All The Money In The World

Deb and I go to the movies once or twice a year, and we decided to go tonight for her birthday to see Ridley Scott's All The Money In The World. The film is based on true events involving the kidnapping of the sixteen year old grandson of shrewd billionaire oil tycoon J. Paul Getty (played by Christopher Plummer), who refused to pay the ransom for his release.

You can see that Getty's shrewdness comes from a deep wound from childhood, and he finds his comfort in possessions and things, which "don't change" and won't betray him. As the saying goes, "hurt people hurt people." He also literally has so much money that the amount becomes meaningless ("like the air you breathe"), but he ultimately dies of a stroke in his parlor one night. His masterpieces, mansion, and legacy ultimately amount to very little in the end.

The story line, family dynamics, character development, and action scenes in the film were great. Viewed through the eyes of a Christian, though, it read like an obvious modern-day parable:

"Then He said to them, “Beware, and be on your guard against every form of greed; for not even when one has an abundance does his life consist of his possessions.” And He told them a parable, saying, “The land of a rich man was very productive. And he began reasoning to himself, saying, ‘What shall I do, since I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, ‘This is what I will do: I will tear down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, “Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years to come; take your ease, eat, drink and be merry.”’ But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your soul is required of you; and now who will own what you have prepared?’ So is the man who stores up treasure for himself, and is not rich toward God.”" (Lk 12: 13-21)

There is a certain tired predictability about riches and worldly fame. In the eyes of the world, it is everything. But in God's economy, and in the lives of the saints, it is the antithesis of a pinnacle of achievement. In fact, it's weight and influence work against a person who holds fast to it, as Paul warns in 1 Timothy 6:10: "the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil," and in Philippians 3:8-10:

"More than that, I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but rubbish so that I may gain Christ, and may be found in Him, not having a righteousness of my own derived from the Law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness which comes from God on the basis of faith, that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death."

It's almost like two inverses--those rich in the world, and those rich in the eyes of God. J.P. Getty was in the top .001% of society in terms of wealth. But it meant nothing on the spiritual stock exchange. I can only liken it to buying a lie--a compelling, alluring lie. What wealth and riches promises is a lure that tends to hook in the lip of the one who takes the bait. In the film's beginning monologue, the grandson narrates:

"To be a Getty is an extraordinary thing. My grandfather wasn’t just the richest man in the world, he was the richest man in the history of the world.
We look like you, but we’re not like you. It’s like we’re from another planet where the force of gravity is so strong it bends the light. It bends people too."

The holy saints, however, are those who refuse and avoid the bait. They see it as a trap and impediment to the true mission, the true reality of human existence: to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him for ever in heaven. It is the reason we were made. It is the reason why we exist, and in forgetting it amidst the trifles of the world, we forget our raison d'etre.

We were made to be saints. We were made to be extraordinary in ordinariness, rich in poverty, faithful in a faithless world. On the trading floor, we exchange our life in this world for life in the next.

Faith is not pure speculation, though, nor is it reckless. When you know God, the God of the crucified Christ, and forsake all others to trust Him, you abandon yourself to all that is antithetical to success in the world. To be a "one-percenter" in the spiritual economy, you trade status and possessions for the very Personhood of God, to share in His very divinity. 

The mark of a disciple is abandonment, not achievement; generosity, not shrewdness; joy in poverty, not sadness in worldly possessions. What you are given free of cost (Is 55:1) ends up costing you everything (Lk 14:33). The pearl of great price overlooked by so many in the world becomes the only thing worth possessing. All the money in the world amounts to very little in the end for those who are not rich towards God.

Now Is The Season To Mend Your Fence

When I was a smoker and trying to quit, the most vulnerable times were those when I was doing well, getting a couple days clean under my belt, and feeling like I deserved a break, the chance to rest on my laurels. This relaxation of vigilance usually resulted in having a drag or two from a friend's cigarette--a 'reward' for the clean days--which turned in to bumming a couple here and there, which turned in to breaking down and buying a pack, and the next thing I know I'm back to smoking a half a pack a day.

