I like Will Meyer’s observation: “There is one principle that ISM clergy have never heeded well: simplicity of vesture. In the words of Mademoiselle Chanel: “Before you go out, always take something off”. In the ISM, perhaps the more appropriate statement is “The Infant of Prague is to be venerated, not imitated.” Lets all be honest – he is right. One need only make a cursory sweep through Indie websites and blogs to see an entire line up of “Infant of Pragues”. It may at first appear to be a superficial topic, however, there is a worthwhile conversation here. This is not purely about aesthetics – as Will’s post rightly points out it is about context, respecting the dignity of the moment. I also wonder if it is not an opportunity to expand on our understanding of what community is, and what it does.

Clothing is symbolic. If you think I’m joking take a moment and look at a collection of celebrity photographs. Pay close attention to the fashion labels and accessories in the image. Now, go do some people watching – where do you see those labels and accessories? How many market stalls are selling cheap chinese knock-offs? Take a moment and think about the conscious and unconscious “statements” people make, including yourself, about themselves, through the clothes that they choose to wear. Our clothing communicates social status, or aspired to social status, group affiliation, politics, and much more. Often this communication is so unconscious – because of the other choices we have made – that we assume, or take for granted the messages we project, and those that we “read” in others.

The symbolism of clothing in a liturgical setting is intensified because liturgy, by its very nature, is highly symbolic. The shape of the rite, the ritual gestures, even the ritual food, is a stripped down indicator of a larger conversation that we are all having with one another, and with God. When the priest is vested, he or she fulfils a particular role; one that is a step outside the ordinary. That slight shift in appearance can empower individual community members to step outside the ordinary with the celebrant and take in the fullness of the mystery.

Too often in our Indie context vestments become a distraction, rather than a compliment to the ministry and unity of the community. Here is where Will’s observation of the Infant of Prague comes into its own. I have over the years met too many clergy whose prized collection of vestments would put Imelda Marcos’ famed shoe collection to shame. I have seen priests scour the internet, and vintage shops for church chatchky bankrupting themselves (or their community) in the process. There is a sickness, a form of idolatry at work here. Acquiring, and then using more and more liturgical costume – sometimes even changing costumes throughout a liturgy – does not respect the dignity of the mystery. The focus shifts from the Gospel, to the individual celebrant, from we together as one, to “me” the pretty one flouncing about in satin and lace. The purpose of vestments – to shift one’s focus and step outside the mundane, is turned on its head, entrenching the community in the ordinary.

I’m a big fan of make your own. I’m lucky in that I have enough “skill” to get away with it. But if one does not, surely this is an opportunity to tap into existing creative skills within the community, and to cultivate new ones. Doing so is not about aesthetics, or vanity – it can open a door to real ministry, by taking what is learned in the process of that creative act, and shifting its purpose to serve a function outside the boundary of the community. The simple act of coming together to create, for example, a set of vestments, establishes a working bond, a creative skill set, and a sense of pride in being a liturgical community that does more than just celebrate liturgy. The idea of starting within, and then moving beyond with what one has learned, is not without precedent in Christian practice. Indeed it is exactly what the early ascetics and desert Fathers did. They retreated to locations beyond the city walls, achieved a skill in spiritual discipline, and then returned to share that skill with those inside the city – outside the desert. Drawing upon the skills to make beautiful vestments a community could then turn around and make functional items for the poor, the lonely, and the sick – but make them well, and bring some beauty and joy into the other’s world. I have seen more than one “exhibit” created by small groups designed to offer a moment of beauty and reflection for visitors. This is a gift of spirit that cannot be bought on eBay, or “worn” in multiple layers of lace and satin. This is a real community in creative action – doing ministry outside the expected boundaries of “mere” liturgy.

I recently bought a Kindle. Yes by and large it was peer pressure – from one particular peer – but peer pressure all the same.

There was also a practical reason for my purchase. I like to read what I call “fluffy” books before going to bed – after a day of reading nothing but history and theology one needs a bit of “light” reading – very light reading as it happens, but light reading all the same so I don’t go to bed pondering theology texts (I get no sleep this way). Fluffy books serve a purpose, they are enjoyable, but they also take up space – lots of space (I have three plastic boxes of favoured fluffy books – many read multiple times – sitting in our loft, not to mention the stacks of them on the various book shelves and drawers around the house). Once I saw that I could get the genre and authors of fluffy books I like on the kindle I realised that this would solve a “real” problem – the need for space – in our house, and decided it was time to give this thing a go.

