by W. E. Gutman
“Confusion,” Albeniz interjects. “What confusion? Sixty-six percent of the French are nominally Catholics, but they’re more French than Catholic. Their piety is largely ceremonial, perfunctory, sustained by habit and reflex, not unshakable conviction. Growing discontent with the meddlesome influence of the Church of France -- the ‘Vatican’s eldest daughter’ -- on secular education, and its persistent efforts to influence politics continue to bolster French support for the absolute and categorical separation of Church and State our nation enjoys. Most Frenchmen have never heard of Hieronymus Bosch. Those who may be vaguely familiar with his name aren’t about to loose sleep over his art or its hypothetical influence on society, past or present.”
“Maybe,” Touvier protests, “but this latest bombshell suggests that the world of art, represented by Monsieur Montvert and you, Dr. Albeniz, and abetted by the Grand Orient of France, are keen on disrupting this blissful lack of interest and, in so doing, on kindling renewed antipathy toward the Church.”
“That’s nonsense and you know it,” Montvert snaps back. “The world of art is focused on art, not on faith, even if faith sometimes inspires art. Religious art is art; worldly art is art. Some is great, some is not. Much of it is quite forgettable. But what artists say in their work, allegorically or literally, is their business. Who but the Church or some despotic government would dare impugn their freedom of conscience or prevent them from exercising it as they see fit? No one has ever ridiculed Michelangelo’s sublime Pieta, Murillo’s enchanting Annunciation or Grünewald’s heart-wrenching Crucifixion. All who love art stand in awe of these geniuses, of their power to delight, inspire or agitate. But when Bosch or El Greco or Dali or Picasso or Klimt or Munch explore the genre and offer an eccentric or deconstructionist perspective of the same subjects, the Church cries foul. Only traditionalist art is decent, it insists, only God-inspired compositions have the power to stir the soul. Modernism is crude, degenerate, unintelligible. It lacks the poignancy of sacred works…. If the Church had focused on its own spirituality instead of hijacking the masses and reducing them to paralytic stupor, it might have avoided the kind of hostility centuries of dogmatism and intolerance have wrought.”
“As for Freemasonry, and more specifically the Grand Orient of France,” Grand Master Lelouch hastens to add, “we’re not interested in restraining religious freedom. You should know that by now. Your office has spent years scrutinizing Freemasonry. So have your predecessors. All you’ve managed to do, without having ever stepped inside a lodge, is to regurgitate hackneyed falsehoods -- that our rituals are a distortion of the Christian sacrament and that, irreligious libertines that we are, we promote social anarchy. Freemasons come in all shapes and sizes and colors and ethnicities and religious convictions. Some are deeply spiritual. Others openly profess their agnosticism or atheism. We embrace them all. What we strive for is intellectual maturity and flexibility, enlightenment, a passion for knowledge and a scrupulous respect for truth, social equality and justice.”
“No.” Touvier objects, raising an admonitory finger. “Only by surrendering to God can man secure these blessings. Instead, the subversive forces of secularism, backed by Marxists and Freemasons, have doggedly discouraged man’s ultimate reconciliation with his maker and retarded his salvation. You call it ‘Laïcité.’ We call it a tragic apostasy conceived to destroy the good works of our Lord Jesus.”
“Laïcité is still widely misunderstood, even in France,” Lelouch counters. “Based on two principles, one ethical (freedom of moral conscience), the other legal (separation of Church and state), Laïcité highlights the difference between two distinct realities: collective interest and well being, and personal conviction. A democracy cannot survive unless all men are granted, without distinction to class, origin or religious persuasion, the fundamental freedom to choose their poison or antidote, the means to be themselves, to enrich their mind, to be masters of their destiny. Freemasons do not proselytize. We do not preach. We do not sermonize. We do not charge those who do not share our ideals with heresy, we do not threaten them with eternal damnation. That’s your modus operandi, isn’t it?”
Touvier’s ashen complexion -- he avoids sunlight like a vampire -- turns red. “We obey the word of God as spoken through his Son Jesus and articulated by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and exalted in Revelation.”