We see this in scripture in 2 Samuel 11. It was the season of battle, but instead of being out with his men King David had stayed behind and remained in Jerusalem (11:1). "After his mid-day rest" he decides to head up to the roof and falls into sin after seeing Bathsheba bathing. It was during the rest, not the battle, that he falls.

Life feels like a series of seasons. My work is cyclical--it comes in intense waves followed by lulls in action; home life too--we are in a restful period, but after the baby comes it will be different. Liturgically, we are in the anticipatory season of Advent, followed by Christmastide, followed by the return to Ordinary time.

My prayer life, too, is going through a season, and most of it is due to neglect and willful laziness on my part. It starts small--things sneak in and take the place of time set aside for God. For me, it is working on the side outside of my normal 9-5 and other home projects that begin to edge out deliberate, intentional prayer time that is set-apart. By the end of the day I am so tired I often don't have the energy to get on my knees and complete 5 decades of a rosary. So I don't. One day turns into two, and the next thing I know a week or so has gone by without setting aside quiet time and making the efforts that come with prayer.

Of course this throws everything else out of whack. It's like someone who opens up another credit card account once they've maxed out the one they have--rather than address the fundamentals of their budgets and make hard, self-sacrificing monetary choices, the debt builds, the interest payments rack up, and the hole gets bigger. The financial stress ripples out into the marriage, family, job, and mental state. The little $5 here and $10 there purchases suddenly become $100, $1,000, or $10,000 of debt if you let it get away from you.

Which is exactly what it feels like when you drift away from prayer in negligence.

We often have a misguided notion that prayer should always be inspiring or consoling. The fact is, sometimes it is just putting the time in. When that time-box remains empty on the table--"wasted space"--the temptation to fill it up with other things becomes strong. We become like Judas who complained about the costly nard that Mary pours on Jesus' feet in John 12:3, objecting that it could have been sold and the money given to the poor. Of course, as Scripture says, it was not because Judas cared about the poor but "because he was a thief." When we steal time set aside for God to use for other things--trifles and money-making and squandering it online--we become thieves in a sense, robbing a shop owner at gunpoint for a handful of dollar bills.

I don't sit still well, but before the baby comes I need to get my focus back, because this laxity in prayer has made me spiritually vulnerable. And when I am vulnerable, my family is vulnerable. And when my family is vulnerable, I am like David on the rooftop, neglecting to go to battle in Springtime, which is my raison d'etre as a man, father, and husband. Setting down my rosary, renting out my time in the home chapel, losing focus--all these things are dangerous chinks in the armor to which Satan will not ignore.

The Catechism speaks of Christian prayer in this way--the two-prongs of grace and effort-- and it would be good for us not to forget it:

"Prayer is both a gift of grace and a determined response on our part. It always presupposes effort. The great figures of prayer of the Old Covenant before Christ, as well as the Mother of God, the saints, and he himself, all teach us this: prayer is a battle. Against whom? Against ourselves and against the wiles of the tempter who does all he can to turn man away from prayer, away from union with God. We pray as we live, because we live as we pray. If we do not want to act habitually according to the Spirit of Christ, neither can we pray habitually in his name. The "spiritual battle" of the Christian's new life is inseparable from the battle of prayer." (2725)

It goes on to describe my current situation of forgetting to be vigilant and gritty, and how easy it can be for things to sneak in to usurp the rightful place of prayer in the life of the Christian:

"We must also face the fact that certain attitudes deriving from the mentality of "this present world" can penetrate our lives if we are not vigilant. For example, some would have it that only that is true which can be verified by reason and science; yet prayer is a mystery that overflows both our conscious and unconscious lives. Others overly prize production and profit; thus prayer, being unproductive, is useless. Still others exalt sensuality and comfort as the criteria of the true, the good, and the beautiful; whereas prayer, the "love of beauty" (philokalia), is caught up in the glory of the living and true God. Finally, some see prayer as a flight from the world in reaction against activism; but in fact, Christian prayer is neither an escape from reality nor a divorce from life." (2727)

Finally, if we ever are struggling to find things to confess in the Sacrament of Penance, we should not forget that our violation of the first and most important Commandment--to love God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind--is a convicting one when we are neglectful and lazy in setting aside time and effort to pray:

"Finally, our battle has to confront what we experience as failure in prayer: discouragement during periods of dryness; sadness that, because we have "great possessions," we have not given all to the Lord; disappointment over not being heard according to our own will; wounded pride, stiffened by the indignity that is ours as sinners; our resistance to the idea that prayer is a free and unmerited gift; and so forth. The conclusion is always the same: what good does it do to pray? To overcome these obstacles, we must battle to gain humility, trust, and perseverance." (2728)

To stay vigilant in prayer, we need to make efforts, and effort is arduous. Due to our fallen nature, that which is arduous is not attractive, not "pleasing to the eye" (Gen 3:6). And yet prayer and true devotion requires we do our part to fight against that which seeks to take God off the throne in our hearts, souls, and mind--whether that's money, sports, shopping, or simply laziness. There are many "holes in the fence" presently in my prayer life that need mending, and fast, for as scripture says, "A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest—and poverty will come on you like a thief and scarcity like an armed man." (Prov 6:10-11). Once an intruder gets it, they can be hard to drive out. And the damage they can do is real.

When you don't feel like praying, when you don't feel like putting the effort in, when you don't feel like getting up in the cold of night to mend the fences--that is when prayer becomes the most vital thing in the world. A little reminder for all, but mostly for myself.

When You Find Yourself On Third Base Thinking You Hit A Triple

At my men's group on Tuesday one of the guys made us aware of something he heard in a sermon , something that has stayed with me all week. He was visiting a church in a suburb of Annapolis with his family where the pastor addressed the congregation of comfortable, white, upper middle class Presbyterians: "You guys are on third base here thinking you hit a triple."

I'm not a big sports guy, but I know the gist of what he was getting at, because I have thought it myself: we can't always take full credit for where we are in life when we neglect to see what and who have gotten us there.

I can only look at my own situation for reference. One example of something I take for granted on a daily basis is the fact that my parents have been married, happily, for almost forty years. I grew up in an intact home that was loving and supportive. My father was active, involved, and emotionally available. I forget that today this is the exception and not the norm. My baggage from childhood was minimal, and as a result I have not had to overcome the kind of emotional and physical trauma that children of divorce have just to get back to zero. To my parent's credit, they gutted out difficult times in their marriage because, as they said, "divorce was never an option." I have benefitted from that childhood stability in a way I don't think I can even quantify. Seeing what a good and healthy marriage was growing up, I didn't bring a ton of crap into my own marriage.

Another point is that financially, we were never in need. My parents were both teachers and my dad was a saver. We always worked growing up, sure, but my dad would get up with us on Sunday mornings when the newspapers were heaviest and drive us around to deliver them. We borrowed their car, and we always had a safety net if we needed it. He had saved for our college education and so I had no debt when I graduated. As a result I was able to volunteer and travel for a year and discern the possibility of religious life without having to worry about paying back loans. My dad taught me about earning, saving, and investing, among many other life skills that people growing up without a father miss out on.

The list could go on--good health, social standing, career opportunities. Etc.

Now, this can go a couple ways. The one is that I could feel a sense of guilt because of this degree of privilege and try to assuage it in various ways that are largely based in identity politics based on race, class, or gender. The other is to deny any privilege at all and instead focus on accomplishments and work/personal merit irrespective of where I came from.

I don't think guilt is super helpful--it tends to immobilize rather than move forward. Nor do I think a kind of naive dismissal of such privilege is either, since it turns a blind eye to the advantages that moved us along. I think what is good is simply to acknowledge that people have paved the way for many of us--we stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us. That includes our parents, our grandparents, our ancestors, our forefathers, our communities, those who have fought to preserve our freedom, those who have left homelands to come to new shores, those who have been jailed and beaten for opposing unjust laws, those who have refused to sacrifice to idols and paid with their lives and set an example for us to follow in faith.  We all have to play with the hands we are dealt, and not all are dealt the same hand.

There are two examples I like to turn to in scripture to reconcile the approach to wealth and opportunity.

The first is the story of the rich young ruler, in Mark 10:17-27--a sincere but self-assured young man of privilege who excels in adherence to the law but finds himself tied to his possessions and unable to carry out what Jesus asks of him; that is, to "sell all you have and give to the poor and follow me" (Mk 10:21).