I have since learned that there is a wealth of good scholarly books also available – some, and this point is rather exciting to me, are chokingly expensive in hard/paperback but when available in kindle are half or a third of the cost making them more attractive. Others of the same vein, are now it seems only available in Kindle format – and again far more affordable than they were when orgininally published.

I think here the case is that these are niche books with a very small publishing run, and probably an even smaller audience (usually institutional libraries and specialists) so publishers like OUP know that the published price while too much for the general interest reader, is realistic for the “niche”. Now with the advent of Kindle and other e-readers, these books can be liberated from the limitations of a formal “print run” and become cheaper and easier for a larger (but still very much) niche.

There is, however, a catch. How do you easily and efficiently use a Kindle for research?

I’ve played with this for a few days now and have devised a “method” – and I would like to know what methods others have found that work (if only to improve my own).

Kindle has (recently?) added the capability of seeing and citing the page number of the printed copy. Apparantly this was a major issue for earlier versions. This is great – as long as the book you are reading was prepared for Kindle after this update in the program. I have learned that some of the Patristics books I’m now enjoying appear not to have this integrated feature “yet” (hint, hint, Amazon – please fix this!).

While this is inconvenient the fact is that most of the books I’ve purchased thus far do have the page numbering feature which means that making a note in Kindle automatically gives the page number with the citation.

Now the fun bit. . .

I’m a keen user of Zotero where I’ve been storing articles, books, and things to look up for my next trip to the British Library. Zotero also is great for taking notes – making them searchable, and interchangeable with various projects all in one place. Another great space saving feature as I’ve got notebooks scattered all over the house from various projects dating back over ten years – notes which because they are not immediately searchable are ostensibly “lost to posterity” unless I remember some fragment of a note and go hunting for it.

Kindle saves your notes and jottings in a text file, which means that when you plug your reader into your computer you have instant access to the notes you took. Double click and it opens in TextEdit (I use Mac, sorry PC users I have no idea what it is in your realm).

Now I open my Zotero panel, if I’ve not already got a file set up for the book in question, I find it on the British Library site (I use the BL because they’re saavy and have the website Zotero ready), click the zotero button, hey presto, I’ve got the detailed bibliography for the book. I can now open an existing note, or create a new one, and drag and drop the relevant note from the Kindle into my Zotero file and its ready to use for my research project. Simples!

The other day Menachem Wecker tweeted a fun question: question for my Catholic friends… would u be offended if non-Catholic collected rosaries (as religious art)?

First – in playing with this question – lets put it into an Eastern rite Indie setting and replace rosary with chjotki. I think it is a similar swap – the rosary is a devotional tool that guides the user through a meditation on the life and presence of Christ and the Theotokos. Chjotki are tools to guide the user in practicing the Jesus prayer.

Neither the rosary nor chjotki are “sacred” indeed if you loose your chjotki, or it is damaged you don’t get terribly upset over it – unless it was your favourite one, or had sentimental value. But you do not reverence the beads, they are not the focus of cult or devotional action so I would argue that they don’t really fall into the category of “religious” art.

Icons on the other hand are religious art. They serve a vital function in the liturgical and devotional life of Eastern Christians across the spectrum of tradition. They are consecrated in a particular fashion, and they are reverenced in public and in private. Their “meaning” and context for an Eastern Christian then is one of reverence, respect, and intimacy.

Icons are also very collectable art. You need only visit places like the Louvre, the Petit Palais, The British Museum, The Walters Art Gallery, or Hillwood House to see how collectable icons are.

I can remember the rather odd feeling I had the first time I saw an exhibition of iconography at the Smithsonian many years ago when I lived in DC. On one hand those icons were religiously important – on the other hand they were also beautifully hand crafted works of art.

Was I offended? No. Slightly awkward perhaps but not offended. Awkward because these icons had been made for a purpose – and had fulfilled that purpose – and one must pause and wonder if they do not “still” serve that purpose outside of their natural context. Does the “sacredness” of the icon somehow dissipate, after having been consecrated, reverenced, loved, and held pride of place in a believer’s home, or a community’s worship space for decades, possibly centuries because it now rests behind glass in a museum hall? Does the presence of those collected icons puncture the continuity of the “profane” with a little bit of the “sacred”? You cannot help but wonder. Especially knowing how many of these pieces of sacred art were acquired – ripped from their context in war and revolution for example.

