A Book All on Its Own

The Reformed Baptists gave us a copy of Crawford Gribben’s story of James Ussher and the Irish Puritans. It is a well written sketch of a long bit of history—just long enough to provide good reading for a Sunday afternoon. It centers, of course, on the greatest of Ireland’s churchmen, James Ussher. He was responsible for a great deal of things, not only in Ireland for he seems to have been the main mind behind the Westminster Confession and the 39 articles. He was unbeatable in debating the Jesuits, but so highly regarded that at one point Cardinal Richelieu even offered him a job.

The history of religion in Ireland is abrupt and tragic, full of great advances and great setbacks. The turmoil the Reformation eventually brought to England and Scotland touched Ireland deeply. And now those high and troubled waters of religion seem to have receded away, with little but the memory of suffering left behind. From Trinity College in Dublin Gribben writes to call for the Gospel to be sounded again in Ireland.

Meals and the Food

I have learned to be more adventurous in my eating abroad. Not in the sense of taking unnecessary risks by eating in places famous for Hepatitis. Rather, in the sense that while I am not an eater of seafood, when I have visited islands in the North Atlantic I have eaten seafood both times. You get a sense of the place, at least I get a sense of the place from the flavors they combine and enjoy. At least I think I do.

Our first meal was in the Thai place associated with the hotel. They have a fancy restaurant which requires reservation and also a more informal bar connected to the lobby. I had a disappointing salad kind of thing (see, I would never order a salad kind of a thing as a general rule) and Katrina had some really good beef & chicken curry.
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Airlines and Airports

More could have gone wrong. Still, I’ve never had a worse time with air travel. In fact, I’ve never had some of the inconveniences we underwent on this trip. Northwest was delayed arriving so we were delayed departing. At O’Hare we were actually delayed in taxing to the terminal. Since Northwest would not, or could not print out our boarding passes for Aer Lingus, although they could have the baggage all checked, we had to go to the checkout at Aer Lingus (out of security and then back in it after checking in). So you run from the far end of terminal two to the little train to terminal five and you’re already late. Well, Aer Lingus had already closed up the plane and told us to go back to Northwest to get things fixed. At first I was glad, but then we realized that we didn’t have our bags. Then Northwest blamed it on air traffic and wouldn’t pay for the hotel or the meals. Nor did they suggest that since they had our bags, we might actually take them with us. So they gave us some discount thing and we had to call a toll free number and got ten dollars off a hotel nearby and we took the little shuttle to the Royal Crowne Hotel.
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The Reformed Baptists of Limerick

It came as a pleasant surprise, when I walked into the little room with 25 chairs arranged facing a pulpit, to see a wall full of shelves full of books that looked like the entire catalog of the Banner of Truth Press on display. Katrina had confused Limerick City Baptist Church with Limerick Baptist Church, you see, and we had the plan to see what was on the stage and maybe fall back on the 11AM service of another denomination. The former Baptist church’s website is not yet up and the latter Baptist church’s website identifies it as purpose driven and is otherwise aglow with the dismaying buzzwords of relevant & decadent religion. Not so here. We were handed a small hymnal—no music, alas!—which had the word Reformed on the front and began with metrical Psalms, contained Jerusalem the Golden, and with Amazing Grace they use another tune (which I find a great relief).

The preaching, teaching, and serving of communion is carried out by a couple of English businessmen who have married Limerickean sisters. The singing is not prolonged—I don’t think they usually sing more than two songs; they do not take up a collection; after they sing one prays, then reads Scripture, and then preaches. At least that is how it went the first Sunday. On the second Sunday they observed communion and only sang one song before the preaching, then one before and one after the observance.

The preaching that I heard was a verse by verse exhortation. There was a bit of exposition of the text but mostly he was looking for a spiritual significance which he then sought to impress on the congregation. He was fond of using other parts of Scripture to illustrate the point he was making and tying the parts together by way of the spiritual truth. In short, he was constantly spiritualizing the text; I found it interesting and also instructive. He had all his sermon typed out but I don’t think he had an outline with a main propositional generalization. When I do whatever it is I do I don’t structure what I do with a propositional generalization and an outline. It probably makes a bad speaker out of me, but I just work my way through the passage trying to get people to understand what it is saying and then what it means (explanation is dominant and application languishes). This preacher, from hearing him only twice, I would say was doing what I do (no real structure other than following the passage) only he was more concerned with what it meant whereas I would be more concerned with making sure the congregation got the flow of thought of the passage and understood how all the parts fit together, granting more time to that than to illustrating and bringing home the meaning by way of application.

