Lent For Losers

When I was around seventeen years old, I was competing in a multi-day stage bicycle race. I was a fairly competitive cyclist as a junior, but I'll never forget cresting one particularly grueling climb and seeing my dad on the sidelines. I pulled over briefly and told him I was having a heck of a time staying motivated to push through, both in this race and my cycling career in general. "Well, if it's too hard, you can always just quit," my dad told me reassuringly, or something to that effect. That was all the invitation I needed. We went home together that day, and the relief I felt washed over me like an ocean. 

I love my dad and how he is always there for me, like the father of the prodigal son. But my wife and I joke about that formative scene in my youth and how it set the stage for future folds. "Well, if it's too hard, just quit," we often joke in various scenarios we encounter. It's funny but kind of embarrassing as well. I want my kids to know they're loved and supported, but I don't want my kids to be quitters necessarily.  

I've noticed some of the greatest "achievers" in life were those who got the least affirmation when young. Elon Musk as one example has this kind of super-human ability to create and execute, but like many top-level achievers, I suspect it comes from a father-hole or a need to compensate or prove someone wrong. When Musk returned home after being hospitalised, his father Errol Musk berated him for getting beaten up by bullies. Errol Musk called his son a “loser” and took the side of the bully who beat him up. We all have those instances from our adolescence that shape us, for better or worse. 

I've written before that I believe the character trait of stubbornness will greatly aid a Christian in his spiritual life, especially were should he be faced with martyrdom. I'm not a stubborn person; I cede easily, so it's something I need to learn or develop. One inspiring saint in this regard is St. Eulalia, who was born in the 3rd century in Spain. At twelve years old, stubborn and bull-headed, she would sneak out of her parent's house in the middle of the night in search of pagans to defy. She would spit at their idols and defy their threats of torture in order to gain the red crown. Or St. Crispina, who refused to sacrifice to idols, was called stubborn and insolent by the proconsul, and was martyred.

One of my favorite modern disciples (hopefully on the path to sainthood) is Fr. Walter Ciszek, who grew up in the hard-scrabble coal country of Pennsylvania and had a tough-as-nails character. This character would serve him well as a priest. However, when he joined the Jesuits and found himself in a Siberian prison after sneaking into Russia to minister to Catholics there, he similarly learned a lesson in relying on his own strength when he was put to the test. From WAU:

"Initially, Fr. Ciszek wasn’t too worried. He was innocent, after all. And he had "a great deal of confidence" in his ability to stand firm against any interrogator.

His strength, discipline, and habits of prayer certainly helped. But Lubianka wore him down with its constant hunger and isolation and the all-night interrogations, with their mind games and agonizing afterthoughts. After a year—brutalized, drugged, threatened with death—Ciszek did what he had been sure he would never do: He signed papers that gave the impression he had been spying for the Vatican.

Afterward, burning with shame and guilt for being "nowhere near the man I thought I was," he finally faced the truth.

'I had asked for God’s help but had really believed in my ability to avoid evil and to meet every challenge. . . . I had been thanking God all the while that I was not like the rest of men. . . . I had relied almost completely on myself in this most critical test—and I had failed.'

The interrogations continued, and Ciszek fell into black despair. Terrified, he threw himself on God, pleading his utter helplessness. Then, in a moment of blinding light, he was able to see "the grace God had been offering me all my life."

'I knew that I must abandon myself completely to the will of the Father and live from now on in this spirit of self-abandonment to God. And I did it. I can only describe the experience as a sense of "letting go," giving over totally my last effort or even any will to guide the reins of my own life. It is all too simply said, yet that one decision has affected every subsequent moment of my life. I have to call it a conversion. . . . It was at once a death and a resurrection.'

We are now entering into Holy Week on the eve of Palm Sunday, it is no accident that we see the weakness of the flesh highlighted in Matthew's Gospel. If you are like me, you find strong affinity with St. Peter in the courtyard, who of course was just prior to his thrice denial of Christ was brazenly cutting off the ear of those who opposed him in the garden. This has not been an especially fruitful Lent for me--I'm not necessarily failing spectacularly, but I am certainly eating crow in "adjusting" my various personal Lenten observances--quite frankly, because I found them too demanding. Like my father at the bike race, we lovingly reassure ourselves all is well and all is well and all will be well, while we quietly slip out of our hair shirts a few weeks early and go off in search of some soft foods. "I will die (to self) with you!" we proudly profess on Ash Wednesday. When Palm Sunday comes, we self-consciously look around to see who heard us.

One of the most disconcerting parts of lost opportunity when your Lent is more or less a failure is that we fail in loving God more. "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God" (Ps 42:1) David waxes. Isn't this the purpose of our observances of the three Lenten pillars--to intensify that longing, that panting for God: in our prayer, in our hunger, and in the poor? 

But even when we have cut corners left and right, we can still finish strong. We should recognize, however, when it comes to the grace of final perseverance at our death, this is complete grace and depends nothing on our merit--even that merit we pride ourselves of obtaining during these sacrificial periods of penance and testing.

What happens when you miserably fail that test? You throw yourself on the mercy of grace, since this is what your salvation depends upon. We don't obtain perseverance through the will alone, but as St. Alphonsus notes, "All those who are in heaven are there for this one reason: They prayed, they asked for perseverance. All those who are in hell are there for this one reason: They did not pray and they did not ask the Lord for the grace of final perseverance." If nothing else, it reminds us that we do not save ourselves of our own merits, and how truly weak we are--helpless without grace.

If you're like me, you are salvaging what's remaining of your Lent to try to finish strong, while realizing it's all a kind of child's play compared to what our Lord endured in his Passion: our little successes, our massive fails, our meager penances, all the while accompanied by complaining and rationalizations for the slightest of discomforts. But we must remember that our Lord never held Peter's sin of denial over his head: it was a setback but not the sum of his discipleship, and one Peter never forgot either since it was the antidote to his brazen bravado.  

If you're having an excellent and fruitful Lent, I commend you; give thanks to God for the grace. If you're like me and having a less-than-stellar month of lost opportunity full of lackluster prayer and feeble fasts, I feel you. Let's try to recognize that in our Christian faith, we do not earn the love of the Father through our works and accomplishments--it is freely given and freely received, an unmerited grace. That doesn't mean we shouldn't push ourselves to pray more, fast more, give more....but even when you haven't, God doesn't love you any less. If anything, he is close to the brokenhearted and rich in mercy for the weak and helpless.

You may have bitten off more than you can chew a month ago, but you still have a week before the darkness-turned-dawn of Easter. Recommit yourself to the Lord, as the just man falls seven times and rises again (Prov 24:16).  Embrace your failures because they are your teacher--teaching you not to rely on your own merits, but on grace. And give yourself a little grace too--if you ate the chocolate or the burger or whatever. You're not a loser, just a human being. God still loves you. He forgives you, runs out to meet you and interrupts your rehearsed script to throw a robe and ring on you. He wants you to die with him, and die well, so that you may live. Final perseverance does not depend on you, but rests with a very competent and loving God who wants to shower you with that grace. 

Let him.

Majoring In The Minors

 I'm preparing to give a talk this evening at our monthly men's prayer fraternity on the virtue of chastity, and in doing so was making various back-of-napkin notes. Every virtue has an opposing vice, and related to the virtue of chastity I wanted to discuss the vice opposed to the virtue of perseverance, which is mollities, or "softness." St. Paul uses this verb in 1 Corinthians 6:9 as it relates to the sin of sodomy. I think it really needs to be discussed in the context of the virtue of chastity because while sexual immorality is the one temptation we are instructed to "flee" from, there is still a good bit of fighting against the flesh that goes on. We run, yes, but we also must fight the temptation to indulge the flesh. For the man used to a pattern of self-abuse, putting a stop to it involves ardor, and to the degree that he shirks from that mortification and suffering betrays a kind of mollities spirit, whether he is heterosexual or homosexual. 