The second is Joseph of Arimathea, also a "rich man" and a disciple of Jesus (Mt 27:57). He assumed the cost and responsibility of Jesus' burial. He asked Pilate to be given the body of Jesus, and he wraps him in a clean linen cloth and lays the body in his own new tomb, which had hewn in the rock (v 59-60). He did not hold tight to his resources but used what he had for the sake of the Lord. As a result he did a great service to him, and did not go away sad the way the rich young ruler did.

It's low hanging fruit to rail against the rich and automatically canonize the poor, but both have a place in God's economy, for as St. John Chrysostom said, “The rich exist for the sake of the poor, and the poor exist for the salvation of the rich.” Like Joseph of Arimathea, let's not get paralyzed by guilt or disdainful of such privileges, but use what has been passed down to us, those material and life benefits, for the sake of the Lord and our brothers and sisters rather than hoard it to ourselves in a sad and lonely manner. We can't take it with us to the afterlife...but it can sure by put to good use here.

Practicing Christian Hospitality Takes Practice

My mom has the gift of hospitality. Naturally friendly and extroverted, she has a warm disposition and a knack for making people feel welcome--family, friends, and strangers.

I haven't inherited the gift they way one might inherit certain genes. I'm more like the kid that needs to struggle to get B's in school, relying on work, grit, and repetition when it comes to hospitality. Nevertheless, welcoming people has become a very important part of our family's spiritual DNA, and so we make conscious choices to practice this hospitality every opportunity we get.

I've written about our friends Dan and Missy and how they exemplify this kind of virtue. We have learned just by being around them and being on the receiving end of what "open hands, open hearts, and open doors" looks like.

In the spiritual economy, the corporal works of mercy are like the one, five, and ten dollar bills that seem insignificant but over time accumulate and build wealth. It takes time, effort, and resources to feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked,  shelter the homeless, visit the sick, visit those in prison, and bury the dead. It is the meat and potatoes, the nuts and bolts, of authentic Christian life. For Christ says, "I was a stranger and you welcomed me" (Mt 25:35) and this is how we will be judged.

We practice the works of mercy because we often do it imperfectly; seeking recognition, losing our tempers, cursing the poor under our breath, complaining or making excuses. As our old pastor used to say, practice doesn't make perfect; practice makes permanent. And living a permanent, embedded life of Christian virtue doesn't just happen--it takes a lot of starts and stops sometimes before it becomes habit, and, hopefully, second nature.

But why hospitality specifically, and what does it look like in practice? We try to take a Benedictine approach, not explicitly, but just loosely based on the 53rd chapter of the Rule that says:

"All guests who present themselves are to be received as Christ."

God blessed us with a house, and in thanksgiving we desire to use it for His glory. Our home is our kind of "domestic monastery" where we serve as porters and cooks, guest masters and sacristans. It's where we can welcome strangers and feed hungry people, fill their spirits with water, wine, and iced tea; offer a bed for the weary and those in transition and traveling.

It's also where we can practice the spiritual work of mercy of Comforting the Afflicted and Counseling the Doubtful at our kitchen table, when a friend who was struggling in life and her faith rang us up late at night for help and came over. Deb also had an idea of how to Instruct the Ignorant and Pray for the Living and the Dead by having all our nieces and nephews over for a night of food and games, giving each of them a rosary and Miraculous Medal on the way home. We hosted young out of town couples unable to afford lodging while getting medical treatments for their babies at area hospitals and were blessed by their presence in our home.

Hospitality is a powerful witness, because it shows in deeds genuine love and concern for a brother or sister, mimicking the servant Christ who washed his disciples feet (Jn 13:1-7). It doesn't seek repayment but offers rest; it is slow to speak, yet eager and willing to listen; it subverts temptations we have towards self-seeking, and puts Christ in the stranger/friend/guest at the seat of honor. It is apologetic, since it is not without rhyme or reason why we love and serve, but gives witness instead only because He first loved us and showed us what love is and looks like (1 Jn 4:19). We are only passing on what we have received.