The Republic of Ireland, they assured me that evening at the Bible study, has very little in the way of Protestant churches or missionary activity. Northern Ireland has a great deal, as most of us know, but apparently they do not, as a general rule, send missionaries into the Republic. And, they also told me, England does not either.

We stayed for a Sunday School where they sang songs and learned verses and gave a pretty heavy-duty lesson for the children. We stayed because we didn’t know the Sunday School was mainly for the children and the parents stayed with the children. It gave us an opportunity to see what they do and to talk to them some more.

In the evening they have a Bible study. It consists of reading a doctrine and several subdivisions or corresponding and related doctrines along with several passages from Scripture supporting the doctrine. This takes twenty minutes (we did the three offices of our Lord one week, his person and natures the next) to read through the lesson, then they pray, then they have a discussion. I did not find it the most congenial way of teaching, but people have a chance to ask questions in the discussion. On the first occasion, it was just us and the two men along with one of their daughters so when they asked me what I thought I told them the only difference I would have would be to think the offices of our Lord to be chronological because I was a dispensationalist. So we talked about something familiar to one who had been in Brethren circles in England (but forsaken dispensationalism upon the explanation of Hendrickson who seems to be rather persuasive to more than one of my acquaintance), and repugnant and alien to the other who had attended the Metropolitan Tabernacle in London.

All this conversation notwithstanding they are praying that I’ll get transferred to Ireland so we can help them with the work there. I doubt we would find another church in Limerick with which we would be in better agreement, should we actually be sent there.

All my training has been toward helping train up native pastors in foreign countries. However, since I have no desire to work with fundamentalist institutions and I would be embarrassed to join up with evangelicals I have had to fall back on the plan of becoming a Science Fiction writer. I certainly do not want a career as a businessman, but I would jump at the opportunity to live in Ireland should my company for unaccountable reasons decide I ought to go. There is no reason my company should send me, but then, they really should not have sent somebody with what is basically an entry level position in the company on international travel; I just happen to be in the area nobody else is interested in and everybody loves to ignore: refunds. Certainly, if we went, we would have opportunities to serve without the objections of our conscience to being a part of something which dishonors the Lord. Going there would solve a few things for us.

Which is not to say we would not have our disagreements over there as well. We would have to have long conversations about Dispensationalism and the nature of the church. I also find I am not Reformed, there being a certain inflexibility about it that appeals to me much less than a broad and catholic spirit does (not to mention my love of mysticism, pietism, quietism and such romantical stragenessess which the Reformed, with the rationalism and delusions of objectivity, generally find repugnant—although these boys emphasized the warmth of affections more frequently than Reformed persons do). And they are not free from the influences that are in the air of the world we live in, of those influences that come across the waters, for in their hymnbook there was doggerel and organ grinder music, and the children’s songs were all of American origin. Still, they are laymen and not hardened politicians, and they are independent of any association or affiliation altogether (and actually wary of denominations and associations). And they are small, wonderfully small, and Limerick is a dark town, with many churches but little of religion.

So pray for the Reformed Baptists in Limerick. They are zealous for the work although they labor under circumstances many of us would consider disadvantageous. It is hard for two laymen to do all the work of the ministry, taking turns with preaching and teaching every week, having families, having work, on top of that trying to nurture a small work in a dark part of the world with new believers and immature believers who require discipleship, and without much in the way of musical ability (at least, it doesn’t seem they have because they hook up this contraption to the electric piano and it plays the hymns for them at the push of a button—although as long as people are singing with Irish accents the music can never be as indecent as ours can be here).

A Brief Shock of Dublin

We were thinking at first of spending a whole weekend in Dublin, but then we found a good church and wanted to be back on Sunday to attend. So then the plan was to go early and return late on Saturday.

Because of the warnings we heard about the roads and the time it would take, even though the train was more expensive, we decided to go by rail. So Katrina got tickets early in the week. We could leave at 5:30 and get to Dublin by 8AM, returning around 5PM to arrive at 7:30.

