what to do with them.  They are obviously placed where they can be venerated.  There is some interest in the U.K. these days in things "spiritual."  So, you have those who go on pilgrimage, but are not exactly sure why, as evidenced by the leaving of feathers and other odd items on St. Melangel's grave.  The void is real and the yearning is real.  My prayer is that this may grow into something real.  I would recommend this as a pilgrimage site to any Orthodox Christian.
St. Melangel

I visited two of the three holy wells I had intended to see in northern Wales.  My favorite was the well of St. Dyfnog, in St. Dyfnog's Church in Llanrhaeadr.  The 13th-century church is noted for its "Jesse Window," a stained glass depicting the ancestry of Jesus.  Amazingly enough, even this was too much for the Calvinists.  During the English Civil War, the window was dismantled and hidden-away, only to be dug-up and re-installed in 1823, I believe.  The interior of the church also contains a carved golden pelican. The religious symbolism is that a pelican will pick at it's own breast to bleed and feed its young.  The porch once contained a carved image of St. Dyfnog, but of course, this was hacked out as well.  All this behavior puts me in mind of the countless churches or former churches visited in the Balkans, Turkey and Georgia where the Turks would deface the images.  Both Puritan and Turk wore the same ideological and fundamentalist blinders.  But the inside of the church did not interest me much.  I'm not overly impressed with stained glass, and the rest of the church was as stark as most.  What I wanted to see was at the end of a trail that snaked through the churchyard and up a wooded ravine.  Several hundred feet beyond was the Holy Well, the spring of St. Dyfnog.  Here he established a hermitage, and it became a pilgrimage site from the very earliest days.  I said my prayers here, not in the church.
St. Dyfnog's Holy Well
The well of St. Winifride was my last stop.  This is the most famous holy well in Wales--if not the entire U.K.  For a variety of reasons, it was my least favorite.  It has always been a site of Catholic pilgrimage, even during the darkest days of England's anti-Catholicism.  Elizabeth I wanted to appoint a commission to investigate the purported healing properties of the well.   The pilgrims kept coming anyway.  In 1687, King James II and his wife, Mary of Modena, made a pilgrimage to St. Winifride's.  She had given birth to and buried 10 children, the last 3 years earlier.  She bathed in the well and they prayed for a son.  The next year, for better or for worse, she gave birth to the James, "the Old Pretender."  The site is maintained by the Catholic Church.  They do a good job of presenting the hagiography of St. Winefride, and clear-up some of the latter accretions to her story (such as the fact that her brother avenged her death by killing her assailant, which is more believable that the earth swallowing him up.)  You have to go through their gift shop, however, full of treacly, sentimental sweet Catholic kitsch.  In all fairness, I would make the same statement about the Orthodox gift shop I recently visited at Curtea de Arges, Romania.  There was nothing in there about St. Winifride, specifically.  The slick, generic marketing of the site was just a little off-putting is all I am saying.

My visit to Wales would not be complete without telling of my flat tire in Llannefydd.  Frankly, I had met too much oncoming traffic on country lanes just barely wide enough for one vehicle, with my response being to hug the edge of the hedge on the left.  After a while, that took a toll on my left front tire.  I limped into the church parking lot at Llannefydd, where I was to stay that night.  I have changed many a tire in my day, and so I got out the spare and jack and equipment and commenced the process.  After I had jacked-up the car, I noticed that my lug wrench did not fit the lug nuts on the tire.  I was frustrated beyond measure.  I walked down to the Hawk and Buckle where I was to stay that night.  There was good crowd in the pub.  I talked to the young girl working the bar (the owner's daughter) and asked to borrow a lug wrench, in the hope that it would fit.  With the borrowed lug wrench in hand, I trudged back to the site of my misfortune.  As it turns out, that lug wrench was the wrong size, as well.  About that time, two small cars swerved into the parking lot, and six of the lads from the pub noisily piled out, speaking in Welsh, no less.  They were all over my situation.  One squatted down next to me and I showed him my problem.  He reached into the tire-changing paraphanalia and pulled out a tweezer-looking thing.  He then reached in and pulled off a little plastic cover over every nut--after which removed, would render my lug wrench exactly the right size!  He was going to go ahead and change the tire from there, but I wouldn't let him.  No doubt they had a good laugh later on over my ineptitude.  I offered to buy a round of drinks at the Hawk and Buckle, but they had to get on.  Just as suddenly and noisily, they sped off out of the village.  I could live with people like that. 


St. Winifride's Well




Wednesday, June 01, 2016

(2) In Cornwall


St. Piran of Cornwall
St. Piran's Cross
Cornwall (the old kingdom of Dumnonia) was a particular destination on this journey.  I had never been further than Devon, and had heard good things about the region. I enjoyed my stay there, but it was not exactly what I intended.  A look at the map clearly shows that Cornwall is not on the way to anywhere.  There is basically one or two ways in, and the same routes out.  And so, the problems encountered in old Wessex hold doubly true of Cornwall.  The traffic is just as intense, and if anything, the roads are even narrower.  That, coupled with the cold, wet weather, eliminated several of my "must-sees" in the region.  That said, Cornwall is every bit as picturesque as any other region in England.  
The Tristan Stone in Foway, Cornwall

The Welsh loom large in the Christian hagiography of Cornwall.  Both Cornish and Welshmen were Celtic peoples, somewhat holed-up in the west of the island by those worrisome Angles, Saxons, and Jutes.  It was mainly Welsh missionaries (though some from Ireland, as well) who finally, completely Christianized Dumnonia.  Many of these were children of the near mythic King Brychan of Wales.  He was the first cousin of the man most likely to be King Arthur (but more on that in a later post).  Brychan had a great number of children who became missionaries.  The varying numbers sometimes defy credulity, and it seems it became popular to ascribe saints as children of Brychan.  But no matter, I believe the basic story line holds (and why should we not trust it?)  And so, any number of sites are associated with his progeny:  St. Kew, St. Clether, St. Cleer, St. Nectans, Morwenstow, St. Keyne, to name just a few.