But there is something else I want to cover in this discussion on chastity, and I use it as a segway into what I want to discuss here, and that is that the external trappings of chastity (modesty of dress, fasting of the eyes, temperance, continence) are all servants of love/charity, the good and end of this virtue. 

I think St. Paul sums this up for me famously in 1 Cor 13:1-3: 

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing." 

We've heard this passage so many times it tends to become white noise. But isn't it really the essence of Christianity, of our faith? Isn't it primary, served by all the secondary ends? Doesn't it deserve primacy of place in our spiritual lives, our praxis, and yes, our Lenten observance?

We can call into the same problem with fasting during this season--doing the exact thing our Lord warns us not to do: adopting a gloomy continence, or becoming preoccupied with the nuances of our fast or either self-congratulatory or self-condemning while neglecting the weightier things of the law--that is, the law of love. Our Lord admonishes the Pharisees for this "majoring in the minors" in Matthew's gospel, "For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others" (Mt 23:23).

I see this all the time in the online Catholic world. Whether it's a particular outrage du jour, or a pet project of picking apart some TV show as if our eternal salvation depended on such critiques, or even the insider baseball in-fighting over liturgical nuances, these things wouldn't be as much of a hollow gong if they did, in fact, communicate the love with which they supposed to be concerned with. Often what I see as an observer is the antithesis of charity--I see the Saul, the righteous Pharisee defender of religious orthodoxy, and not the Paul who becomes weak, "all things to all men," and boasts only in his weakness. Again, we hear it like white noise, but how much meditation have we lent to the continuation of Paul's letter to the Corinthians.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." (1 Cor 13:4-8)

Lent often degenerates for many people like myself because we neglect an elusive charity in our hearts in exchange for the tangible ticks and notches our forty days affords us--signs that we are progressing in the spirit, mortifying our flesh more, becoming more disciplined and hard-packed. But to what end? If we are not growing in charity, we are gongs. We forget our purpose, our Lenten raison d'etre. Like the chaste man who is cold in his heart, who has choked out love and openness and self-deference because he sees it as a threat to his tenuous virtue. Who is so consumed with tamping down the weeds of lust and avoiding occasions of sin that he forgets how to love. Because his heart has not been born again, but only patched on the outside. Chastity is really a matter of the heart, not the groin.

I had a therapy appointment yesterday, because I have really not been feeling myself since undertaking some of these disciplines--having gone cold-turkey off of nicotine a month ago, and coffee (switching to tea) a week ago, in addition to fasting every day and more severely on Wednesdays and Fridays...all potentially "good" things. But I'm sleeping 12 hours a day now, and feel a little...hollow. Not myself. It may just take some time to adjust, but my faithful Catholic therapist suggested it was too much taken on all at once, and encouraged me to "just have a freaking cup of coffee" if I need it. I was actually relieved to hear that, and I didn't take it as a free-pass but simply perhaps a bleed valve in case my charity grows too cold. If you're fasting and a jerk to your wife and family, you're not doing it right. I haven't taken that liberty of the cup of joe yet, but it's good to know that it's a minor thing in the shadow of the majors, which is namely, charity.

Increasing in charity is really a slow grow--you can't force it anymore you can get that orchid to bloom in time for your birthday. But you can practice in order to make it more....common for you. The way a bad habit needs to be replaced by a good habit, and aided by grace. Pray for an increase in charity, and then endure the hard work of self-deference of blessing someone when you'd rather curse them, praying for your enemies, giving alms when it hurts to do so and even when people are undeserving, making time for someone in need of a pep talk or tea at the kitchen table. Charity is the master, and these things its servant.

If you are deep in prayer and your neighbor in need knocks on your door in need, you are majoring in the minors if you piously refuse to rise and answer--not only the external door, but the door of your heart. For even the Lord healed on the Sabbath. He knew how to tell the meat from the bone, the major things from the minor ones, the purpose of the Law in addition to it's letter. He was so critical of the Pharisees because they were experts at "majoring in the minors." They converted no one, but set themselves up as judges and executioners of righteousness. Don't be like them, our Lord says. 

The Tertullians of our day are out there, observing and noting how we as Christians conduct ourselves. To the degree we give them pause and they note, "see how they love one another!" we are doing things right. To the degree we are focused on the minor barnacles of our faith when they do not serve the larger purpose of that love, we are missing the mark, gongs resounding from a shallow and hollow core.  

Sin Before Death

 Why do we sin? Why do we do that which we do not want to do, as Paul laments in Romans 7? Why are we even attracted to it, if it is not good for us, offends our Master, and earns the wages of death?

Pious Catholics can sometimes imagine themselves as martyrs, resisting sin at the barrel of a gun. But the fact of the matter is, most of us disrobe willingly rather than by force and walk into sin's chamber of our own accord and desire. This is the eternal mystery of concupiscence, and can leave us flabbergasted when we wake up feeling the piercing rays of morning-after shame on our cheeks wondering "how did I even get here?"   

There are many reasons why we fall into sin, and I think there are a few:

We desire the perceived pleasure of the act.

We shrink from the pain of resistance of the act.

We fall into the act through ignorance like blind men into a pit.

We minimize the consequences of the act and rationalize it.

We weigh the pros and cons and determine that the cons of the act do not outweigh the pros.

We feel powerless to resist the act because we do not trust God to be able to deliver us.

We buckle under the tension, tricked into thinking that if we give in we will have peace.

Most of us sprint out of the gate at the beginning of Lent, forgetting that it is a marathon and not a sprint, relying on our own inner reserves and resolutions to carry us. But a good reminder of the peril of this way of thinking can be seen in the story of Fr. Walter Ciszek's humbling while in a Siberian prison camp:

"Initially, Fr. Ciszek wasn’t too worried. He was innocent, after all. And he had "a great deal of confidence" in his ability to stand firm against any interrogator.

His strength, discipline, and habits of prayer certainly helped. But Lubianka wore him down with its constant hunger and isolation and the all-night interrogations, with their mind games and agonizing afterthoughts. After a year—brutalized, drugged, threatened with death—Ciszek did what he had been sure he would never do: He signed papers that gave the impression he had been spying for the Vatican.

Afterward, burning with shame and guilt for being "nowhere near the man I thought I was," he finally faced the truth.

'I had asked for God’s help but had really believed in my ability to avoid evil and to meet every challenge. . . . I had been thanking God all the while that I was not like the rest of men. . . . I had relied almost completely on myself in this most critical test—and I had failed.'

The interrogations continued, and Ciszek fell into black despair. Terrified, he threw himself on God, pleading his utter helplessness. Then, in a moment of blinding light, he was able to see "the grace God had been offering me all my life."

'I knew that I must abandon myself completely to the will of the Father and live from now on in this spirit of self-abandonment to God. And I did it. I can only describe the experience as a sense of "letting go," giving over totally my last effort or even any will to guide the reins of my own life. It is all too simply said, yet that one decision has affected every subsequent moment of my life. I have to call it a conversion. . . . It was at once a death and a resurrection.'

Many pious Catholics imagine themselves echoing St. Dominic Savio's words, "Death before sin!", which reflects a rightly-ordered spirit, that of St. Peter willing to go to Christ's death with him. But the mystery of how he "ended up here" in the courtyard denying he even knew the man he vowed to join in death is a sober reminder of the comradeship that we share with concupiscence. We are not saints, my dear. We can be. We want to be. But the day is already long spent, and we are still far from home.   

No, the fact is it is not death before sin for many of us, but sin before death. A little compromise. A small withholding. A failing in love. Death is final after all, foreign and scary, whereas we have known sin all our lives. What's one more concession with an old friend to keep that finality at bay? God is a God of understanding. He gets us. 