On Friday Katrina went on an excursion the result of which, on Friday night, was a lot of vomiting. She was in a bad way and it did not look good for Dublin. Saturday morning came and she was feeling better, but not completely well. Since we had the tickets, we decided to go on the 11:55 and at least view the countryside in the train. And it is a pleasant ride. You have to change trains at Limerick Junction, a short way from Tipperary. The train from Limerick is a little better than a regular subway train. The train you get on—the Cork to Heuston Station in Dublin—is a nice and comfortable train. It is hard to write in a train, but still I did some, and I finished Historical Consciousness, and saw the country side.

When we got to Dublin we decided to walk around since she was feeling up to it. So we went along the Liffey all the way to Temple Bar. I was looking for some bookstores, especially the Winding Stair. We found it but it appeared to be only one room, so we left and went across the river to the Bar. Katrina later found out it had three stories (hence the name—it did vaguely cross my mind that I did not notice any winding stairs). Temple Bar was thronged with walking crowds. By then we were looking for a restaurant but we didn’t find any we could get into that wasn’t a microscopic, fast food type of place. We did find another bookshop that was small. Katrina sat down and I could tell she was really lagging so when I asked if she wanted to go back, I got agreement.

Yannik, who had lived in Dublin for five years, was dubious about the notion of spending just one day. I figured in one day I could see the National Museum, Trinity College and a few bookstores. And you can, but we were not there under the best circumstances. Really, though, it would require quite a bit of leisure to start to visit Dublin, a week at least.

In the two hour shock of it I got an impression of flowing crowds of all kinds of people; ancient cobbles, churches, quays, sidewalks, everything; shops of all descriptions and all small; restaurants abundant but not more than the crowds; and that there was a whole lot more I didn’t see, just around the corner, right up the road we didn’t turn into.

Three Books

Not having had time really to search for a good book store in Dublin, and having counted on doing that chiefly, it was therefore not a trip for spending money on books— which is perhaps as well considering I don’t really have a place for more.

On the last day we went to a shop in Limerick, which, were I to live there, I’d frequent for the atmosphere and coffee alone. I found a Church of Ireland Book of Common Prayer with Church Hymnal for 5 Euro there. I read prefaces and the articles and several other things sitting in a 737 at O’Hare.

The second book I received from Yannik, a Frenchman of German descent and Greek Catholic by religion. He gave me the Glenstal Book of Icons, a nice little volume I have not really acquainted myself with yet.

The first book I bought was a collection of the short stories of John B. Keane, an Irish raconteur. They are pretty satisfying and decently crafted short stories valuable to me mostly because they are redolent of Irish character, ways, and life. It would be hard to understand some things, and I am sure there is much more to garner from them, but having been inside a pub, having seen the narrow roads, having heard the patterns of speech, and spoken for an hour every day with an Irish taxi driver, I was able to appreciate the stories as I otherwise would not have. I read them on the flight from Shannon to Dublin to Chicago.

Impressions

I have a lot of things I want to remember and set down about our sojourn in Ireland, all kinds of different impressions. If you are interested in seeing some of the pictures Katrina took you can look on her blog.

I want to practice some writing on:

Airlines and Airports

Meals and the Food

The Way the People Are

Reading, Reading John Lukacs, & Reading the Writing of a Man of Broad and Cultivated Outlook while Traveling

Ireland

A Brief Shock of Dublin

A Country Station a Short Way from Tiperary

The Roads of Co. Clare

Stacked Stone Fences, Old Towers, & Norman Castles

The Church of Ireland

The Reformed Baptists of Limerick

Talking and Traveling

and More

Large

Today I ate at a restaurant in Eden Prarie where they paid a guy in a suit to stand there opening the massive doors. It was built in the architectural style that one sees the open air conglomerate of commercial establishments which seem to have replaced malls in the more affluent suburbs boast: massive and full of large kitsch. There the waiters were not ill-favored as they are in the places I tend to frequent. I think I was the only person wearing jeans and a sweater, for most of the patrons there were dressed up. Many ties, many suits, a limited menu and $11 hamburgers.

I once worked as a prep & pantry cook at a place like this. They prepare their own soups, and make everything from scratch, and have excellent coleslaw, and the specialty here appeared to be fish. We all had the same hamburger, with cheddar and bacon and barbecue sauce. But I had the carrotless coleslaw. Their pickles apparently were home made; very nice.

Massive and stark, for the most part, and why? The architecture of the SUV, perhaps.