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it." (Heb 13:2). If you want to show the love of Christ to someone, don't underestimate the practice of Christian hospitality. Open your home to the stranger and those who can't repay you; offer your tea and table to those who need an ear to listen; cook for more than you have, and always keep a place setting reserved for unexpected guests. Remember, practice makes permanent. By this practice, you are able to offer room at the inn for the Christ child, who comes by night in disguise.

The Gift Of Work

My wife and I have a joke that she "bought low, and sold high" when we met. "You had a history of mental illness, no car, no job, no definite prospects, and you were living in a school bus," she said, "but I prayed for someone who was resourceful. Plus, I knew you were the one."

It was an experimental point in my life in Fall of 2008--trying new things, doing things I've always wanted to do, and stepping out. Part of that was trying on 'semi-retirement' at age 28, which practically consisted of quitting my job as a caseworker (without another lined up), living off my savings, and working on writing a book. I had the opportunity to do so, which I know not everyone has. I moved (from the school bus, as it wasn't, ahem, working out so well) into a spare bedroom in an apartment with a friend from grad school. I payed $150/month, had minimal expenses, and at first I enjoyed the unstructured and expansive days of leisure--walking to the donut shot for a coffee and a Boston creme, writing when I felt like it, going for walks, volunteer tutoring, and taking naps.

The fact is, though, I wasn't especially happy with this kind of idyllic setup. It wore off quick. The more time I seemed to have, the less I wrote. I wasn't spending much, but I wasn't pulling in anything either. The unstructured nature of most of my days was a little unnerving. Granted, I was unemployed for a few months by choice, but it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. By the time Debbie and I met in February of 2009, I wanted to work again, and got a job shortly thereafter.

I have always worked. I delivered newspapers, getting up at 4 in the morning before school, from age 12-18. In high school and college I waited tables and washed dishes. Summers I worked in greenhouses, propane factories, canoe rentals, architectural blueprint editing, filing, swimming pool maintenance, bar-backing--anything to stay busy and make some money.

Work is edifying. For men, it is tied up in our identity--work is what we do, what we are called to do,  and it ties in with where we draw our dignity and sense of self from. Men are nearly twice as likely to have mental health problems due to being unemployed than women. Young, single, idle men in developing countries are prime candidates for radical extremist groups to recruit. As Pope St. John Paul II wrote in Laborem Exercens,

“From the beginning therefore he [man] is called to work. Work is one of the characteristics that distinguish man from the rest of creatures, whose activity for sustaining their lives cannot be called work. Only man is capable of work, and only man works, at the same time by work occupying his existence on earth. Thus work bears a particular mark of man and of humanity, the mark of a person operating within a community of persons. And this mark decides its interior characteristics; in a sense it constitutes its very nature.” 

Physical work is especially good for me as well, both for my body and my mind. Yesterday I spent a full eight hour day sawing, hammering, and building a chicken coop and run for some chickens we got. At the end of the day I was wiped, and my back was aching from all the bending and lifting. But I felt good, and accomplished. I had created something, done something, and I had the soreness and calluses to prove it.  I felt like I earned my sleep. I tend to calculate my 'opportunity cost' with things--is such-and-such worth my time? Is it too much hassle? I was feeling this way with the chickens--it was tempting to just pay a couple hundred bucks for a pre-made coop. But I knew I had the necessary skills and tools, as well as scrap lumber I'd been wanting to get rid of. It was slightly daunting at first, as it was all new territory for me, but it got done and I'll be honest: I was pretty satisfied. If I would have balked at the hard work involved and shelled out the money for one that was already made, I wouldn't have had that satisfaction.

All work has dignity--whether you clean office suites or run a Fortune 500 company. Whatever you do, do it well. Work is good for us, good for our spirits, and unemployment for many people (but especially men) can be demoralizing and jeopardize mental well-being. I have a new appreciation for work after not working in my late twenties for a couple months. I see the opportunity to work more as a gift than an burden (though it can be that as well), and am grateful for it. Gratefulness breeds happiness, and happy people are grateful people. Whatever the work, whatever responsibility you are entrusted with, use it to glorify God, and to earn your keep.