The hard balance during Lent is the struggle with the wily law (of the Church). "We are called to fast today" suddenly becomes "Man, I'm hungry all of a sudden."  Or the pet serpent sliding in to suggest to us "did you really make this resolution and expect to keep it? Did God really say..."

"You have not resisted sin to the point of blood" (Heb 12:4) and perhaps God will spare you from doing so, if you trust Him and it be His will. But then too know that the trials of our faith, tested by fire, are more precious than gold (1 Pt 1:7). And "there hath no temptation taken hold of you but such as is common to man. But God is faithful; He will not suffer you to be tempted beyond that which ye are able to bear, but with the temptation will also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it" (1 Cor 10:13). 

Lent is your proving ground to be faithful in small things so that eventually you will be entrusted with larger things (Lk 16:10). It is your opportunity to die daily to self, without actually dying in the flesh. You will get weary. You will get worn down. Do the little things well, and the big things will come in their due time. In the garden we were promised to live forever, and yet that our parents would die if they ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil (Gen 2:16-17). There the serpent said "you will not die."

But when he slithers out to our fort in the desert of Lent, he tells us the opposite: "Without sin, you will surely die."  "No man can resist sin; it is the lot of all men." This is when you must keep your eyes on Christ and double down in prayer, begging for the blanket of the Holy Spirit to cover you, for our Lord promises us that he gives all the grace necessary to resist sin, and that it is in fact sin which brings death. When we are hungry, pent-up, under siege, bored, tired, complacent, our minds become cloudy and quick to fold under the weight of our discomfort. 

That's why we spend time with these "little things," little hungers and penances, so that when we are faced with the big things--like Death itself--we will know we can live without sin and all its empty promises and pleasures. We can see through the voluptuous figure of the flesh to the rotting skeleton of the corpse beneath it, to see life and death in its true form.

So, pace yourself. It's a marathon, not a sprint. Do not trust in your own strength. If you fall, get up and confess and get back on the horse. God is patient and merciful, and we are often harder on ourselves than he is on us. Death before sin, but it is not yet our time to die. Skip the snack --not as a "no" but as a "yes" to love of God. When hunger pangs hit, praise His holy Name. Give up the thing. Forgive yourself quickly when you fall, and do not judge your brother either. Get used to little deaths so that you might live. 

You Are The Man

 

When our oldest son was born, my wife and I chose as his namesake two men who I always felt a close affinity to: David, from the Old Testament, and Peter, from the New Testament. Both men had a burning love for God that is intimate and shamelessly authentic; both were chosen and anointed by God for a special mission. Both were great men but also fell victim to great sin, and the fact that these two things were not in contradiction was not lost on me.  

As we head into Good Friday and the final few days of Holy Week, I am just always struck, year after year, with the story of Peter's denial of Christ. I will confess that I struggle with a degree of "Catholic self-worth" which usually comes up in proximity to the other Catholics in our circle--the ones who seem to have the liturgical seasons down pat, their kids on a good catechized schedule, their lives in order, and who just exemplify what it is to be a good Catholic. I feel like a scandal to my own self, unworthy of emulation because of my bad example. I am full of strong bravado that blows up in the first few miles of the marathon and then leaves me limping the remaining miles, or taking shortcuts. I have gone from embracing my cross to now trying to shirk it off at every turn.  I eat in the middle of the night. I find excuses not to pray. I indulge in this or that excess. 

Of course I am not above human weakness more than the next man. The burning shame I feel when what I do (and don't do) does not square with what I profess seems to be amplified by that fact that I truly love the Lord, and yet I can't back up that love with action worthy of its degree. I don't understand it.

But then all I have to do is look at Peter.

Just as David's murderous plot, adultery, and cover up was grave, Peter's sin is nothing to sneeze at either:

He lies.

He curses and swears an oath.

He betrays the confidence of his closest friend.

He denies God.

As Christ falls carrying his own cross three times on the way to Calvary, Peter seeks to get out from under his not once, not twice, but three times. Feeding his denial is a sensitivity to the outlook and talk of others. We see in Paul's letter to the Galatians that this does not completely leave him either after the Resurrection, since Paul accuses Peter of not eating with the Gentiles because they are uncircumsized, even though he knows it is not right to do so. 

But like David, who is shown his sin by the prophet Nathan and is brought to recognition and repentance with the words "You are the man!," Peter is cut to the heart with sorrow when he hears the cock crow and recalls the prophetic words of his friend and Savior foretelling his denial. He, as well, is the man--not "the man" that everyone wants to be, but the man who stands accused and has no more room to deny. 

When he realizes this and the shadow of shame is cast over him, he weeps bitterly. Like Judas, in a way, Peter has traded in his closest friend for pieces of silver--the silver of blending in with the crowd, of not being a standout, of the world. But unlike Judas, Peter lets the glance from the Lord in that moment cut through him with love. Though he is taken out at the knees and brought low, he does not abandon or forsake his love for Jesus. He will recover his name, and his weakness will be perfected in strength...but now is the time for tears.

Lent is an utter humiliation for me, and typically nearing the end of it I am reminded of how much Christ endured...and how little I have. As he takes flog after flog at the pillar, I complain about a blister on my heel. As he staggers with exhaustion under the tree from which he will hang,  I snack on crumpets and count down to my next meal. As he bears the weight of sin, I continue to stack my own on his shoulders. When being a disciple is worthy of praise I'm all about it--when it becomes the scorn of the crowd, I, like Peter, look to instead join a winning team. I am a worm and no man. 

But I am, in fact, the man. The man who denies Christ to his face to save face myself. The man who chooses comfort and good name again and again over being maligned and counted as one of his disciples. The man who is not a good friend, who is a liar, who swears and curses and abandons. And as I stagger out of the courtyard during these final hours of Lent, all I can do is lower my head and say, God, be merciful to me a sinner! 

The Carnal Man Is An Effete Man

My wife snapped a picture of me while we are on a trip to a ski mountain recently. I had my miserable Ben Affleck look going on, apparently. She texted a few friends jokingly..."Rob doesn't like doing enjoyable things."

There is something about indulging every desire and pampering oneself to an inordinate degree that comes across as...well, effete. The word derives from Latin effetus, meaning "no longer fruitful," and for a brief time in English it was used to describe an animal no longer capable of producing offspring.

Effete (adj):

-affected and overly refined.

-(of a man) behaving in a way traditionally associated with women and regarded as inappropriate for a man.

-no longer capable of effective action.

Now, there is nothing wrong with the proverbial fine wine or an expensive cigar or a nice meal. But when our Lord refers to the greatest man born to woman, John the Baptist, he says,

"What did you go out to see? A man dressed in fine clothes? No, those who wear fine clothes are in kings’ palaces." (Mt 11:18) 

John is a man's man. Rough clothes. Rough food. Rough demeanor. Virile, yet chaste. And he is sharply contrasted to the effete nature of Herod who was so "delighted" with a dance done by Herodias' daughter that he is led to make an oath he will regret (Mk 6:22). The two men do in fact stand side by side in the flesh. John's head ends up on a platter, however. 

Lent is an opportunity to put your inner Herod on the back burner for a time and put on some camel hair. The clothes are merely the outer reflection of the man, however. We have the opportunity to become singularly focused, like John; to go to our inner desert, like John. To exhort in boldness, like John. To turn sharply away from the indulgence of sin. To pave the way for Christ's second coming. 

Related: Led Like An Ox: The Effeminacy of Carnal Capitulation

"Pre-Gaming Lent": How Should You Prepare for Septuagesima?

