Tea at Trianon: In a French Monastery

John Wilson Croker on Marie-Antoinette

"We have followed the history of Marie Antoinette with the greatest diligence and scrupulosity. We have lived in those times. We have talked with some of her friends and some of her enemies; we have read, certainly not all, but hundreds of the libels written against her; and we have, in short, examined her life with– if we may be allowed to say so of ourselves– something of the accuracy of contemporaries, the diligence of inquirers, and the impartiality of historians, all combined; and we feel it our duty to declare, in as a solemn a manner as literature admits of, our well-matured opinion that every reproach against the morals of the queen was a gross calumny– that she was, as we have said, one of the purest of human beings."

~from History of the Guillotine by John Wilson Croker, 1844

Edmund Burke on Marie-Antoinette

"It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely there never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to move in, glittering like a morning star full of life and splendor and joy. Oh, what a revolution....Little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fall upon her, in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look which threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded...."

~Edmund Burke, October 1790

Saturday, December 13, 2014

In a French Monastery

A former porn star repents and seeks healing in the house of God. To quote:

Through these trials in which God places the spirit and the senses, the soul in bitterness acquires virtues, strength, and perfection, for virtue is made perfect in weakness [2 Cor. 12:9] and refined through the endurance of suffering.” ~ St. John of the Cross

In the strangest twists of God’s plan for me, less than a year after making my last appearance in porn, I found myself hidden away from the world behind the massive stone walls of a French Benedictine Monastery: Fontgombault in the tiny Loire Valley town of Fontgombault. For, after being vomited forth from the filth and deprivation of gay San Francisco, I went on a trip of exile – to anywhere Holy; anywhere I would feel protected. But, before I left, I was increasingly lethargic, constantly dizzy, and nauseous. For a while, I thought perhaps I had picked up a flu, but it wouldn’t go away. In the back of my head, I started thinking: AIDS! Since getting out of San Francisco, I hadn’t taken an HIV test, and the previous one had now been about two years in the past. I didn’t want to know. I thought I could just fade away. Only, I was feeling increasingly unsafe, even at the religious community I was staying with in Pennsylvania: I thought that the demons from California had followed me. On a sort of whim, I got the HIV test, and tried to forget about it. Feeling trapped, one night, I got onto a plane and flew to France. By the time I got to the secluded Abbey, many miles away from Paris, it was dark and the monks were locking up; I begged them to let me stay – somewhat annoyed, but incredibly patient, they let me in.

During the next few weeks, I spent a lot of time in my small cell, the only piece of furnishing being a single bed – made of wood and stretched rope; I slept beautifully in the seemingly uncomfortable conditions – being sheltered by an impenetrable shield of Faith generated by the constantly praying monks. Despite the rest, my health continued to deteriorate. In meditation, I wrestled with God, I was grateful to Him for saving me, only to simultaneously blame Him for making me sick – or, even worse, condemning me to death. In the midst of all this half-hearted thanksgiving and incessant whining, I heard nothing back. Everything was silent. In the morning, I heard the massive church bells ringing to wake the monks, but, I believed that they did not ring for me. I sat bewildered in the pews, watching the shadowy black-robed figures kneel and pray before an ancient statue of the Madonna: their radiantly peaceful faces illuminated by the light of glowing candles. I thought, why did God love them, and not me? (Read more.)