The particular expression of Christianity in this extremity of Britain expressed itself in a profusion of stone crosses (usually round in the Cornish style) and holy wells.  Cornwall also has the greatest number of villages and towns starting with "Saint".  No one denies that some of these crosses and wells pre-dated the Christian era.  Pagan, even neolithic menhirs were converted into stone crosses ("Old Tom") below, being an excellent example.  Sometimes the stones marked graves, other times they marked events, and still others designated boundaries.  The wells, whether they existed prior to the arrival of the saint, or sprung forth miraculously, were always associated in a particular way with an individual saint, and each had their own healing properties.
Old Tom

A recent poll confirms that the decades-long slow decline of professed Christianity in England has turned into a precipitous drop.  Cornwall appears to be no exception to the overall figures.  From my admittedly superficial understanding of the particulars here, I believe that the region went strongly in the Nonconformist direction after the revolutions of the 1540s and the 1640s.  Methodist chapels became the preference, if there was one at all.  So, at least some of the old churches look a bit down at the heals these days.  And the Protestant chapels that once were are thin on the ground these days.  I used to say (and did in fact say in the prospectus for this series) that England was full of churches.  It is not, really.  Yes, every village and town will have the old church, and maybe, just maybe, a chapel.  But that is it.  The old village church is probably just hanging-on, with maintenance and upkeep being the overarching concern of its increasingly elderly parishioners.  Pleas to the visiting tourists become ever more strident.  A similarly-sized town in the U.S. would have any number of competing Protestant sects (not that that is necessarily a good thing), and perhaps even a Catholic church.  England is, for better or worse, stuck with their drafty and stark old Gothic churches, and fewer and fewer seem committed to staying that course.
What's left of Celtic Cross, St. Neot's Church

And so, my intention of finding some of those "thin places" in Cornwall did not meet with great success.  Hopefully, I will be proven more wrong than right.  One of my first stops was the 1,500 year old "Tristan Stone," which originally marked the grave of the hero of the epic "Tristan and Isolde."  The stone's inscription refers to "Trystan" and "Marcus Cunomorus" (King Mark).  The stone has been moved several times in its history, so poor lovelorn Tristan's actual burial place is lost to history.  The stone current sets close to the road (as does everything in England), next to a Texaco station.  a local builder has requested permission to develop the site, and in the process, move the stone once more.  This has some in the village a bit riled.  "Such desecration is the equivalent of Napoleon shooting at the Sphinx for target practice...it's an infringement of the cultural integrity of Cornway; it is cultural violence."  There might be a bit of hyperbole here, but I am in whole-hearted sympathy.  
Frs. Niketas and Raphael, St. Piran's Orthodox Church

Another similar stone is known as "Old Tom", marking the high point in the region.  This menhir is ancient, and the cross carved into it is hardly legible today.  Nearby, King Doniert's stone marks the burial place of the last king of Cornwall before being absorbed by Wessex (England.)  I visited the church of St. Neot, who was strangely not a child of King Brychan.  According to his hagiography, Neot was a close kinsman of King Alfred the Great, who visited him at this site.  The 15th-century church contains a noted stain glass window depicting the life of St. Neot, but the building was locked-up tight when I arrived.  I admired a few old Cornish crosses int the graveyard, though.  With literally no place to park a car in the village, I gave up on trying to find St. Neot's well.  I did however, visit St. Cleer's well, right in the village of the same name.  
On the path to St. Nectan's Glen

I had made an appointment to meet Fr. Raphael and Fr. Nicetas of the Orthodox Church of the Archangel Michael and St. Piran.  The two priests opened the church for me and we were able to visit briefly.  We talked of our differing situations, but each of us in our own way in areas not particularly given to Orthodoxy.  They currently use what was once a tiny Methodist chapel, wedged between a barn and the very edge of the road.  They have land, and hope to build where they have more room.  They said they have little traction among the English.  Most of their parishioners are Greeks and Romanians and Ukrainians and Russians and other Orthodox scattered around this tip of England.  Our situation is just the opposite.  They asked for prayers for their church, and I intend to do that very thing.  
Church of St. Morwenna, Morwenstow

St. Piran is the patron saint of Cornwall, an early missionary from Ireland.  The site I wanted to visit most of all in Cornwall was St. Piran's Cross and the nearby ruins of St. Piran's Church.  The cross is thought to be the oldest in Cornwall.  Through the years, the church became buried under shifting sand dunes.  When the church was moved a bit further inland, it too suffered the same fate.  I had the spot pinpointed on the map, but the best access to the site was blocked by a caravan park.  I would have walked in from the road, had it not been raining pretty heavily.  And so, I had to cross this one off my list.  I did however, visit a much newer St. Piran's Church, as well as a St. Piran's Well.
At Morwenstow

I walked most of the way up to St. Nectan's Glen, where St. Nectan lived as a hermit where a waterfall fell into the glen.  He has a large church dedicated to him just outside of western Cornwall in Devon.  Due to time constraints, and the ever-present rain, I also eliminated St. Clether's Well in the village of St. Clether.  I really regret not being able to make the walk back to this well.   St. Keyne's well is located right next to the road, so I was able to visit the well, even in the rain.  All three--Nectan, Clether and Keyne--were children of King Brychan of Glamorgan.  St. Keyne's well has an interesting tradition:  For married couples, it is believed that the one who drinks from the well first will wear the pants in the family.  I could make a joke about this, but I've always done pretty much what I wanted to do, and everybody knows it.
Site of St. Morwenna's Well