 

Mardi Gras used to be my favorite holiday of the year. It has religious significance, of course, but it was also a good chance to eat, drink, and party (and I love to party). I would always throw a few really big gatherings at my my apartment in Philly in my twenties, but Mardi Gras always took the (king) cake. I would cook all day, hit the beer distributer and liquor store, and invite co-workers, friends (Catholic and heathen alike), and people off the street to make merry. 

Ash Wednesday, then, was usually a somewhat difficult affair. A little groggy, and little headache, a little bloated...jumping from full-tilt revelry and decadence to fasting in sackcloth and ashes was Catholic, right? 

Well...kind of. We do honor the natural and liturgical cycle of feasting and fasting in the Church, but it wasn't until the past few years that I was even aware there was a "break-in" period in the traditional calendar as a three week lead up to Lent: that is, Septuagesima (Seventieth Sunday), Sexagesima (Sixtieth Sunday), and Quinquagesima (Fiftieth Sunday). 

Now, as most of you know, I am not an especially die-hard liturgical-calendar guy. But this season seems to just make sense, and the fact that it was taken out of the New Rite...well, doesn't quite make sense. But I digress.

Practically speaking, in the pre-refrigeration days, this would the be period in which you would eat down your perishables such as meat and cheese. Fat Tuesday would then be the last chance to clear the house of those things you don't want to be indulging in during the Lenten season. I'm sure others have written on the historical context in which the season was lived out.

But since I'm neither a historian nor a liturgist, I'm just going to lay out some practical offerings for potential ways to "ease in" to the Lenten season. 

Though the Church today technically only requires fasting on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and the modest prescription of "2 half meals and one full meal," many traditional Catholics will take on extra penances and fasts during this season. I used to scoff at this as being a "holier than thou" type practice. But let's face it--the post-conciliar proscription is really pretty lax. At least when you've been trying to undertake various penances already, it may seem that way.

Septuagesima, then, may be your period to 'try out' some things you may want to institute in your own life as penance during the thirty day lead up before the official start of Lent. It can always be a good way to ease into things. For instance, if you decide to fast every day during Lent, perhaps a good lead in would be to fast on Wednesdays and Fridays during the pre-lenten 30 day season. If your idea is to give up sugar or meat entirely, or something like that, maybe restrict what sugary things or meat you eat during this period by half, or every other day, without going too nuts about it. 

What's nice is during this period, such mortifications are voluntary and not bound under pain of sin. 

But more importantly is to really enter into the season of somber reflection and preparing the manger of the heart by clearing away the dung and dust. Of course, Confession is an excellent way to kick this off with an infusion of grace. I was thankful to have gone yesterday, and feel ready now to start peeling away those vices and imperfections more intentionally by kicking off on the right foot. 

I'm not going to share what I am 'giving up', but I will say that I do plan to add some more spiritual reading, some extra time at adoration, and focusing on my speech and being more charitable and generous. It helps to have a plan beforehand, rather than just deciding your voluntary penances the night before. Septuagesima gets you 'in the zone' to have a fruitful penitential season. Remember the three pillars of Lent: fasting, almsgiving, and prayer. And that this is not a time of self-improvement (at least not directly), but of repentance, searching our hearts, making amends, and growing closer to the Lord in the desert. 

My Lents have traditionally been hit or miss, but a big part of that was not really preparing as well ahead of time. The three weeks leading up to Ash Wednesday are your chance to do just that, so that when you do "get them ashes" the ground is already plowed, turned over, and watered to accept the seed of the Gospel. Make good use of this time, for you know not the hour of your death!

Penance Should Come From Love Of God, Not Hatred Of Self

There is a story in the Buddhist world that a Westerner once asked the Dalai Lama "What do you think about self-hatred?" The Dalai Lama was startled by the question, and kept asking his translator what the person meant. Eventually, after a long while of trying to get to the heart of the question, he admitted, “I thought I had a very good acquaintance with the mind, but now I feel quite ignorant. I find this very, very strange.”

As the calendar rolled over to the new year, I was surprised to find myself not only making various resolutions--both corporal and spiritual--but carrying them out. I began taking ice cold showers, exercising in the morning, fasting more often, cutting out caffeine,  and even carrying through on an internal resolution to be more intentional about speaking. I've been to Mass and adoration almost every day this past week. These practices themselves are all fine and good, potentially beneficial, and biblically traditional.

None of that really matters, though, because my motivation in undertaking them is out of alignment with the Divine will. To put this in context, I recounted the words of St. John Cassian in a previous post,

"Self -reform and peace are not achieved through the patience which others show us, but through our own long- suffering towards our neighbor. When we try to escape the struggle for long-suffering by retreating into solitude, those unhealed passions we take there with us are merely hidden, not erased: for unless our passions are first purged, solitude and withdrawal from the world not only foster them but also keep them concealed, no longer allowing us to perceive what passion it is that enslaves us. On the contrary, they impose on us an illusion of virtue and persuade us to believe that we have achieved long-suffering and humility, because there is no one present to provoke and test us. But as soon as something happens which does arouse and challenge us, our hidden and previously unnoticed passions immediately break out like uncontrolled horses that have long been kept unexercised and idle, dragging their driver all the more violently and wildly to destruction. Our passions grow fiercer when left idle through lack of contact with other people. Even that shadow of patience and long-suffering which we thought we possessed while we mixed with our brethren is lost in our isolation through not being exercised.

If then we wish to receive the Lord's blessing we should restrain not only the outward expression of anger, but also angry thoughts. More beneficial than controlling our tongue in a moment of anger and refraining from angry words is purifying our heart from rancor and not harboring malicious thoughts against our brethren. The Gospel teaches us to cut off the roots of our sins and not merely their fruits. When we have dug the root of anger out of our heart, we will no longer act with hatred or envy. 'Whoever hates his brother is a murderer' ( I John 3:15), for he kills him with the hatred in his mind." (pp 85-86)

It is clear that this window dressing of piety (while objectively good) is, in fact, motivated by not only a hatred of self, but of my neighbor.  

Something Thomas a Kempis wrote stayed with me, 

"A fervent religious accepts all the things that are commanded him and does them well, but a negligent and lukewarm religious has trial upon trial, and suffers anguish from every side because he has no consolation within and is forbidden to seek it from without."

This "suffering anguish from every side because he has no consolation within and is forbidden to seek it from without" I have often thought about when I catch myself envying the dead, when each day feels like a punishment to endure rather than a gift to give thanks for. I can't kill myself. And yet I have to go on living. I have no consolation within (peace of spirit, charity) and yet I can't end this suffering prematurely as I would often wish."Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my Savior and my God." (Ps 42:11). 

And so, my initial motivation to undertake these various penances is to not only mortify the flesh, but to punish it. Punish my very self for having to exist...for having to keep on living, for not having the grace of being hit by a bus or something. When I do fail to punish my flesh--that is, when I end up eating (ending a three day fast a day early out of weakness), or skip a day of exercise, the cycle of self-hatred perpetuates. The way one talks about a "successful" suicide being one that is carried out--and when one lives, that it is a "failed attempt."

Needless to say, I would better off abandoning it all in favor of charity of neighbor, so that I may love my brother as my self.

 St. Moses the Black had some good insight on the futility of going toe-to-toe with the flesh in this way: "You fast, but Satan does not eat. You labor fervently, but Satan never sleeps. The only dimension with which you can outperform Satan is by acquiring humility, for Satan has no humility.”

Humility, and charity, are severely lacking in my life right now. If these mortifications were motivated by and combined with charity and humility, they would be a powerful force. But as they stand currently, they are nothing but an uncomfortable and resounding gong.

I will continue to exercise and cause discomfort to my body, take the cold showers, fast regularly, hold my tongue...because it is good for my body and my mind. But there is no spiritual merit there at present, and I will not fool myself otherwise. My heart is cold, the well of charity dry. God help me, I long for the respite of death, and death doesn't come. I feel spurned by others, and spurn them myself. I sit in the back pew at church, trying to disappear. I don't know how to love, and I don't know who will teach me. "For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out" (Rom 7:18). 

