Saturday, October 28, 2017

8,894,355

In the end I have decided I cannot in good conscience let this day pass without a note, however sombre it must be, on the fiftieth anniversary of the 1967 Abortion Act.  This week the Catholic Herald's front cover announces that this law has now cost us nearly nine million lives.  This does not take account of almost the same number of mothers to whom it will have caused suffering without mercy, one way or another, sooner or later.  Nor the abortions funded by the British government abroad, especially in developing countries.

Lord Alton's tour de force in the same issue of the Herald, which contained as much compassion as it did force, sets out the situation as well as anyone else could.  The fundamental question remains whether the sanctity of human life is irreducible, or merely negotiable.  I say with the Church that it is the former, by Heaven, and therefore that its deliberate destruction is out of the question.  I am unconvinced by any argument that life does not begin at conception.  Even those who are not sure should feel hesitant to to take the risk.  We may and must move mountains to help any expectant mother in a crisis, but we have no right to extinguish the new life being knit within her.  How can one unborn child be revered, and another deemed unfit for life?

I should think, and at least hope, that many of the Members of Parliament who voted in favour of the 1967 Act did so with compassionate intentions, and in the sincere belief that an abortion would remain a regrettable last resort to rare and extreme crises.  What would they make of the incomputable figure at which we have now arrived, though?  Is this moral landscape of 2017 really what most of them intended?

The pro-life movement now faces two different fronts.  One is the explicitly pro-choice movement, with which I have very little patience: forthright and sinister, understanding women's independence of mind and body through a particularly contorted prism, sloganising, resorting to intimidation and accordingly unafraid to requisition the law in the promotion of such slogans.  Abortion, for them, is not regrettable in the slightest, but a positive political ideal; their claim is to the symbolic liberation of all women.  Well, their questions deserve answering, but bluntly.   The pro-life generation holds the life of the mother and the life of the child to be equal.  Both lives must be preserved.  If the growing being is a child, then it is a child, and its life is sacrosanct, just as the mother's life is sacrosanct.  Meanwhile, the proclamations of 'choice' are, for all their vehemence, quite vacuous: for instance there is no acknowledgement of women who have felt precisely that they have had no choice at all but to see an abortionist, often under pressure from families withholding material or moral support, or from men unwilling to face their responsibilities.  While such men are certainly liberated in their wickedness, there is no liberation for the women concerned.

On the other hand, there is is the other front of people with whom I hope my tone would be quite different.  They are the plain folk of Britain, who I suppose are not so different from the House of Commons of 1967.  Surely most of them, if asked, otherwise preferring not to think about abortion, would regret its existence but, meaning to be compassionate, express a view along lines that under extreme circumstances it must be considered a necessary evil.  They are people of good will.  So they might well understand justice and mercy; they might reasonably expect the pro-life movement's mettle to be shown in action as well as in words, and want proof that a culture of life they propose will abound in practical and merciful help to those in difficulties.  And indeed it already does precisely this where it is not prevented from doing so: the Life Charity provides moral and material support to mothers in crisis, and until recently the Catholic Church was free to run adoption services and thereby bring help to mothers in distress and happiness to childless couples.

Much is said, too, about sitting in judgment on women who seek abortions.  I think the pro-life movement makes it very clear that, certainly in these days of commonplace abortion, the moral culpability of a mother who has recourse to this avenue is often, even generally, significantly diminished.  The abortion is always wrong, but the mother is not always guilty.  There is, however, surely seldom a guiltier party than the abortionist, who in sober mind and cold blood has devoted all that precious medical knowledge to the opposite of its purpose, to the destruction of life.  Yet when we say that the Church, in obedience to its Founder, is as rich in mercy as it is resolute in justice, we mean it.  Even for the abortionist.

