that comes of intricate ritual faultlesslynperformed”: ritual is a tool, nothingnmore or less, which helps us to DO holynthings even though we can’t BE holy.nLiturgical predictability takes the intellectnout of worship—and with it thenego—and lets us participate even if wendon’t particularly “feel like it.” Is ritualnin worship, like ritual in craftsmanship,na lost art, to be tolerated smuglynbut not encouraged?nI don’t know. Our children are laboratorynrats in this experiment, as theynare in all experiments where a monolithnof tradition is intentionally chiselednaway in an artificially short periodnof time by those with ulterior motivesn—usually a latent atheism—as thenrest of us let them. Perhaps the old waynof worship lasted so many centuriesnprecisely because it was the most natural,nthe most helpful to us in our lives,nand our children will go home to itnlike the prodigal son to his father. Butnthe more I consider, the more I understandnthat we have only one right innthis life. It is not the “right” to ride innthe front of the bus, or to not gonhungry. It is not the “right” to privacynor to bear firearms or to worship as wenplease. God gives us none of thosen”rights,” and what man gives, manncan take away. The only right Godngives us is truly inalienable: the rightnto glorify Him. That is why He madenus and the Sabbath, and why we usednto make cathedrals. And this solitarynright of ours is the very one we’re notnteaching our children these days.njane Greer edits Plains Poetry Journal.nLetter FromnNew Yorknby Stephen KogannThe Unseen CaravaggionI went to the Caravaggio exhibition atnthe Metropolitan Museum of Art on anrainy Tuesday morning, hoping tonavoid the crowds that gather at bignamenart events these days. The streetsnwere fairly empty, and I could feel thentemperature drop along the line ofnfountains as I passed—a cozy momentnbefore moving from nature into art. Inremembered the dingy comfort of thenmuseum when it was like a library ornan old-fashioned bookstore—a perfectnplace for browsing and meditationn—and I recalled my trip to Londonnlast January, where I spent a quiet daynat the Royal Academy’s exhibit of Venetiannart, one of the most beautifullynpresented shows that I have ever seen.nI canceled out these reveries when Insaw the ticket line for “Caravaggio andnHis Contemporaries.” I was a veterannof several crowd-control experiences,nincluding the last Van Gogh exhibit atnthe Met, and I could feel that slightnedge of tension rise in me again toncompete for space in order to see thenpresent work. Unfortunately, I did notnsee the Caravaggios as much as I sawnthe entire event itself, which was as farnfrom Caravaggio as I ever want to seenagain.nI say this because art was the lastnthing that I experienced at the show. Indo not exaggerate when I say that thennoise in the first room of Caravaggio’sncontemporaries was at a low-level dinnby 11:30. There were two men next tonme talking about their wrist ailments,nseveral women on my left discussingnwhat they would have for lunch, couplesnexchanging the high points ofntheir trip to New York, babies crying,neveryone talking as if they were, innfact, on the street or in their livingnrooms, the noise of a crowd that mightnhave been just as happy with tickets tona hockey game or midtown movie.nSelf-restraint, civility, and a generalnsense of caring and decorum werenhopelessly missing from that scene,nlike an art form or a way of life thatnonce was common knowledge and hasnnow become a secret.nI hate these “blockbuster” exhibitionsnand the corporate style of the newnrooms at the Metropolitan, with theirnwalls of glass and designer partitions,nthe bookshops selling stationery andnvases and bracelets, the mounds ofncatalogs waiting to be sold in volumensales. I hate the overdone floral arrangementsnon the main floor and thenguards who ask to see my admissionsnbutton every time I pass from onenentrance to another; and I still remembernthe ticket attendant who said,n”Enjoy the show” at the Van Goghnexhibition, as if I were going to anmovie. The crowning touch to thisnunfeeling scene is the modern managingnand marketing of art in today’snnn”heady art market,” as a recent NewnYork Times article described the currentntrade. It is the type of scene innwhich critics exaggerate “world class”nnames and trivialize them at the samentime; where Frank Stella can talk aboutna European master as if Caravaggionsomehow led to him; where the greatnmoment of the Renaissance passingninto the Baroque is reduced to a questionnof “space,” as if art were the samenas interior decorating.nWe seem to flee from history andnsubject matter, from everything thatnonce was understood as spiritual authenticitynin art: the necessary connectionnbetween feelings and ideas. Yetnthat is where we are today, or betternstill, who we are today, not only with anCaravaggio or a Van Gogh, but with anMozart, whom we regard as he wasnportrayed in Amadeus, as a babblingnidiot, a narcissistic child surroundednby a world of less-gifted idiots andncraven jealousies, anything but thenintelligent master of a discipline thatnhe was, moving in an equally intelligentnworld of musical culture. For wenseem to feel so bad about ourselves, sonempty and devoid of values that wenneed to tear down all that we can nonlonger respect in simple modesty andnto which we no longer have any pretensenof aspiration.nStephen Kogan teaches at the Boroughnof Manhattan CommunitynGollege.nLetter From thenLower Rightnby John Shelton ReednA Mississippi HomecomingnChauvinistic Southerners like me arenhard to please. We don’t like it whennvisitors pop in and out and say that thenSouth has changed so much that itnlooks like everywhere else; but wendon’t like it when folks come callingnand say that nothing important hasnchanged, either. In a recent article innThe American Spectator, an expatriatenMississippian named James Harknessndid just that. He really should knownbetter.nHarkness grew up in Greenwood,nSEPTEMBER 19861 49n