Charity is the scale of judgment. It is the only thing we exist for as Christians, and the only thing we will be remembered by. Penance is a way to serve charity, not the other way around. 

Do The Hard Thing

 "Suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning."

--Victor Frankl (neurologist, psychiatrist, philosopher, author, Holocaust survivor)

Wim Hof, colloquially known as "The Iceman," has climbed Mount Everest in shorts and sandals, run a half marathon barefoot in the Artic Circle, and been submerged in ice for almost two hours. But for the sixty-two year old Dutchman, these cold weather endurance feats are the least painful of what he has endured. “I can do it all," he notes "because compared to a grieving heart, it is nothing.”

His wife (who suffered from schizophrenia) took her life in 1995 by throwing herself from an eight story building, leaving Hof--a young father of four at the time--to pick up the pieces. Between the grief of losing the love of his life, and being forced to continue living and providing for his children, Hof had no consolation, no answers to deal with the pain and no recourse to relief. He was paralyzed with fear, gripped by anxiety, and swallowed up in emotional agony...and nothing alleviated it.

Until he disrobed and slipped into a freezing lake one Sunday morning.

While his body was gripped and paralyzed by the cold, his fear, grief, and anxiety melted away.

"Instead of being guided by my broken emotions, the cold water led me to stillness and gave my broken heart a chance to rest, restore, rehabilitate."

"The only thing that gave me peace," he recalls, "was the cold."

While I am not a devoted follower of the so-called "Hof method," I have been employing the relatively simple habit of turning my thermostat down in my house to 55 degrees, and taking cold showers every morning for the past few months. It is both the worst part of my day...and the best. The worst, because the shooting pain of ice water stinging your frigid body with no place to hide from it is akin to a mild form of torture. The best, because it did not kill me and I live to see another day.

The author Natalie Goldberg, when she was going through a divorce, approached her roshi (Zen master) and asked him, "Roshi, will I get used to loneliness?"

"No, you don't get used to it," he said, "I take a cold shower every morning and every morning it shocks me, but I continue to stand up in the shower. Loneliness always has a bite, but learn to stand up in it and not be tossed away."

The jury is still out in the scientific community as to the verifiable health benefits of cold therapy and ice baths. Anecdotally, I feel more alert, more alive, and suspect that there are more endorphins flowing through my body after emerging from the shower.

But there is something else, though, beyond the positive physiological effects.

I know the emotional agony and sense of darkness Hof experienced when he lost his wife. But in my case, I was the one standing on the proverbial ledge eight stories up, unable to find a way to escape. The moral guardrail of my religious faith restrained my desire to meet the same fate as Hof's wife, to escape a jet-black depression that seemed like it would never end. In the darkest clutches of depression, the things that would most benefit mental wellbeing--exercise, friends and family, prayer--are the most aversive.

But what if we could will our bodies away from atrophy--doing the exact hard thing we have no desire to do?

If we are convinced we can't survive two minutes in an icy lake, and we jump in anyway, what do we have to lose if we want to die in that moment anyway? If we die, we obtain the wish of our distorted mind. But if we come out of the experience, panting and shivering but very much alive and with a new lease on life...what if that was the spark needed to ignite the will to live again?

Indeed, in the city of Yukutsk, Siberia--the coldest city in the world--men routinely remove their clothes when it is minus 50 degrees Farhenheit to take ice baths outside. Their bodies are acclimated to the cold, and they rarely get sick. And in Russia and Ukraine, the Orthodox faithful celebrate the Feast of Ephiphany in January by plunging into icy lakes. "Epiphany is purification," one congregant of the ritual observes, "My soul is cleansed and I'm charged with a good mood for the whole year ahead."

There is no denying that Hof has attained a level of physical transcendence of the limitations of the body by the power of the mind that is remarkable. But he maintains that he is not unique, and that anyone can push themselves farther than they thought possible and gain mental clarity and emotional control, simply by doing the harder thing.

"As humanity has evolved and developed ways to make our lives more and more comfortable, we have lost our ability not only to survive but to thrive in extreme environments," the Iceman notes. "The things we have built to make our lives easier have actually made us weaker."

Though I'm still soft in a lot of ways, I've grown to love my morning cold shower. I mean, I hate it. But I love it. Every time I step into the stall, I know what is waiting for me: cold, hard pain. And every time I turn the shower handle as far to the right as it will go and pull it back, there is a part of me that feels like I am going to die as soon as those thousands of icy needles fly the wall and strike my naked torso.

But then, I don't. I yelp, and curse, and cry a little. But I don't die. A few minutes, and it's over. I'm still here. I continue to stand up. And I will not be tossed away.

How Not To Be Soft

 Now that winter is peeking it's frosty head around the corner, I am going into full-on dad mode. Some of it is playing the part, some of it is for our bills, and some of it is because there really is a tough-love part of me that does not want my family (or myself) getting too soft. 

There's a strain of this kind of neo-Stoicism on the internet in the wake of influencers like Jordan Peterson ("make your damn bed!") and Pete Adeney (aka, Mr. Money Mustache). The idea is basically that Doing The Hard Thing is something to be pursued, not shirked, as it is beneficially for you on multiple levels. There is truth in the saying: 

Hard times makes strong men; 

strong men make good times; 

good times create weak men.

But here's the thing--as Catholics, we are not Stoics in the classical sense; we don't do the hard thing for the sake of doing the hard thing. We can pursue the difficult path without being masochists, and have some balance and purpose in this undertaking for not only our spiritual, but our coroporal benefit. But nothing is wasted in the spiritual economy. This is why we do penance in this life--for our own souls to make restitution now rather than later, and for the benefit of those suffering in purgatory.

I was thinking about this idea of how having a more ascetical mindset is good preparation for an uncertain future. It takes some 'training' or practice, so to speak, but can also have residual practical benefits. Four areas in particular that came to mind:

Body temperature

Human beings are warm-blooded creatures, so we need to maintain a certain range of internal temperature. However, the human body also has an amazing ability to adapt and acclimate to changes in the immediate environment (within reason). 

Part of the reason I keep the heat low in our house is because we have very expensive (at least this season) fuel oil as our source. Thankfully, my wife is a true team player and doesn't give me too much grief about it; our kids also seem to be hot-blooded, so they are not suffering unduly. 

It's always a little harder in the beginning of the heating season but once we acclimate, stepping into someone's home who keeps it at 70 degrees F or above feels like a sauna. I wouldn't say we're completely comfortable in our house, and we make a point to wear warm socks, sweaters, etc. People act as if this is a major hardship, but really it's just thermodynamic common sense: heat the person, not the space. And since when did being perpetually comfortable become the be all end all?

I still take cold showers, even in winter. I know that is somewhat extreme, (and part of it is simply because it takes forever for the hot water to get to the showerhead in our upstairs bedroom) but there are some health benefits (as people who do icebath plunges realize) and it definitely wakes you up in the morning and makes you more alert. It's uncomfortable. I offer it up. Ironically, it also makes it easier to step out of the shower into a coldish room, since the delta is not as high. 

House size

I have a bit of a minimalist mindset. Part of this is for the preservation of mental health--more "stuff" equals more clutter, which translates to seemingly more anxiety. We are in a Goldilocks situation with our current house--for our family, it is neither too small nor too big, but feels just right in terms of square footage. 

It's ironic, too, that in our area at least, many of the large houses correspond with less children, and many of the large families we know have small to medium sized houses. 

There is probably a happy medium, but I also think it's worth pointing out that for many people, "the stuff fills the space." That is, if you are in a 1,500 square foot home and you upgrade to a 3,000 square foot home, you simply accumulate more things (furniture, accoutrements, etc) to fill in the difference. 