My most moving experience in Cornwall was visiting Morwenstow, and the Church of St. Morwenna, along the northwest coast. Inside the church, they have recently uncovered some "wall paintings" (otherwise known as "iconography") under 300 years of whitewash. The female figure is thought to represent St. Morwenna.  But this tired old church, at the end of long trail masquerading as an actual road, was locked tight.  I walked on across a field to the bluff overlooking the Atlantic.  The wind was blowing pretty fierce and the waves were crashing--it seemed right out of one of those 1940s adaptations of a Daphne du Maurier novel.  I walked down the cliff a ways to the site of St. Morwenna's Well, now overgrown with gorse.  The fog was really rolling-in, so I started back, the church tower just barely visible in the mist.  Back in the churchyard, I noticed a strange monument.  I discovered it was a copy of the masthead of the ship "Caledonia," which busted-up and sank on the rocks below the bluff.  The reverend of the St. Morwenna's saw that the drowned sailors were taken up the bluff and given a Christian burial in his churchyard.  For many years, the actual masthead of the ship served as their monument, but in recent years it has been placed inside the church and this copy put in its place.  Morwenstow was probably the most atmospheric and moving place I visited in Cornwall.  I wouldn't mind going back one day.
Monument to drowned sailors, Morwenstow





Tuesday, May 24, 2016

(1) In Wessex

St. Edward the Martyr (notice the snake in the drinking horn)
The prospectus for this series of posts can be found here.  

If you are fortunate in your travels, then things will not go as planned.  But don't fret it, and by all means, continue to plot your course.  I certainly do.  Just don't expect things to fall into place that way.  The unexpected is usually more interesting, and if nothing else, a needed reminder that we are not in control of everything, or really much of anything at all.  In this case, driving on the left in the U.K. is not a problem; nor is the steering wheel being on the right.  And I actually like roundabouts.  What I had forgotten, or perhaps not experienced to this degree twenty years ago, is the sheer intensity of the traffic in the south and southwest of the U.K.  (Driving in Wales and the North, however, is much less stressful.)  Simply put, there are too many people driving too many cars on too narrow roadways.  

Rural England is as picturesque as you would imagine.  You really cannot savor the bucolic countryside, however, for you must watch for oncoming traffic, on a road only marginally wide enough for one vehicle, with another automobile right on your tail, and with no place to pull over for a view or a picture.  You just have to keep whizzing along.  And going through the middle of most every village drops your average time down to the 30 to 40 mph range.  Finally, it rains here.  A lot.  I arrived on Tuesday and first saw the sun on Sunday.  And so, I was forced to drastically prune my intensive itinerary from the very beginning.

As I outlined in the prospectus, my goal was to visit sites associated with the Britain--both Celtic and Saxon--that predated the Norman invasion of 1066.  For old Wessex, I believed my journey must start at the immense Brookwood Cemetery near Woking, on the western fringes of Greater London.  This will take a bit of explanation.  By the early 1850s, a booming London no longer had room to bury its dead.  Investors purchased a large acreage west of the city for the "London Necropolis." For that time, it was the largest cemetery in the world (and still the largest in the U. K.), complete with its own rail line into London.  Every day the train brought coffins and mourners from the city out to Brookwood.  The North Station serviced "Nonconformists" who were buried in the unconsecrated section, while the South Station serviced Anglicans.  For about 80 years, the train pulled out of Waterloo Station every day bound for Brookwood, which became the final earthly destination for paupers and for respectable Victorians alike.  By the 1920s, the cemetery was starting to fall out of favor, and the Nazi destruction of the railway in 1941 hastened its demise.  In time, the owners took bankruptcy.  

Under new ownership, Brookwood is still a going concern, but nothing like it was in its heyday.  The cemetery resembles a slightly overgrown open forest, dotted with thousands of monuments.  Today it caters to what can only be called niche markets.  There are sections for most every ethnic group.  For example, if you are Latvian Catholic, there is a section set aside for you.  A very colorful Ismaili section is to the left of the main entrance.  And on it goes.  My goal was the Orthodox Christian section of the cemetery, adjacent to what had been the South Station and Mortuary Chapel.  For it is here, in an odd twist of history, that one finds the relics of King Edward, a Saxon king of the 10th century. 

This monarch, more properly known as St. Edward the Martyr to Catholics and the Orthodox, was the oldest son of King Edgar the Peacemaker and his first wife Ethelflaeda, elected king by the Witan upon his father's death, despite being a youth of only thirteen.    England had been enjoying a period of relative strength following Alfred's consolidation of power under the House of Wessex.  Strong kings followed--Edward the Elder, Athelstan, Edgar--and now expectations rode high on the young king.  Edward was an upright and godly young man, well-regarded and on friendly terms with Bishop Dunstan and the monastic party.  While out hunting one day, he called on his step-mother Aelfthrith at Corfe Castle.  She met him at the gates, offering him a drink of wine, while giving the signal to one of her servants to stab him in the back.    Aelfthrith saw that her son Aethelred (as in the Unready) was elected king in Edward's place.  Aelfthrith had has body spirited away and buried without ceremony.

Edward suffered a cruel, unjust and untimely death, but he does not at first glance seem to be a likely saint.  Almost immediately, miracles were associated with him burial place.  The common people started referencing him as both Saint and Martyr.  Within two years, Bishop Dunstan had his remains removed to Shaftsbury Abbey, where his shrine soon became a popular pilgrimage site.  
Blessing the Irenes

Edward's martyrdom is a useful lesson in how quickly things can go horribly wrong for both people and peoples, for this one calculated act of treachery has rippled down through England's history. The half-brother, Aethelred the Unready, proved to be a particularly ineffectual ruler, at a particularly inauspicious time.  And this usurper in time took a Norman wife, who gave birth to their son, Edward "the Confessor."   The latter--the James Buchanan of Saxon kings--diddled away the kingdom, for all practical purposes passing it off to his Norman cousin.  In some ways, St. Edward the Martyr has become a symbol of all that what lost by the Norman conquest.