I think that their new context is more complicated, less familiar, it breaks the flow of what one might expect of these pieces and in the context of one who seeks to become more spiritually disciplined, more aware of the central praxis of my faith – that experience of jarring, of interruption is possibly not a bad thing.

But there is another context worth considering – the context of the personal collector who is not a believer in my tradition (if at all) – in a museum icons are cared for, stored with respect, and understood for their religious, cultural, and technical contexts. A personal collector however, might only see them as valuable objects – as a statement of his or her personal refinement and wealth. They might simply be a bit of matching juju for the decor of a room. To be sure this is not a respectful approach to collecting. But how does this effect the icon, and does the presence of the icon have an effect on the collector? Not being a collector in this vein I cannot answer these questions but they are, I think worth consideration – would I be offended in this context? I honestly don’t know. Indeed I don’t know if I ought to be offended in this context – because the work of the icon, as a conveyor of the presence of the sacred is one that is by its very nature mysterious.

These are just a few random thoughts – what do you think? Is there a category of religious art that if held by a collector as “art” you would be offended?

Bread is a core symbole of the sacramental Christian tradition. We use it in the liturgy, and its symbolic value is freqnently cited in Scripture.

This is the same recipie we use for making prosphora (bread for the liturgy) – sans sugar (which is optional anyway). What does your community do?

I have a soft spot for “Marian Art” largely because I have a fascination with the Theotokos. My last year of my bachelor’s degree focussed on early imagery of Mary, and that interest followed through to my PhD research. So this reflection by Judith Dupre was a rather fun read – oh and the rather striking images included were well worth the pause to consider.

Since writing my previous post I’ve sat downa few times to experiment with “painting” an icon using Photoshop. I’ve only been doing sketches – to understand how the process of putting it all together works. In many respects it is easier than using traditional egg tempera paint – you don’t have to wait for it to dry, and you can fill in blocks of colour faster. But speed and convenience are not what iconography is about.

Other aspects of it are less “convenient”. Getting the hang of doing “digital brushwork” for example – blending, and the fine lines that take an otherwise flat image to that level of being an icon that *pops* out at you when you look at it is less intuitive than traditional painting, and (as yet) not as convincing. I say “as yet” because I’m still very much a novice at this particular use of photoshop.

I would like to see this little experiment through – to a complete icon – just to see if it still evokes the same sense of spirit, and connection for me that a traditionally produced image does.

In the meanwhile – as I play with my digital paintbox and think about iconography – if you have any thoughts on our response to religious imagery, and its production, I’d be interested to read them.

I’m working on an icon. On its own this is not “newsworthy” however, I’ve not worked on anything but sketches in some time due to the all-encompassing Thesis From Hell. It’s nice to remember that my creative life once went beyond research and editing.

Anyway, what is different about this icon verses others I’ve done in the past is that I’m doing it entirely in digital media, which raises a number of questions about the relationship between a very traditional creative expression of spirituality – like iconography, and modern technology.

I was taught that the process of producing an icon is inexorably interwoven with the spiritual state of, and reflection of the producer. I’m wondering then, how the awareness of, and participation in the spirituality of icon painting is effected by the use of non-traditional media.

Moreover, the traditional media (which, I’m not abandoning by the way) has, over the centuries been infused with symbolism, and thus contributes to the whole experience of painting the icon. New media is devoid of these associations and therefore it is reasonable to assume that the “experience” will be somehow altered.

One thing that I have observed already (and this could simply be my own individual point of reference) is that the sensuality, the tactile nature of the traditional method of preparing a board, laying down the under-drawing, followed by the layers of paint, is gone when working in something like Photoshop. This absence of sensual connection to the work is something that, to me at least, feels aloof, cold, and mechanical.

So while the end result might “look” like an icon – because key features typically associated with the production of an icon are missing or altered – is it really an icon?

Casting a wider net – I wonder with the availability of new media, and new techniques, how our production of, and response to Christian art is changing. Can we point to particular schools, or styles and say this is representative of the contemporary “canon” of 21st century Christian art – in the same way that we can point to iconography and say this is Eastern Christian, and it is of a particular period and region?