There's nothing more or less noble about living in a smaller space, and there are practical concerns when a family is on top of each other and may be able to benefit from an extra bedroom or a basement. But for the most part, extra space is often a luxury, rather than a necessity, since most families with smaller houses just make it work with bunk beds, multi-use rooms, space saving devices, etc. So, a "bigger house" may or may not be a necessity, depending on your circumstances. And getting rid of junk and clutter can be freeing as well, which may allow you to free up space in your existing house.

Salary and spending

Like housing size, there is a happy medium in terms of salary. I have heard $85,000/yr household income is the 'sweet spot' where basic needs can be met but additional income does not necessarily make one "happier." As Solomon says, "Give me neither riches nor poverty" (Prov 30:8). This is the ideal, but we don't live in an ideal world, and families don't always experience ideal circumstances.

Also like housing size, we tend to "fill the space" with increased spending as salary increases. What were once "wants" now become "needs." This is why so many athletes and celebrities go broke, because they cannot sustain their lifestyles after their careers plateau. It's good to learn how to live on one income, even if both spouses are working, to give a financial cushion for the unexpected and emergencies. To the extent you over-leverage your budgetary margin call, it puts you in a stressful and precarious financial situation that may even make you less happy despite having a higher salary.  The common sense approach is to live within your means: spend, save, invest, and give proportionally. But if you can learn to live on less, you are training yourself better for lean times, even if you have a lot of financial "fat" in your budget currently.

Fasting

Fasting is a good practice for spiritual and physical health. It can be as simple as skipping a meal a few times a week, or not snacking. To the three points above, there is also a tendency for our stomachs to expand the more we eat, so that it takes more food for us to feel full when we overeat beyond what is necessary to our bodies. 

When we limit caloric intake, our stomach shrinks a bit in response, and our baseline of what is needed to sustain ourselves is lowered as well. We can offer up our fasting for the conversion of sinners, for our own selves, or some intention. We can also train our bodies in this way to "do without" when traveling or faced with hard times so that we are not ruled by our stomach. 

Fasting can also be beyond food--like phone/technology fasts, for instance. It's just good to do to work on breaking this dependency...but it is very hard!

All in all, things like exercising, chopping wood, working hard, delaying gratification, and suffering a little helps us not be such butterballs, especially as men. There is a kind of effeminacy in needing to be perpetually comfortable. But we should have balance in all things. Weightlifters know that you get stronger by pushing your muscles beyond their baseline, but then allowing for them to recover as well. These are just four points I was thinking of the other day, there may be more. Feel free to comment to continue the conversation!

Fruits Of Grace: The First Friday and First Saturday Devotions

 Like many Americans, I carry insurance on a number of different things--some because I'm legally obligated to, and some because I choose to as a matter of risk mitigation. I carry liability insurance for our two cars. I have health and long-term disability insurance through work for myself and my family, and my wife and I both have modest life insurance policies. We carry home insurance on our residence, and I also have an umbrella policy to supplement that as well. 

Paying insurance premiums each month seems like a complete racket...until you actually need it. We haven't had to file too many claims, but when we have, the majority of loss was fortunately covered without too much outlay on our part. I consider the premiums a sunk cost, but ones that provide some peace of mind to deal with the uncertainties of life. 

When I first started doing the Nine First Friday and Five First Saturday devotions a few years ago, I viewed it as a kind of "spiritual insurance policy." Our Lord and Our Lady made promises to those who observe and propagate these devotions as follows:

12 Promises of the Sacred Heart to St. Margaret Mary (First Friday Devotion):

I will give them all the graces necessary for their state of life.

I will give peace in their families.

I will console them in all their troubles.

I will be their refuge in life and especially in death.

I will abundantly bless all their undertakings.

Sinners shall find in my Heart the source and infinite ocean of mercy.

Tepid souls shall become fervent.

Fervent souls shall rise speedily to great perfection.

I will bless those places wherein the image of my Sacred Heart shall be exposed and venerated.

I will give to priests the power to touch the most hardened hearts.

Persons who propagate this devotion shall have their names eternally written in my Heart.

In the excess of the mercy of my heart, I promise you that my all powerful love will grant to all those who will receive Communion on the First Fridays, for nine consecutive months, the grace of final repentance: they will not die in my displeasure, nor without receiving the sacraments; and my Heart will be their secure refuge in that last hour.

The Promise of Our Lady to Sr. Lucia at Fatima (First Saturday Devotion):

"Behold, my daughter, my Heart encircled with thorns, with which ungrateful men pierce It at every moment by their blasphemies and ingratitude. Give me consolation, you, at least; and make known on my behalf that I promise to assist at the hour of death, with the graces necessary for salvation, all who on the First Saturday of five consecutive months confess their sins, receive Holy Communion, recite five decades of the Rosary, and keep me company for fifteen minutes meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary, with the purpose of making reparation to my Immaculate Heart.”

For reference, the conditions for the First Friday devotion are as follows:

Receive Holy Communion on each of the First Fridays;

The nine first Fridays must be consecutive;

They must be made in honor of and in reparation to His Sacred Heart. 

The conditions for the (Five) First Saturday devotion are as follows:

Go to confession;

Receive Holy Communion;

Say five decades of the Rosary;

Keep Our Lady company for 15 minutes, meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary;

Have the intention of making reparation to Our Lady for the offenses listed above.

It can be challenging sometimes for busy families with lots of activities and things to complete the consecutive requirements for these devotions. But it is not onerous, if one prioritizes it. I will sometimes go to noon Mass on campus on Fridays if I can't make the 6pm Latin Mass and benediction at our parish. One time we were traveling all day for vacation on a First Friday and we found a parish offering Mass along our route. I usually go to the 9am Saturday morning, but in a pinch one could do an evening vigil Mass to satisfy the requirement as well. Confession can take place eight days before or after the First Saturday as well, so there is some flexibility as well. 

These are the logistical things with regard to these devotions. But what I really want to focus on here is something else entirely: that commitment to these devotions are rooted in the trust of the penitent in God, and that the fruits of the grace bestowed upon the penitent become truly apparent in this spirit of devotion.

Let's begin with the spirit of trust needed for this devotion. 

When someone promises something, we consider the trustworthiness of the person making the promise. If we encounter a car salesman who promises we will be satisfied with the purchase of a new car that he is selling, what exactly would we base that trust on? Why should we trust them?

In contrast, for a faith to grow, we must have trust in God and believe that He is worthy of trust. And he is. If we hold back on that trust, we become like St. James says, "a man of two minds, unstable in all his ways" (Ja 1:8). To completely abandon ourselves in trust to Christ--to leave our fathers and mothers, our plows, our homes to follow him--and his promises testifies to the degree of our faith in him. A child-like trust in God is pleasing to Him, a worthy oblation. And we must become, as Christ said, "like children" in order to have this trust. The trust of a child is one who rests without fear in his father's arms and falls asleep at once; who believes his father will follow through on what he says. In essence, that our Father is who Christ says he is.

As to the second part, this trust is related to a belief that if the Lord promises certain graces in this devotion, those graces will, in fact, be given to the devotee. The Lord does not give us a scorpion when we ask for an egg (Lk 11:12), and we judge a tree by its fruit (Mt 7:16). 

I can honestly say there were periods in my life in which I felt I would never be free of the shackles of certain sins. To remain in a state of grace for any period of time seemed like a fantasy, an elusive state reserved for saints and people unlike myself. And yet, in large part due to the graces obtained from this devotion, the Lord freed me from one after another habituation and defects that I never thought would have been possible given how mired I was in them. And not only myself, but the grace of peace and consolation in our family has been apparent as well. It's hard to explain or point to one thing or another because the transformation was subtle. But without doubt, we were the recipient of many graces as a family that set us on a firm foundation. I attribute much of this to the First Friday and First Saturday devotion.