Almost 600 years later, the shrine of St. Edward was demolished with all the others during the English Deformation.  Shaftsbury Abbey, line all the others, was given to one of Henry's cronies.  In the 1930s, the owner of the property, himself an amateur archaeologist, discovered the relics of St. Edward, underneath the site of the ruined shrine.  He sought a permanent home for the bones and offered to give them to any church if they would meet three conditions:  1.  that they be recognize as relics, 2. that a shrine be established for them, and 3. that his feast day be observed.  He chose the Russian Orthodox Church in Exile, as they were the only church that agreed to all of the terms, as well as the fact that it was thought they would be most similar to the church Edward would have known.  The church received title to the old South Station and Mortuary Chapel at Brookwood.  The Victorian chapel became an Orthodox church and shrine to St. Edward.  The section adjoining became an Orthodox graveyard.  

And so, my project really began at the Shrine of St. Edward the Martyr, and the veneration of his relics there.  The monks have done a good job in adapting the Victorian era chapel into a warm and familiar Orthodox temple.  The interior is all stone and timber, making painted iconography difficult, even if there had been the money for it.  Instead, the interior is covered with hundreds of small icons, none larger than 8" by 10", many of them no doubt gifted to the monastery.  I arrived about midway through the Liturgy, and standing in the nave, with the countless icons all around me, I had a very real sense of being "surrounded by a cloud of witnesses."  It was the feast day of St. Irene and St. Ephrem the New of Nea Makri.  The shrine to St. Edward, containing the chest with his relics, is on the north side of the nave.   
St. Edward the Martyr Orthodox Church

The four monastics were as friendly as could be.  The priest had a typically dry English humor.  As it was the feast day of St. Irene, they invited me to follow them to "the tombs" (the graveyard) where a blessing would be chanted over those with that name.  It was raining, but no matter.  As it turned out, there were six Irinas to be blessed.  Glancing at the tombstones, I noticed that two of them were princesses.  I did not recognize one, but I did recognize the princely family of Galitzen, or Golitsyn or Galitzine for the other.    I asked the deacon about her, and it turns out she was granddaughter of the last tsarist prime minister of Russia, shot by the Soviets in 1925 at age 75.  She lived in humble circumstances in London.  I also noted another name--Trollope.  I inquired, and sure enough, he was the great-great grandson of the author.  The monks sell these Orthodox burial plots, which helps support their monastery.  They also dig the graves with a backhoe parked nearby.  I was invited inside for coffee and breakfast.  I really needed to push on, but did stay for the coffee.  Fr. Sabas and I talked of
Shrine of St. Edward the Martyr
many things--the Norman conquest, the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the English Civil War and the ensuing secularization of the nation, how we both thought Trollope a better write than Dickens, the Puritan influence on the American character, the American Revolution and the utter and complete travesty that was Mel Gibson's "The Patriot," etc. And while I know that many Orthodox make way too much of it, he did say that in his estimation, the English church before the Normans was the closest to Orthodoxy among Western Christendom.  Before I left, he loaded me down with icon cards, as well as an enormous book on Orthodox religious art through the centuries.  As many Orthodox readers already know, these monks have aligned themselves with what we would characterize as a schismatic group--as I'm sure they would also characterize us.  The subject never came up, and that is how it should be.


I had next planned to visit the Abbey Church of St. Mary and St. Aethelflaed at Romsey, the only one not demolished by Henry VIII.  The townspeople had already purchased it for their parish church.  Romsey is a 12th-century Normal structure, but the lower walls are Saxon, and it contains 2 remarkable stone crucifixion carvings from that earlier period.  One, a gift from King Edgar, is thought to exhibit Byzantine influences as well as seemingly incorporating elements of the Saxon Tree of Life (Yggdrasil).  The Abbey has interesting historical connections, as well.  The abbey was originally founded by King Edward the Elder for his daughter Aelflaed.  Later, King Edgar refounded it for his daughter Aethelflaed, the half-sister of King Edward the Martyr.  The siblings have a brother, Edmund, buried at Romsey.  But as it turned out, I was running behind schedule, it was raining, and I missed my exit.  So I had to pass on Romsey Abbey.  
10th-century Saxon at Romsey Abbey


I pushed on to Wareham in Dorset, where I visited the Church of St. Martin-on-the-Walls, dating from the year 1030.  The small church was easy to find--literally being on the old wall around the city.  From the outside, the church has changed little in almost 1,000 years.  It is not the main church in the city, but after being reconsecrated in the 1930s, occasional services are conducted there.  About the time I arrived, a volunteer arrived and unlocked the church so I could enter.  I hesitate to complain, for she did let me inside.  But she is typical of a certain type of English woman of a certain age--thin, unadorned, straight shoulder-length hair, and nervously chatty.  I know she was trying to be informative, and I do appreciate that, but it was more the tone that annoyed me.  I suppose I have spent too much time in Georgia.  In the Caucasus, there is reverence inside churches, even those not in regular use.  Such are holy places and one does not enter them casually.  I have seen ruins of Georgian churches, both in that country and in Turkey, where visitors have lit small candles in the jagged, ruined walls, for even in that condition, the places are holy.  My English volunteer was rattling on about it as casually as one would an old barn or blacksmith shop.  I know that you cannot extrapolate from one experience and draw conclusions about an entire society (although that has never stopped me before), but I do believe her attitude is broadly typical of the English today.  They are proud of these historical structures, but they are just that, and only that--structures.  

Church of St. Martin on-the-Wall, Wareham


Like most English churches after the Reformation, the inside is whitewashed and sterile.  Preservationists had, however, exposed what lay underneath on the north side of the apse.  A faded mosaic depicted scenes from the life of St. Martin.  Where the whitewash to be removed throughout, who knows what might be revealed.  I recognize it for what it was--iconography (though crudely done in comparison to Georgian, much less other Orthodox cultures).  The English seem more comfortable with the term "wall paintings."
"Wall Paintings," Church of St. Martin

The volunteer pointed out another mural, painted in the 1600s, I believe, depicting the coats of arms of a number of English monarchs.  Above them was the word, Yahweh, which to press the point that the churches authority was rooted in the God of the Old Testament, and not, as the volunteer explained with a wrinkle in her nose, of that awful Roman Catholicism.  This later painting interested me not much at all.