If Martin Luther King's niece, Alveda King, calls the pro-life cause 'the new civil rights movement', then I think we had better take notice.  Lord Alton's estimation that 'the tide is turning' may well be correct: the pro-choice quarters are powerful but they are beginning to bluster and lash out, which is a sign of an awareness of losing ground.  They are going to try very hard to persuade the Irish people to repeal the Eighth Amendment of their constitution next year, but those slogans cannot last forever, and at some point they will have to ask themselves more carefully what really motivates the defenders of life, and why they will not give up.  The sooner they do so the better, and the sooner we can turn our attention to the real business of helping women and the unborn in need, rather than numbing our consciences to a dangerous compromise and wounding short-cut.  Let there rise up a proliferation of pro-lifers, holding aloft the twin lanterns of justice and mercy, in this as in all things!

Sunday, October 01, 2017

Alas, that great city

It was only because it was so clearly with Englishness that Vaughan Williams aligned his art, and only because he seems to have understood England as well as anyone else has, that a while ago I felt I could make so bold as to suggest that his fourth and sixth symphonies articulate something about England's loss of heart in the twentieth century.  I know that Vaughan Williams was famously impatient with others' attempts to apply authoritative interpretations to his works; still, the music forebodes something, and I like the idea that, in the opening of the Sixth particularly — the interplay of violence, fidgety addiction, impatience, parodied beauty and a single cloudburst of authentic beauty — he foresaw the spiritual and moral upheavals that his death only just preceded, but which were already rumbling.

So I was interested by an observation made in passing by James Day, in his book on Vaughan Williams (London: Dent, 1961), while actually discussing a completely different work, another favourite of mine: Sancta Civitas (1929), a setting of texts from the Book of Revelation.  On page 100, Day describes the 'weird and unnerving' lament for the fall of Babylon which, he notes 'in outline [...] foreshadows one of the themes in the Moderato of the sixth Symphony'.

Thanks to the wonders of the Internet it is possible to hear straightaway how, indeed, the sinister second movement ought to have sounded familiar at 9' 19":



Meanwhile here (emptying the Albert Hall of one orchestra and replacing it with another!) in a memorable performance that I was fortunate enough to hear live, is the lament for the fall of Babylon from Sancta Civitas.  Day is surely right: there is a distinct similarity between these sets of descending chords, though they were written fifteen years apart:



It is astonishing how this music evokes both Babylon's over-sated greed and its desolation.  As if the music were not clear enough, these are the words sung by the choir:

Babylon the great is fallen.  Alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city!  For in one hour is thy judgement come.  The kings of the earth shall bewail her and lament over her.  And the merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her.

And the fruits thy soul lusted after are departed from thee, and all things which were dainty and goodly are departed from thee, and thou shalt find them no more at all.  Babylon the great is fallen. Alas, that great city, that was clothed in fine linen, and purple, and scarlet, and precious stones.  What city is like unto this great city!  Alas, for in one hour art thou made desolate.

Rejoice over her, O heavens; for God hath avenged you on her.  And a mighty angel took up a millstone, and cast it into the sea, saying, ‘Thus with violence shall that great city Babylon be thrown down, and shall be found no more at all.’  And the voice of the harpers shall be heard no more at all in thee.  And the light of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee; and the voice of the bridegroom and the bride shall be heard no more at all in thee.  Babylon the great is fallen.

Of course it would be too far, by a country mile, to conclude from this that Vaughan Williams's Sixth paints England as Babylon.  But it is not unreasonable to suppose that he was aiming to evoke a similar mood, of utter and unsuspected desolation.  And certainly, in modern Britain, there are not many harpers, or candles, or bridegrooms and brides.

It is worth letting Sancta Civitas run on, though.  For having brought the desolation of Babylon to our ears, Vaughan Williams then sets the following words to radiant, ethereal, hopeful music:

And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first earth and the first heaven were passed away; and there was no more sea.  And I saw the holy city coming down from heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband, having the Glory of God.  And her light was like unto a stone most precious, even like a jasper stone, clear as crystal; and had twelve gates, and on the gates twelve angels, and the twelve gates were twelve pearls; and the street of the city was pure gold, as it were transparent glass.  And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty is the temple of it.  And the city had no need of the sun, neither the moon, to lighten her: for the glory of God did lighten her.  And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day: for there shall be no night there.  And they shall bring the glory and the honour of the nations into it.