There is something else as well--we do not have to fear death, because of these promises of our Lord and our Lady. I trust--as an act of faith--that they will make good on these promises, provided I do my part in this life in co-operation with grace, and that I will not be abandoned to the depths at my hour of death. This is a supreme consolation that also allows us to live life more fully--a life lived in fear is stunted; a life lived free of fear allows one to be bold, to witness, to step out and take chances for the Gospel. It alleviates the anxiety that the prospect of death fills people with, because we know and trust that death has been conquered by Christ. It holds no power over us. 

It should not be overlooked that Our Lord and Our Lady do expect something in return from us, and that is that we complete the devotion in a spirit of reparation for offenses against the Sacred Heart and Immaculate Heart, and in reparation for the ingratitude of men. When we keep Our Lady company, we do so in a spirit of consolation, sharing in her sorrow and providing our small mondicums of comfort to her who suffered so much. In doing so, our own hearts are transformed and more disposed to the fruits of grace promised to us in these devotions.

Our Lord and Our Lady make these promises not because they have to, or because they are compelled to, but because of the overwhelming outpouring of their love and mercy to bring sinners to repentence and their final resting place. One can only be moved to repentance by grace; and yet, repentance itself is a great grace because it reveals to us our natural state. When we believe we stand justified by our works, or by our standing in society, or because we are "good people," we stand deluded. We stand there under the weight of an overwhelming debt we cannot pay and with no recourse. But when we recognize our sinful state and inability to be saved apart from God, we see reality as it really is, and not through a glass darkly (1 Cor 13:12). This is the fruit of grace.

Does our salvation depend on adherence to such devotions, and that those who do not take part in them have no hope of being saved? Of course not. The Lord has mercy on those whom He chooses to (Rom 9:18). His mercy is not bound by the sacraments or by the limitations of time and space either. He is the Lord, and He is sovereign.

We serve a just God, but we also are subject to a merciful One that does not wish anyone to be damned, but to come to repentance and be saved. Because of this, he gives us tangible gifts and graces to assist us in this arduous task, for his yoke is easy and his burden light (Mt 11:28-30). "The Lord delayeth not his promise, as some imagine, but dealeth patiently for your sake, not willing that any should perish, but that all should return to penance" (2 Pt 3:9). He does not "set us up for failure," but asks that we trust Him to do for us the impossible--that is, that which is not possible for us on our own. 

If you have not done the First Friday and First Saturday devotions, think about it and give it a go. The Lord does not renege on His promises, and you will see the fruits of grace sprout on the vine in due time. He is faithful, worthy to be trusted, and desires that all--including you--be with Him forever in Heaven. He does not leave us orphans.

Lift Not Your Head Before Me

 

Have you ever thought about the state of your heart when you enter church for Mass? 

There are some days I show up and saunter (in my head) up to our normal pew where we stake out, maybe smile and wave a few waves to other congregants like a chipper bird, square my shoulders, clear my throat, and assume the position on the kneeler.  You belong here. 

And then there are some days when I slink into the back of the church, afraid to lift my head up, with no desire to see or be seen. I'm not gazing at the parapet like a gazelle, but feeling my nose so close to the tile floor that I feel no better than a worm. I want to get in and get out, and even showing up is hard. Why? Because you don't belong here. 

The difference in the inner dispositions is one of outward justification (Lk 18:14) vs. complete inner abjection. I have been in both pairs of shoes, but I think the heart of the Lord is closer to the latter. 

 Today is the feast of St. Mary Magdalene, penitent. Scripture affirms that seven demons were cast from her, but it was erroneous conflation to equate her with the sexually immoral woman who washes Jesus' feet with her tears and hair in the gospel. Although this is the reading used in the traditional calendar today (Lk 7:36-50), the point stands--those who love much are forgiven much. And those to whom less is forgiven, love less. 

Regardless, St. Mary Magdalene is a model of penitence. She spent the last years of her life in solitude in a cave. When the Lord pierces you with the dagger of penitence, solitude seems to be the only worthy vessel to contain the nard seeping out from one's being. Another Mary--St. Mary of Egypt (who was a great fornicator)--found she could not even enter a church where the true cross was being exhalted because of her many sins; an invisible force kept her from entering. After renouncing her former way of life, she crossed the Jordan and lived alone in the desert for 47 years, a model of contrite penitence in proportion to her sins. 

I know I have been debased and laid bare when I do not even want to open my eyes or lift my head while in Mass, before the splendor of the Lord. Like the publican standing in the back, "who would not even raise his eyes" but beat his breast and prayed "God, be merciful to me, a sinner." It's a searing mercy, a grace, but a painful one when you have been so attached to feeling that good old "Good Catholic Justification." When you are debased by grace, stripped of that bravado, you can't get close enough to the back wall. You don't belong here.

The difference between the self-justified and the penitent is that the self-justified walk in with their heads raised and their shoulders back, expecting to be welcomed with high honors. But God casts the mighty from their thrones, and the rich he sends away empty; it is the hungry he fills with good things. Those who posture their hearts to the floor, the Lord lifts up. They do not dare lift their heads before His majesty, but in the naked social stripping, he reaches down and draws them up to take their place at the table (Jn 8:10). 

You wonder sometimes how someone can spend 47 years of their life repenting of their sins and doing penance in some awful desolate place. Then again, when I think of all my sins, it's a wonder I don't follow suite but instead think I'm an "okay guy," a "good Catholic" or whatever. Just as the Lord fed the Jews with manna in the desert, he feeds the penitent with grace because their hearts are rightly ordered, they have put first things first, they have laid the cornerstone of humility and built upon it. 

Pray for the grace of a penitent heart. It will humble you in the best and most painful ways. And if you are to lift your head before Him, make sure it is Christ in his mercy that is drawing you up, not your own self-justification because you think you've earned a place before Him. There is none good, but One. 

If You Do Not Love Your Brother, You Do Not Love God

I've been writing about the sins of the eyes lately. As bad as sins of the flesh are, they often take center stage in our examination of consciences to the neglect of some of the deeper, more rooted sins of the heart, and the more careless sins of the lips with regards to charity.

For what does our Lord say?

"For from the heart come forth evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false testimonies, blasphemies. These are the things that defile a man" (Mt 15:19-20).

And lest we let ourselves off to easily, 

"But I say to you, that whosoever is angry with his brother, shall be in danger of the judgment. And whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council. And whosoever shall say, Thou Fool, shall be in danger of hell fire" (Mt 5:22). 

It's interesting, isn't it? In Mt 22:36-40, Jesus tells one doctor of the Law, 

"Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind.This is the greatest and the first commandment.

And the second is like to this: Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

On these two commandments dependeth the whole law and the prophets." 

And yet as I was meditating on the first letter of St. John last night, he has this to say.

"Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.

No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God lives in us and his love is made complete in us.

And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him.

In this way, love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

We love because he first loved us.

If anyone says, "I love God," yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen.

And he has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother."

(1 Jn 4:12-13, 17-21)

First, we are only able to love because God first loved us. Without the love of God, we have no love to give.

And yet, the evidence of our love of God depends on our love of our brothers. The Lord's commandment places first that we must love God with our whole heart, soul, and mind. And yet St. John says we cannot do that if we do not love our brother. 

Mother Teresa said that when she encountered the poor, it was not a simile, that they are "like" Christ, but that they were Christ in distressing guise. There was no dissonance, no separation, and by this she proved her love for God.