Finally, the church of St. Martin contains an effigy of T. E. Lawrence.  He has always been a great favorite of mine after reading The Seven Pillars of Wisdom many years ago.  The volunteer gave a rambling account of how the effigy came to be here--as Lawrence is actually buried in a country churchyard not far away.  By this time we had two other visitors, and I exited with the excuse of going to take some exterior pictures.  I had seen enough.
Effigy of T. E. Lawrence

From there, I continued on west into Devon, where I stopped at the Church of St. Candida (St. Wite) at Whitchurch Canonicorum.  This was not a Saxon church, but a later Norman structure. Its significance, however, is that it contains a complete shrine over the relics of St. Wite.  This church was a popular pilgrimage site for centuries.  During the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII, these shrines to the saints were busted-up and destroyed all over England.  What was left of this sort of thing was demolished a 100 years later under Oliver Cromwell's regime.  The scope of destruction is hard to imagine, and is generally glossed-over in the triumphalist view of English Reformation history.  But over 90% of England's art was destroyed in a fevered frenzy of iconoclasm.  As efficient as the Cromwells were, both Thomas and Oliver, they somehow missed the shrine to St. Wite.  And so it alone remains.  I have never understood those who feel compelled to destroy a thing of beauty, whether it is a work of art, a tree, a hillside, an old building.  I just don't.  The church was locked up, so I was not able to view the shrine.  The churchyard contained several interesting Saxon crosses, however, and I spied a small statue of St. Wite just under the roof line.
St. Wite


I left old Wessex, and entered Dumnonia (Cornwall).  A couple of days later, I entered Wessex again, where I hoped to visit the grave of Evelyn Waugh, and the monument to Alfred the Great at Athelney.  The latter is a monument to Alfred's time there during England's dire struggle against the Danes.  Evelyn Waugh is not necessarily a favorite author of mine.  He did, however, write Black Mischief, one of the funniest novels I have ever read.  And there is a line from his Sword of Honour trilogy that has always stayed with me.  If I remember correctly, the female character Virginia was calling upon Guy's uncle, Peregrine Crouchback.  His butler ushered her into the library to await the elder Crouchback with the admonition (to the best of my memory), "There is plenty in here to interest one.  That is, if one is interested in things."  I have remembered that line of dialogue, for even at that time, I realized that it somewhat encapsulated my view of life.   

I had to abandon both of these goals, however, when I left my luggage at an inn in north Cornwall.  The innkeeper called me when I was seventy miles down the road.  I doubled back, and the loss of close to three hours eliminated these stops.  In my initial foray into Wessex, however, I was able to do a drive-by on the Giant of Cerne Abbas.  This neolithic novelty at least proves that the English were not always reserved and unassuming.
The Cerne Abbas Giant

Thursday, May 12, 2016

A Time to Travel

I administer my last final today, and in five days time will be on a flight to places elsewhere. Being the son of my parents, I instinctively learned to hate pretense in all forms, and consequently try to be as low-key as possible about traveling, fully realizing that I am the fortunate beneficiary of particular circumstances in a particular period of time. That said, I have also consciously chosen this path and seen it through. My life is relatively uncluttered with much of the “stuff” of modernity--by and large just books in an old house, and a passport--no boat, no golf clubs, no guns, no hunting leases, no house full of electronic gadgetry, only one television, no ATV, and if I couldn’t make the point any clearer, I drive a Subaru. To be sure, I am painting with a broad judgmental brush here, but when I hear what others put out for those sorts of things, I smile inwardly when I compare it to the relatively small amount I spend on travel.

I also understand that there are some people who travel for leisure and relaxation. I simply do not understand this mentality. If you are tired, there is a bed at home with your name on it. No, travel should be something more substantial than indulging our hedonism. I travel to explore (literally to see what is over the next hill, whether it be in the next county or the next country); to learn; to feed my curiosity; to seek adventure; to watch and listen; to climb; to be silent; to get into binds and then figure your way out; and increasingly, to be in awe. And since 2003, my travels have largely taken on the nature of pilgrimages. This journey will be no different.

I plan to drive around rural England and Wales for about 11 days. After that, I will take the train across Europe to Romania, where I will do much the same thing for 9-10 days. I plan to stick to the out-of-the-way places, and studiously avoid anything that is suggestive of queues, tickets and tours. In England, of course, this means no cathedrals, castles or country houses, and probably anything managed by English Heritage. I’ll be traveling alone, which suits me just fine, and is probably for the best, as few people want to travel the way I do.

Other than to change planes at Heathrow, I have not been in the U.K. since 1996. Like many travelers before me, I caught “Eastern fever” and have not looked back. Since 2006, I have spent most of my overseas travel time poking around the Caucasus.

So, after all these years, why return to stolid old England? For starters, I sometimes feel like an unpaid, one-man tourist bureau for the Republic of Georgia. While this favored country of my heart entices me on many different levels, Georgia can also be very intense. Sensory overload is a real thing, and perhaps I just need a break. God willing, I’ll be back on track next year.

I take a long view of history, and of course this applies to church history as well. I plan to do a little compare-and-contrasting. The robust and visibly resurgent faith of the Georgian people resonates with me. They have their problems, to be sure, and the Georgian Orthodoxy is not without idiosyncrasies. But it is not romanticizing to acknowledge that the roots of Christianity run deep in their soil.  Even in the face of repeated invasions and subjugations, the faith has never departed that "broad and mellow land."  More unbiased observers might qualify this assertion somewhat, but I think the basic premise holds. The Orthodox Faith is alive and well on this eastern frontier of Christendom.