Two Down

One more cartridge down on the old fountain pen. One more story finished too. Best yet, if I do say so myself.

El Escandalo

I have spent too much time already and still am stuck on Noll. I don’t know how to put it well, and I think this is largely due to not knowing what to think. I don’t know what to think about his book, or I don’t know how to think about it. It is my third time reading it and I don’t see what the point is. Perhaps I ought to conclude it is an evasive book.

I have the urge for things they will not accept in the thesis. They are things that need to be matured, and I put in unripe; I just don’t have any other way of ripening them.

Well, I have this blog. Here are four paragraphs. Three are pretty good, I think; the last one can go. The trouble is I only need to have one. I’m faced with having to condense the first one, probably, and I like it too much. Oh me.
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Pronouncements on Music

Well, now that I am the owner of an accordion and have become a qualified musician, I’d like to make some pronouncements, because if I don’t, who will?
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Joe Green

I had a conversation with a colleague who was making remarks about finding the stupidest national anthem in the world. I mentioned that I couldn’t think of any that I thought were stupid among the ones I knew. He said the Italian one was pretty cheesy, adding it was written by Verdi.

I was away on golden wings of thought at that. It seems to me a very desirable thing to have one’s national anthem written by Giuseppe Verdi. I am geeking for some of his stuff now: Nabucco or maybe La Forza. I shall have to raid the library tomorrow. If they don’t have Verdi I’ll settle for Donizetti.

What kept me on it after church was that I might have a chance to renew music in my life by picking up a free accordion. There is nothing like the accordion. I would love to be a player of the accordion. Think of all the polka and tango and fado and waltzes and carousel music you could play on the accordion!

Completing a Conversation

I was having a conversation with the Reg. Eric the White on Sunday evening. As often happens to me in conversations, I stumbled around for what I was trying to say and came away with the idea that I did not succeed (I have even had conversations where I’m trying to say the same thing I already put rather brilliantly into writing, but cannot recall and I manage to dispel all coherency out the sentences I cobble together). As too seldom comes about after conversations, I continued thinking about it. I think the reason I went on thinking about it was the remark the Reg. Eric the White made about how good scholarship advances the scholarship of a field.
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Verbicide

In Studies in Words CS Lewis talks about a phenomenon he calls verbicide, the murder of a word. There are many ways to murder a word, one of which he calls verbiage; this is when you use a word creating an expectation you then proceed to cheat. A good example is when the heathen are admitted to Seminaries and they fatously use the adjective Systematic as the absolute description of a course in Systematic Theology. One wonders whether one will soon be affronted with references to a class in Biblical, or Historical, or Catholic. It is an outrage upon language to which only hardened savages are oblivious. Lewis, a sensitive man, in a book on words, calls it the murder of a word.

It is not surprising that when such people attain whatever it is they are rewarded with after they have spent years in verbicide and other ill pursuits under the guise of scholarship and piety, it is no surprise, I say, that they then proceed to use another such verbicide by verbiage when congratulating each other with the epithet Solid. Solid what? one wonders. Solid in the absolute, I assume, is taken to mean that the person on whom this highest commendation is lavished (it is something to consider that among all the perfectly suitable epithets available in the English language the one chosen was settled upon by an act of verbicide) is not going to make any pronouncements against the sins the group has tacitly agreed upon cherishing.

It is not surprising that the Solid, so versed in Systematic, like to advocate the Church Plant. A church plant is not the ecclesiastical variation of a house plant, nor is it a plant in which churches are mass produced. In fact, you will look in vain through all ten definitions of the noun ‘plant’ in Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged (here some of these enemies of words might be tempted to stop) Dictionary (one does linger over number eight–a scheme to trap, trick, swindle or defraud–and raises the speculative eyebrow with the curiosity of an etymologist) and probably equally in vain in the literature of the learned and polite for something quite this gross. A Church Plant, apparently, is something like an attempt to start a church, a church planting, as perhaps a less barbarous, careless, and depraved generation might have put it (I remember the word Mission being employed in distant times, when I was young and feckless verbal violence was not the only noticeable characteristic of people’s speech). This offensive locution strikes one as another instance of verbicide.

CS Lewis has some sound advice: “It may not, however, be entirely useless to resolve that we ourselves will never commit verbicide,” to which he adds the couplet:

Let no one say, and say it to your shame,
That there was meaning here before you came.

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