Over the past two years I’ve enjoyed a number of books researched by, written by, and published by Indie folk. Even those texts that I don’t necessarily agree with bring a smile and a nice dose of pride.

One aspect of this (I hope growing) scholarly production of indie history and theological voice – that it seems we have not yet come to grips with is the idea of peer review. I’m not talking about the traditional expectations of “peer review” – that just won’t work in our indie setting, besides the traditional method is being (rightly) challenged with new, more efficient, and it would seem more accountable, and engaged methods (see for example this article in the New York Times).

It would be nice, however, to have a degree of confidence that the work our own researchers are producing has been collectively edited by known experts in OC/IC history, ethos, etc. Naturally this raises the question of who are our experts. Moreover, it challenges the existing difficulty of getting those experts to engage with one another, and with other interested Indie writers.

It might be simply that we start a “trend” in the community for new books to show/state that they have been reviewed by, and commented on by three different “known experts” – thus giving other indie folks a sense of confidence that this work is relatively well put together – rather than the rantings of some grumpy crank wanting to see his or her name on the cover of a book.

In this way (or something similar) Indie writers and researchers can build their reputation in the community as solid researchers – as eventually, the “new guys” will be asked to review a work by someone even newer – and sound representatives of the tradition. Thus expanding the circle of experts, and further encouraging engagement within communities, and the wider Indie scene.

What do you think?

Last night I handed my PhD thesis over to my supervisor. In theory this means I have crossed the threshold from darkness into light – I am now exiting the cave. What comes next? I’m not sure, I know at some point in the not too distant future there is somethign called “the submission” followed by something else called “the defence” but I long ago gave up trying to get a clear plan, a succinct vision of how this thing works from my University.

This morning for the first time in quite a few weeks, I did my morning trawl, not thinking about the thesis, not dreading that stack of paper 7cm thick sitting next to me shrieking for attention. This morning I could (and have) rest, and think about other things, other possibilities.

A few weeks ago I ordered Rob Angus Jones’ book Independent Sacramental Bishops: Ordination, Authority, Lineage and Validity I’ve been looking forward to sitting down and reading this. My scan through suggests that it is well done, and thoughtful.

I have a stack of other books that have sat there, patiently quietly waiting to be loved, and read. Its all theology (of course) but more importantly it is NOT a thesis.

I have half baked, partially chewed morsels of various research and writing projects (most of an indie nature) sitting quietly in the background of my hard-drive – now, perhaps some of these can be dusted off, and re-visited.

It is amazing how something that you envisioned working one way, and that worked in a completely different way, can be so disruptive, destructive even. But I’m standing before that fine line that shift in colour that is the border between the cave, and the filtered light of the green forest. I can hear birds, and a brook, and I can even see flowers. They are also NOT the thesis.

So this morning for the first time in weeks I could sit down and do my morning trawl. Ever since the origin of this blog I spend a little time each day looking through religious news feeds and other sites of interest to see if anything inspires a post from an OC/IC point of view.

I have often asked what exactly is that point of view – what is our point of reference. And today is not different. Visiting a couple of my favourite sites on simple/eco/creative living I’ve noticed perhaps for the first time that many of them have “manifestos” that is a small set of ideas that serve as a launch pad for action, what we in the “pray-trade” would call praxis.

The Anglicans have a manifesto – the 39 articles – the Lutherans too. In the 19th century the Old Catholic movement had a manifesto as well. But here we are the proverbial ugly step-sister of the Old Catholic movement, and over 100 years later, perhaps it is time to evaluate our ethos, our reason for being, and deliberately, thoughtfully consider a renewed manifesto.

My question then is – what points of reference, what diving boards of praxis would you include in your “Indie Manifesto” and why? I can think of a few but would rather not influence the outcome so am asking you to speak up first (grin).

The Guardian reported yesterday that a major conservation project has been recently completed. The Gerima Gospels are perhaps one of the earliest surviving illuminated Gospel manuscripts thought to have been completed sometime before AD 650. Combined with the remaining fragments of the Cotton Genesis dated to sometime between the fifth and sixth centuries, the fifth century Goleniscev papyrus (interesting for its depiction of the Theotokos) the Gerima Gospels suggests that there was a vibrant culture of illuminated manuscrpt production in the late antique period.