Were I to make a similar statement about the opposite historic frontier of Christendom—the British Isles--it would be met with widespread and much-deserved incredulity. There is no country on earth more choc-a-bloc with churches than Britain, yet they are often merely historical artifacts of a past with diminishing contemporary relevance. Often lovingly maintained and curated, many of these edifices are no longer the touchstones and beating heart of a living faith. At best, Christianity seems to be a faint whisper in the land. Clearly, I speak in broad terms, and individual situations may run counter to the overall trend.

The countless studies documenting the collapse of Christian belief in the U.K. all paint a bleak picture. Even nominal Christians are in the minority. The fact that the percentages are as high as they are is the result of African and Eastern European immigration. Native-born British who self-identify as Christians are a fast-diminishing demographic. In view of modern British history, one could posit that peace, prosperity and power are not necessarily the building blocks of a faith that will last the ages. I say this non-judgmentally, for American are fast on their heels. Our own de-Christianization--to the extent that we ever were such, in any meaningful sense, for it was always more proclaimed than practiced--is a fascinating spectacle to behold. In short, I want to spend some time in a post-Christian country where this is already the established order, if perchance to catch a glimpse of our own future.

And yet it was not always thus. As is often the case, I take a contrarian view of British history. The Whig View of History doesn’t hold much water with me. Working backwards in time, I think the Glorious Revolution was anything but. I find that the iconoclastic destruction unleashed by the English Civil War was as severe and unthinking as that of the French Revolution, or today’s Islamic fanaticism. The English Reformation under Henry the Horrible and Black Bess ripped the heart out of a traditional way of life—and according to one historian, "dug a deep ditch between England and her past."  The edifice they created in its wake--a bit of this and that--made for a great show, but has proven itself particularly ill-equipped to stand the test of time. Finally, in terms of cataclysmic consequences, I rate the tragedy of 1066 right up there with 1204 and 1453. Clearly, I take my historical cues from the likes of Eamon Duffy, Christopher Dawson, and J. R. R. Tolkien.

My view of the Normans is probably too colored by repeated viewings of The Lion in Winter. I take a dim view of the cursed Plantagenets and the Norman Conquest which spawned them. And it was just that—a conquering and a subjugation. Some important things were lost along the way, I think. One need not romanticize either the Celtic Britons or the Anglo-Saxons. The island before 1066--Wessex and Mercia and Wales (Gwynedd and Powys and Dyfed and Gwent) and Dumnonia and Kent and East Anglia and Northumbria (Deira and Bernica)--could be a brutal and treacherous place. And yet in its own way, it was a grand and glorious land, giving birth to a remarkably rich civilization emerging from the synthesis of native and invader. Even their treachery contained an element of nobility and honor, something the continental Normans could never quite pull off.

The history of “Dark Age” Britain--what I will call Old England--is well worth remembering. In a nutshell, my take on it runs something like this: The Britons of old--a Celtic culture encompassing Britain, Ireland and Brittany--survived the withdrawal of the Romans. The Christian faith hung on as well, in a form that was uniquely its own. The fall of the old order, however, unleashed an internecine struggle for supremacy among the tribes, laying the land wide open for the first invaders--the Angles, the Saxons and the Jutes from across the North Sea. They established their beachheads, and it was soon evident that they were in Britain to stay. Most natives (but importantly, not all) took refuge in their western redoubts--the Welsh kingdoms, Dumnonia (Cornwall), and Brittany.

This was the era of Arthur--not a mythical legend susceptible to Hollywood spin, but a real Welsh chieftain, whose place in a particular family and history is known. If the hagiography is to be believed (and I see no reason not to do so), his extended family almost single-handedly (re)evangelized Dumnonia and Brittany.

Despite the initial savagery, the Saxon invaders put down roots and intermarried with the natives. Christianity, while pushed back, was not obliterated. The arrival of missionaries from Rome in the late 7th-century aided in the re-Christianization of the land. In short order, something known as “English” began to take shape--a fusion of native Celtic and Saxon interloper. Even though Rome used all means to bring the English church into greater conformity, the faith in the Isles was still distinctly its own. One hallmark of this era--as in all Orthodox lands--was the abundance of local saints.

Arts and culture flourished--centered primarily in the Northumbrian monasteries, which was considered the great center of learning in the West, rather than Gaul. Kingdoms rose and fell, but five of the Saxon ones vied for preeminence: Northumbria, Mercia, East Anglia, Kent and Wessex. First Northumbria, then Mercia and finally Wessex took the lead. In the late 8th century, the first Viking raid occurred, and these Danish invaders proved even more fearsome than the Saxons had been. But like their predecessors, and despite the initial and sustained savagery, they settled down in the land, intermarried and became part of the “English” fabric. The house of Wessex battled the Vikings for many years, but finally gained a workable division of the island.

In 1066, an avoidable dynastic crisis allowed William of Normandy to press his claim to the vacant throne. With his victory at Hastings, everything changed. In the long run, the English did not become Norman, but rather the other way around. After the initial land-grab and disenfranchisement of the previous order, permanent changes were imposed by the new Norman overlords. The distinctly English church now became much more an extension of Gaul. The new bishops replaced the native saints with Continental figures; St. George replaced St. Edmund as the patron saint of England.

One result of this religious transformation was that the well of local saints dried up. Few new saints emerged, and the new Gaulist Catholic order discouraged it. And the 1066 date lines up conveniently close (if not a bit too convenient) to the accepted Catholic - Orthodox schism of 1054. There is a certain arbitrariness to using the 1066 cut-off date, but the fact remains that the saints of Anglo-Saxon England and before were also saints of the Orthodox faith. The question of saints after 1066 is a mute one, for their number is too few to even be a factor. Some might argue that I approve of one invasion (the Saxons) and disapprove of another (the Normans). Well, nobody ever said that the practice of historical interpretation was fair.