“What you obey is an archaic and arbitrary bureaucracy created to abolish freedom of thought and impose obligatory beliefs based on myth and fabrications, not fact,” retorts Montvert, who has no patience for people who rely on the Bible to shore up their arguments.
“The evidence that sustains us is Scriptures nourished by faith,” Bishop Touvier fires back.
“A faith that ensnares simple souls, that robs them of their judgment and extorts their hard-earned wages. A faith that purports to be doing God’s work yet is demonstrably capable of horrific inhumanity. The problem is not that there is no God when things go wrong, but that things go wrong when God becomes part of the equation.”
“In the name of decency and fairness, and to help safeguard harmonious relations, I beseech you to reconsider. What good can come from such a premeditated affront?”
“Decency and fairness? You must be joking. As for the Bosch document there was no premeditation, I give you my word,” Montvert affirms. “We were informed of an extraordinary discovery and ….”
“You could have kept it to yourselves or quietly consigned it to some obscure art gazette. Instead, you shared it with the Grand Orient and the press, and in so doing you helped set off an avalanche of controversy.”
“Talk about safeguarding harmonious relations…. There is no controversy except the one you and Le Calvaire are fueling. Let me remind you that we are not handicapped or constrained, like the Church, by a fear of embarrassing facts. Scholarship and history are at stake here, not parochial sensitivities. Freedom of conscience is meaningless without the freedom to express it.”
Touvier turns wistful. “What this will lead to is a stain on human dignity, the defeat of trust between people, the triumph of egoism and the loss of emotional tranquility. One can never have true justice, real peace, if God is rejected, if He becomes meaningless, if His teachings are cast aside.”
“It takes colossal naïveté or staggering cynicism to gloss over the rivers of blood that have been spilled in the name of God, that continue to flow as we speak” Albeniz counters angrily.
“Let it go, Bishop Touvier,” Montvert offers in a conciliatory tone. “Look on the bright side. The Bosch story is yesterday’s news. By tomorrow, no one will remember, no one will care. By year’s end, France and the rest of the Christian world will be aglow in Christmas lights. The season will foster feelings of good cheer and lofty resolutions, short-lived as they may be, and life will go on.”
“The Church has been grievously injured.”
“Only in it pride, not its essence.”
“It’s a matter of principle.”
“How can you talk about principle when you deny man his right to reject ideas that contradict reason?”
“Principle steels me against fear.”
“Without fear, man is a golem, a robot, a soulless automaton.”
Montvert pauses, looks away briefly then, smiling softly, fixes his gaze on Touvier. “Faith may steel you against fear but it doesn’t protect you from your past. For you are a relic of the past, a very dark one at that, and against all common sense you refuse to come out of the shadows.”
Bishop Touvier falls silent. He understands all too well Montvert’s insinuation. He is the grand-nephew of Paul Touvier, a thug and womanizer who, with the support of the Catholic Church and under the command of Klaus Barbie -- the “Butcher of Lyon” -- massacred seven Jewish hostages in a small French village. He later masterminded the execution of 50 French Jews. In 1946, sentenced to death in absentia by the French courts for treason and collusion with the Nazis, Paul Touvier is arrested. He manages to escape, probably with the help o
f accomplices. In 1966, invoking the 20-year statute of limitations on capital punishment, he applies for a pardon and petitions the court for the restitution of confiscated property. In 1971, French President George Pompidou pardons him, causing a public outcry that escalates when it is revealed that most of the property Touvier claims as his own was stolen from Jews deported to Hitler’s death camps. A new arrest warrant is issued in 1981. Eight years later, he is found hiding in a monastery where he had been granted refuge, “an act of charity toward a homeless man,” according to the abbot. At his arrest, further evidence shows that he had been protected for years by the Catholic Church in Lyon, and later by members of the Traditionalist Catholic movement. Touvier is also found to have played an instrumental role in the murder of a prominent human rights leader and his wife, and in the deportation of a number of Jews to the East. He is defended by a right-wing monarchist attorney who later becomes president of a Traditionalist Catholic organization. A Traditionalist Catholic priest of the Society of Saint Pius X acts as his spiritual advisor in court. Found guilty, he is sentenced to life imprisonment. In 1996, he dies of prostate cancer at Fresnes Prison near Paris. A Tridentine Requiem Mass is offered for the repose of his soul at a Paris chapel.