My heart had scabbed over in three short days of neglecting to pray, and in my meditation last night I was cut to heart with the realization of the calcification that had taken place, the hatred I was carrying in my heart, a tare sowed among the wheat. Our Lord had used harsh words and stern warning of Hell for those who simply had applied a single harsh word to his brethren. "By your words you will be condemned" (Mt 12:37). We gloss over the term, raca (from the Aramaic, reqa). Simply translated, it means "empty, worthless." And how much worse words I have used. 

Worse yet, in failing to love my brothers, I have failed to love myself--and not only failed to love, but have been filled with contempt, self-hatred, disgust. When we are filled with self-contempt, we cannot love. We are incapable of it--it's as simple as that. For why would we fail to love the things God loves--namely, us...our own selves. 

The chaser to the evening meditation was the twenty-third chapter of The Imitation of Christ, Of Meditation Upon Death:

"Trust not thy friends and kinsfolk, nor put off the work of thy salvation to the future, for men will forget thee sooner than thou thinkest. It is better for thee now to provide in time, and to send some good before thee, than to trust to the help of others. If thou art not anxious for thyself now, who, thinkest thou, will be anxious for thee afterwards? Now the time is most precious. Now is the accepted time, now is the day of salvation. But alas! that thou spendest not well this time, wherein thou mightest lay up treasure which should profit thee everlastingly. The hour will come when thou shalt desire one day, yea, one hour, for amendment of life, and I know not whether thou shalt obtain."

Not only was my heart filled with hatred of self and neighbor, but idolatry, pride, and vanity. Where did it come from, how did it set in? Chapter 20 gave me insight the next day (emphasis mine):

"The greatest Saints used to avoid the company of men(Heb.11:38) whenever they were able, and chose rather to serve God in solitude. A wise man once said `As often as I have been among men, I have returned home a lesser man.(Seneca,Epist.VII) We often share this experience, when we spend much time in conversation. It is easier to keep silence altogether than not to talk more than we should. It is easier to remain quietly at home than to keep due watch over ourselves in public. Therefore, whoever is resolved to live an inward and spiritual life must, with Jesus, withdraw from the crowds(Mark 6:31). No man can live in the public eye without risk to his soul, unless he who would prefer to remain obscure. No man can safely speak unless he would gladly remain silent. No man can safely command, unless he has learned to obey well. No man can safely rejoice, unless he possesses the testimony of a good conscience.

Those who stand highest in the esteem of men are most exposed to grievous peril, since they often have too great a confidence in themselves. It is therefore, more profitable to many that they should not altogether escape temptations, but be often assailed lest they become too secure and exalted in their pride, or turn too readily to worldly consolations. How good a conscience would he keep if a man never sought after passing pleasures nor became preoccupied with worldly affairs! If only a man could cast aside all useless anxiety and think only on divine and salutary things, how great would be his peace and tranquillity!

No one is worthy of heavenly comfort, unless they have diligently exercised themselves in holy contrition. If you desire heartfelt contrition, enter into your room, and shut out the clamour of the world, as it is written, `Commune with your own heart, and in your chamber, and be still(Ps.4:4;Isa.26:20). Within your cell you will discover what you will only too often lose abroad. The cell that is dwelt in continually becomes a delight, but ill kept it breeds weariness of spirit. If in the beginning of your religious life you have dwelt in it and kept it well, it will later become a dear friend and a welcome comfort.

A cheerful going out often brings a sad home-coming, and a merry evening brings a sorry morning. For every bodily pleasure brings joy at first, but at length it bites and destroys.(Prov.23:31,32) "

At Mass this morning, I felt reserved, sober, and filled with compunction. I couldn't get to Confession prior, and though I had just gone last week, I still felt the need for my heart to be cleansed. By an act of grace, I was able to tell God I had sinned, was sincerely sorry, for I had called him Raca--empty, worthless. My hurt pride had given way to anger, but now it was melting in sincere contrition. It was not fear of Hell, but love of God and wounding Him, that motivated this perfect act of Contrition by the grace of God. I trusted this consolation, received Communion with the resolve to go to Confession at the next opportunity, went back to my pew, and was given the gift of tears in the moment which I did not wipe away--that is, sincere sorrow, and a heartfelt communion.

We can only love our selves and our brothers because God first loved us. And if we fail to do that while pledging charity and fidelity to the Lord, we make ourselves liars. The only antidote is sincere, perfect contrition which is founded on love. We can be bodily chaste and yet possess cold hearts devoid of love, and as such we are white-washed tombs. 

The Lord patiently teaches us to cherish the cell, guard our lips, and love embodied man. That doesn't mean we have to trust our friends and kinfolk of their help or even constantly keep the company of men. In fact, the Lord may humble us in removing that consolation of affirmation to remind us where our ability to love comes from--that is, from God alone. 

The Letter And The Spirit

 On my way to Mass for First Friday, so this will be a quick and dirty post. 

Speaking of it being Friday, my wife and I have been observing meatless Fridays for the past several years. But sometimes I wonder if we are more like Jews than Christians in this regard. I had a meatless sausage with eggs for breakfast and a meatless cheese 'steak' for lunch. Eating these meatless alternatives (psuedo-meat) can sometimes certainly be a kind of penance in its own right. Sometimes, though (like the 'chickenless-chicken cheesteak' from Capriotti's I had a couple weeks ago), they're downright indulgent. 

I thought I was being original in wrestling with this, but it seems the Washington Post has already broached the topic with the advent of Impossible (TM) meat substitutes.

Which begs the question--what is the point of meatless Fridays?

In a word, the point is penance. If you enjoy things like Impossible Whoppers from Burger King, but are technically avoiding meat flesh in doing so, what are you accomplishing? Seems like a very Pharisaical approach to skirting violations of 'the law.'  St. Paul wrote to the church at Corinth, "He has made us competent as ministers of a new covenant—not of the letter but of the Spirit; for the letter kills, but the Spirit gives life" (2 Cor 3:6). 

We are called to do penance on Fridays, and denial of eating meat is the universal practice of Catholics who are lucky to observe it as reluctant penance in Lent, if at all. As my boxing coach said one time, though: "If it doesn't hurt, you're not doing it right." Penance should be uncomfortable, and for our (and the Lord's) eyes only. I'm not sure how a fake meat burger that *almost* tastes like real meal fits into this. Seems like the letter, but not the Spirit, or penance, much like how Jesus did not miss the point of the Sabbath being for man, not man for the Sabbath. 

I have to run now, but just some food for thought here to mull over (no pun intended). 

Chastisement and Spiritual Preparation

 I don’t typically share talks/videos but I listened to this one by Father Ripperger a year or so ago and found it pretty prophetic (it was delivered in 2017). I think it’s worth posting for the benefit of others.

“But the end of all is at hand. Be prudent therefore, and watch in prayers.

But before all things have a constant mutual charity among yourselves: for charity covereth a multitude of sins.

Using hospitality one towards another, without murmuring,

As every man hath received grace, ministering the same one to another: as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.

If any man speak, let him speak, as the words of God. If any man minister, let him do it, as of the power, which God administereth: that in all things God may be honoured through Jesus Christ: to whom is glory and empire for ever and ever. Amen.

Dearly beloved, think not strange the burning heat which is to try you, as if some new thing happened to you;

But if you partake of the sufferings of Christ, rejoice that when his glory shall be revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy.

If you be reproached for the name of Christ, you shall be blessed: for that which is of the honour, glory, and power of God, and that which is his Spirit, resteth upon you.

But let none of you suffer as a murderer, or a thief, or a railer, or a coveter of other men's things.

But if as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God in that name.

For the time is, that judgment should begin at the house of God. And if first at us, what shall be the end of them that believe not the gospel of God?

And if the just man shall scarcely be saved, where shall the ungodly and the sinner appear?

Wherefore let them also that suffer according to the will of God, commend their souls in good deeds to the faithful Creator.” (1 Peter 4:7-19)

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=s3oqUkCm0i4