Under the new regime, many things changed, but on the local level, life often went on much as before, and the practices of the old English and Celtic Christians continued--most notably, their devotion to the saints. This continued on for centuries, until the tragedy of the English Reformation when the connection was finally cut. From this crucible, modern England emerged and started down the path to becoming “British.” Perhaps the obsession with money and real estate had its roots here as well. Something had clearly changed from before, however. I am seeking a glimpse of what went before, if perhaps I can make it out in my mind’s eye.

I want to seek out the relics of an once-enchanted land—in Wessex, Mercia, the Welsh kingdoms, Northumbria and East Anglia--the old Saxon churches, the stone crosses and the holy wells of the Celts and Anglo-Saxons prior to the Norman Conquest. “Then lived here saints that after were denied, By Norman lusts, then greed and faithless pride.” Churches were whitewashed, shrines stripped, and monasteries decommissioned. The sites become no less holy, however, simply because they’ve been forgotten, or worse, forsaken--"the parish has a saint’s name time cannot unfrock," and the “truth of Saints can never pass nor die.” To be sure, such a pilgrimage will have a different feel than in Georgia. But the saints who glorified and reflected Christ in their lives are alive, not dead, for as we are told, “I am the God of the living, not the dead.” The Cromwells --both Thomas and Oliver--did their worst, and it was very bad indeed, but the saints live on and their testimony continues.

Formerly, when men lived in the beauty and bounty of Earth, the reality of Heaven was very near; every brook and grove and hill was holy, and men out of their beauty and bounty built shrines so lovely that the spirits which inhabit Heaven came down and dwelt in them and were companions to men and women, and men listened to divine speech.

If I have learned one thing from my journey out of an intellectualized, interpretive, mental construct of faith--indeed, my own English heritage--it is that true holiness exists, and lingers on after the saints in places of worship and devotion. I hope to find my way to some of these “thin places” where I can reverence the saints of old, to remember the dead, and maybe in a small way keep these stories alive.

Of course, England is mostly the land of my forebearers. We’ve been in America for so long (and this story I largely know), that our antecedents on the other shore are only dimly understood. In my lineage there’s a Hessian soldier, a German Dunkard, a couple of Irish scoundrels (and the real thing--none of this Anglo-Irish or Scots-Irish), some Scottish hellions, and a Welshman or two. My surname (and the part of my family that I cling to above all the others) is supposedly Scottish, though the evidence suggests that they were more probably Saxons out of Bernicia, with roots in Lindesfarne itself. All that said, the vast majority of my DNA comes from the midlands and south of England. While in the Border regions, I do, however, plan to visit the non-juror church where my 6th-great grandfather and 5th-great grandfather were baptized in 1665 and 1686 respectively.

As for the Romanian leg of the trip, that needs no explanation.  Who doesn’t want to go to Romania? I crossed the Danube from Bulgaria into the country once, and that has whetted my appetite for more. As in England, my Orthodoxy will guide my explorations in Romania, and I hope to linger among the famous painted monasteries in Bucovina.

As these journeys may just be of some interest to a few, I hope to discipline myself to post something here as I go. We shall see.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Possessing the Azure

Fr. Pavel Florensky and Sergie Bulgakov by Mikhail Nesterov

     Several years ago I took on the project of reading The Pillar and Ground of the the Truth by the noted Russian polymath Fr. Pavel Florensky (1882-1937). My mind doesn't naturally gravitate towards either science or philosophy, so much of the book was simply beyond me.  The sections I could comprehend, however, were simply astounding.  This magnum opus of his early writing is one of the most consequential books I have ever read.  Sometimes I wonder about the selections I would take with me if I were ever forced to leave my house with a single box of books.  My mental list always includes Florensky.

     And so, I was excited to recently find Avril Pyman's Pavel Florensky, A Quiet Genius:  The Tragic and Extraordinary Life of Russia's Unknown da Vinci at Eighth Day Books.  "Genius" is a word that we sometimes toss around too lightly.  Such is not the case with Florensky.  Whether as theologian, scientist, philosopher, priest or writer, the designation is most deserved and was certainly acknowledged by his peers.  He was quiet and gentle, a sensitive soul who seemed to cherish friendships about all else.  Despite his intellectualism, Florensky apparently did not suffer from excessive pride and egotism, and seemed to be most at home as a parish priest.  Given his brilliance and talents, Bulgakov--upon hearing that he had married and sought out obscurity as a priest--likened Florensky to a holy fool.  

     I was pleasantly surprised to learn of his connection with Georgia and the Transcaucasus.  Although born in Azerbaijan, Florensky was more or less raised in Tbilisi and Batumi.  He was baptized in St. David's Church at Mtatsminda, one of my regular destinations in Tbilisi, and in fact the church there that I most closely identify with. Descriptions of his explorations in the countryside around Batumi brought back memories of my own experiences there.  And though his father was Russian, Pavel's mother was Armenian, from a well-established Tbilisi merchant clan.  Their roots, however, were in Nagorno-Karabach, a region in which I have some familiarity.

     When the Revolution came, many marveled at Florensky's serenity.  To a remarkable degree, given the circumstances, he carried on much as before.

Florensky believe ardently that nihilism, which he understood as...the denial of the divinity of Christ and with Him of all creation, would eventually run its course and break up on its own inner emptiness so that, in his beloved mother country, 'hearts and will turn again, not idly and half-heartedly but with the avidity of deprivation, to the Russian idea, the idea of Russia, Holy Russia.'

And:

Instead of anathematising the militant atheists, Florensky accepted what was happening in his native land as a judgement on a culture which had already become deracinated from the 'cult' on which it was founded.  Believing implicitly in the Church's abiding, ontological greatness and sanctity, he sought, at this moment of Her humiliation, to bear witness, with all the cultural range and lyrical feeling at his command, to the beauty of Her adornments, songs and rituals, to the imponderable profundity of Her Sacraments and to the homely radiance spread from the sanctuary of the holy places throughout the Russian lands.  Drawing on the well-spring of systematically cultivated memory, innate aesthetic sensibility and the energy of his religious praxis, Father Pavel applied an alert, formidably concentrated mind to the task of encapsulating in words the essence of what could be salvaged from the present shipwreck.  At the same time, he sought to puzzle out the infinitely complex past, present and future relationship between cult and culture, to diagnose the entropy of encroaching chaos and to proclaim the entropic power of Christ.