At midnight, unable to convince Touvier that his bowdlerizing mission is in vain, Lelouch adjourns the meeting and the men part. Lelouch offers to reconvene at a later date for another round of talks but he insists that the Grand Orient shall not be deterred in its quest to serve the interests of scholarship and truth. Bishop Touvier brushes off the invitation.
“There can be no dialogue if the Church’s teachings are contested.”
“In other words, it’s your way or no way,” says Montvert.
Touvier casts one last bitter look at Montvert but says nothing.
As the prelate’s limousine pulls from the rain-slick curb and fades away swallowed by the fog, Montvert wonders if the bishop might be asking himself whether the blessings of unshakable priestly devotion carry with them the curse of remorse.
He then turns his thoughts to the next project at hand: the translation, annotation and dissemination of Hieronymus Bosch’s tell-all manuscripts.
Marxism of the Right
Archbishop Trente-Trois is livid. Nonplused, overcome by doctrine-driven emotions, Pope Benedict XVI seeks relief in meditation and prayer from the ungodly indifference and iniquity of the secular world. Old hatreds, some encoded, others expediently embraced on the long road to the papacy, submerge him and quell the image of ecumenism he has strived so hard to convey in otherwise hackneyed, sanctimonious public addresses that underscore how woefully out of touch he is with the modern world. For a moment or two, his thoughts turn to the golden age of Church supremacy. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith was still known as the Holy Inquisition. The rabble could be manipulated. Fear, torture and the threat of a roaring and all-consuming pyre in the middle of a public square kept the faithful in check.
Unlike his predecessor, the outwardly affable John Paul II, Benedict XVI can be edgy and petulant, overbearing and smug. Clad in the flamboyant garb of his office, living in unimaginable splendor, breathing the rarefied air of opulence, he believes that the Church’s waning influence is the result of declining morals, not its outmoded, intolerant view of human instinct, not the false hopes it peddles or the promises it makes of “eternal salvation” in exchange for the forfeiture of all worldly pleasures. He has little to say about the sordid sex scandals that continue to rock his domain. He feels less than passing shame for the intemperance and crimes of his institution. He expresses no sorrow for the misogyny, the devious homophobia. He feels no guilt for his realm’s contempt toward the masses. He does not condemn the entrenched and widespread anti-Semitism among his foot soldiers. He has reached the ethereal summit of his “profession” and the promise of beatification in the afterlife has already imparted him with the trancelike aloofness of a canonized saint. He is preparing for the final voyage, not with humility and compassion but with the poise and absent smile of a mystic high on his own godliness. Behind the smile is the seething fury of a wounded reptile. If he can help it, he will not embark for kingdom come without leaving posterity a taste of his own venom.
In France, a secular nation with a long history of anti-clericalism, the Church does not enjoy the courtesies, perks and dispensations accorded “non-profit” organizations in, say, the United States. Tolerated but neither hyped nor courted, the Church subsists entirely on the generosity of the parishioners, many of whom would rather sleep late on Sunday than attend Mass. Its influence on domestic and foreign affairs is trivial, and its henchmen know better than to worm themselves into France’s political affairs. The French Catholic Church has long reconciled with its marginalized status, if not its irrelevance. The clergy would be the first to admit that no French politician will dare mention God in a campaign speech or parliamentary discourse without risking being pelted with rotten tomatoes, or worse.
It is for these reasons that Archbishop Trente-Trois, mindful that discretion in a fiercely secular state is the better part of valor, and unwilling to inflame the situation, decides to let sleeping dogs lie.
In Rome, filled with apostolic zeal, several members of the Curia urge the Pope to adopt a less obliging stance. One of them, the Most Reverend Salvatore Pacelli, a member of the Congregation for the Doctirne of the Faith and an advisor to Opus Dei, demands that “the authors of this insurrection -- Jews, communists and Freemasons -- be silenced.” He does not elaborate. The Pope responds to this petition with his trademark saintly smirk.