 In time, the noose tightened around him.  Florensky was imprisoned by the Soviets from 1933 until his death in 1937.  He took his lot in stride, and his many letters home did not admit to the desperation of his situation.  Pavel took solace in being allowed to work in a laboratory during his early imprisonment.  His complacency was shattered, however, in March 1934, when he learned that the Soviets had entered his family's apartment and confiscated 2,684 books.  They were to return in three days for the remaining volumes.  Florensky's life ended in that terrible year, 1937, in a Soviet prison outside Leningrad, with two gunshots to his head.  His body was unceremoniously dumped in a mass grave with his fellow victims.  Pymin concludes that "if this was martyrdom, it was the very twentieth century, existential martyrdom of a sentient, living human being, ground down to silence and consigned to an anonymous grave."  Florensky was a great man, but more importantly than that, he was a good man, and he deserves to be better known today.

   
My favorite quotation from the book is the following, where Pavel Florensky shows himself to be a true son of the Caucasus:

From this comes my-I'll say it in plain words-my contempt and hostility towards all the contemporary world...Evlach...where I was born, is situated in the Transcaucasian steppe, bounded to North and South by snowy mountain ranges.  The Caucasian range and the Armenian mountains are like diamonds, their sparkling sharpness quite beyond the imagination of those who have no experience of mountains, the ultimate perfection of their distant outlines thrusting up into the eternal, unquestionable, incorruptible, eternal in a way those who have no experience of mountains simply cannot conceive, into the depths and velvety infinity of the azure sky.  And amidst these mountains lie the torrid open spaces, all woven from the metallic, resonant trills of cycadas and grasshoppers, from an abundance of growing things, fish, game, beasts of the hoof, predators, poisonous insects, snakes and sweet scents, famous for their karabach horses, the best in the Caucasus, and their dashing brigands, the most desperate in all Transcaucasia.  In the free space of my soul there are no laws.  I do not want law and order and set no value on it, for I know myself to be a brigand to the core of my being, who should not be sitting in a study but galloping through the stormy night, galloping with the whirlwind, without purpose...I want to take possession of the Azure, to embody it in myself.  Yet never to forget that the Azure is ABOVE me, the Kingdom of Eternal Peace, a calm, serene Kingdom that pours itself into my soul.  And, submissive only to the Azure, I still need symbols of my limits.  It is the snow-peaks that frame the steppe which make me aware of my freedom and of my limits.  The snowy peaks thrusting up into the Azure situate it closer to me--and further away...I will not come to terms, cannot come to terms with anyone who shuts off my view of the peaks with wooden fences or obscures them with smoke.  Authority - fatherland - kingdom - priesthood - powers spiritual - these are the snowy peaks of my conscious being...
     For authorities issuing forth from the belly of Leviathan I have no recognition other than the toe of my boot.  But it is precisely the immanent that is springing up now from every crook and cranny.  The Church Authority, the sacraments, the meaning of dogma, God Himself - have all become immanent, are all losing every vestige of real being outside ourselves, are becoming projections of ourselves.  Everyone is busy undermining the heights, misting over the earthly firmament, piercing the Azure.




Monday, January 04, 2016

This probably isn't going to end well



I don’t do New Year’s Resolutions, but if I were to do one, I think I would resolve to avoid all 2016 political predictions.  To begin with, the rules no longer seem to apply.  Anything can happen and probably will.  I no longer say that Trump or Cruz could never be nominated.  Either of them very well could and may.   Fortunately, being nominated does not equal being elected.  That would have to happen in an America I no longer recognize.  I still think a Trump nomination spells doom for the GOP, if not an outright party split.  And if they do not nominate him, Trump may very well go the third party route.  The Republicans have no one else to blame but themselves for this predicament.  This is a toxic brew they’ve been nurturing, and now Trump has harnessed it and made it his own.

And secondly, all of my predictions for what happens on the first Tuesday in November are simply too grim to contemplate.  It is going to be bad enough when it happens, so why acknowledge it beforehand?  In the past, I have always voted for the candidate I deemed least likely to do something incredibly stupid in the Middle East.  With Barak Obama, that has turned out to be a “less than/more than” situation, rather than an either/or situation.  And his “less than” is a lot “more than” I would have liked.  But even that criteria doesn’t hold this time around.  Today I listened to both Ben Carson and Chris Christie in separate interviews.  Each refused to condemn the 40 beheadings in Saudi Arabia.  The former stated that we should be more supportive of our allies, the Saudis, and implied that our playing footsie with the Iranians justified this action.   The latter, when pressed about the flimsiness of the charges against the 40 unfortunate captives, stated that he had no sympathy for Iranians.  Nice.  So that is what passes for conventional wisdom in the GOP field, I suppose.  But what is my alternative?  Hillary Clinton???  The rest are just chicken hawks.  She’s the real thing.  Anyone who believes she is not the most hawkish candidate in the field simply hasn’t been paying attention.  So, if I followed my former logic, I would be supporting either Trump or Cruz, who are the least bombastic when it comes to military action in the Middle East.  That is how crazy things are this year.  I’m so confused.

In lieu of predictions, I will venture just a few caveats and leave it there.

1.  Democrats discount the level of broad discontent with the Establishment Party at their own peril.  Likewise, they would be wise to address the genuine lack of enthusiasm for their putative nominee, Hillary Clinton.

2.  Republicans should not confuse the GOP base that drives their nominating process with the actual electorate that chooses the President in November.  They are two different things.

3.  Whoever wins, the impasse continues and we will remain largely ungovernable.  And all things considered, maybe that is for the best.