Speaking before his fellow Masons at Gerard Groote Lodge in Rotterdam, a frail Jan van den Haag points at a detail of Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych, The Epiphany, projected on a screen. The original, as are most of Bosch’s paintings, is on display at the Prado Museum in Madrid. The central panel, focus of his lecture, depicts the Adoration of the Magi.
“Robed in red, Balthazar kneels in prayer before Mary and the infant Jesus. Staring in the void, Melchior is at his side. Behind them stands the Moorish king Caspar, flanked by a young assistant. The gifts have been offered. It is in these exquisite works of gold and silversmithing that are revealed subtle and tempting hints. At Mary’s feet, placed near Balthazar’s helmet, is an intricate gold carving depicting Abraham’s aborted sacrifice of his son Isaac. The object is so heavy that it pins down a pair of toads, medieval symbols of heresy.
“Melchior’s tunic is adorned with a silver caplet or mantle upon which is reproduced a scene from the Queen of Sheba’s visit to King Solomon’s palace. Caspar wears a splendid white robe bordered around the collar and sleeves with a delicate lace pattern of acanthus leaves, a bright green southern European plant that inspired the design of the Corinthian column capital. On the hem, winged monsters peck at forbidden fruits. In his hand is a myrrh-filled goblet on which is carved the story of the three heroes offering David water. The jeweled strawberry Caspar holds is also an emblem of heresy.
“The ostensible serenity that the Adoration conveys is quickly shattered by the disquieting figures lurking in the manger’s shadows. Look carefully, my Brothers. One character in particular, furtive and irresolute, a trancelike emptiness burning in his eyes, is neither naked nor clad, neither barefoot nor shod. His right shoulder and leg are bare, and what appears to be a cable tow is tied about his naked right arm. His eyes seem fixed on a point in space inaccessible to the viewer, perhaps Ein Sof, limitless space, time without end.”
The assembled Masons look at each other and nod. What is being replayed in this ancient, tell-all picture, graphically and irrefutably, is the reenactment of a Masonic initiation. The Nativity scene, fleetingly the focal point of this troubling painting, is now displaced and trivialized by a rite in which is invoked Further Light -- truth and knowledge -- and which rejects the stagnancy of myth and unbending belief.
What van den Haag suggests, without divulging the origin of his provocative conjectures, is that Bosch could have been
familiar with early Masonic lore, thus adding fresh evidence that an embryonic form of Freemasonry existed long before current tradition suggests.
Three days after he regales fellow Freemasons with his titillating presentation, Jan van den Haag, a descendant of Jakob Haymovich who married into the Bosch family in 1685, and a blood descendant of the great artist, dies in his sleep at the age of 83. European lodges send delegates who gather to pay tribute to their fallen Brother at a brief but poignant Masonic funeral. A lambskin apron tied around his waist, white gloves adorning his hands, he is buried at the Jewish cemetery in Rotterdam. Heir to the Dutch throne, William-Alexander, Prince of Orange, delivers the eulogy.
Van den Haag’s last will and testament bequeaths the original Bosch document, including the telltale appendices, to his Lodge, Gerard Groote, named after the 14th century worldly educator who believed in linking spirituality with enlightenment based on scholarship and logic. Preaching a life of simple devotion based on early Christian teachings, denouncing the clergy’s values and practices as decadent and evil, Groote founded The Brethren of the Common Life. Members of the brother-hood take no vows. They neither solicit alms nor accept them. They aspire to cultivate the “interior life,” and they work for their daily bread. Brothers (and Sisters) devote themselves to literature and education. Except for a handful of clerics who had attended the prestigious cathedral schools of Paris and Cologne, there were few scholars in the land, even among the high clergy, most of whom were illiterate. Martin Luther studied under the Brethren of the Common Life at Magdeburg before transferring to the University of Erfurt. His exposure to the Brethren’s rational approach to education is said to have sparked the Protestant Reformation.
Gradually, the curricula introduced by Groote’s fraternity, rudimentary at first, add courses in the humanities, philosophy and analytical theology.