The Halo: Seat of Wisdom

Years ago, when I was acquainted with a New Age friend and periodically worked in her crystal shop to pay off a debt, I was introduced to the esoteric concept of "Christ Consciousness." I would have considered myself a Christian syncretist during this period of my life, having already had an elementary foundation in Buddhism and Krishna-Consciousness prior to my conversion to Catholicism, and so this gnostic understanding of the divine Christ figure was attractive. I was reading Pierre Teilhard de Chardin's The Phenomenon of Man and Thich Nhat Hahn's Living Buddha, Living Christ at the time, was inspired by monastic figures like Bede Griffiths and Thomas Merton, and interested in the metaphysical as well as quantum physics and the idea of sub-atomic energy. I even traveled to a remote jungle monastery (wat) in Thailand to attend a 10-day Vipassana ("to see things as they are") meditation retreat in an attempt to train and fortify the mind against illusion. The shores of orthodoxy were very much a distant land.

One tangential concept I did ponder a lot during this flirtatious period was why iconography and artistic renderings of Christ and the saints portray them with a halo surrounding the head. On the surface, the question had a straight-forward answer: to signify the divine presence in that figure. But why the head and not, say, the heart? Or even the whole body?

 

My New Age friend had a seemingly convincing answer: the head or "Crown" Chakra (Sahasrāra) was considered the highest of the seven seats of energy in the body. The aura of the halo signified the divine consciousness, a oneness and non-dualistic cosmic connection with all things, and in art it was not only Christ who was represented with this halo surrounding his head, but Gautama Buddha as well, who had arrived through human effort to a place of ego-death, Nirvana, enlightenment. The way one cannot put a rainbow in a jar but can nonetheless witness it visually in the sky, the idea of a divine halo surrounding the head of a saintly, enlightened figure made the most sense in terms of a metaphysical or quantum energy.

Quentin Tarantino (of all people) cinematically portrays what this powerful aura of energy emanating from an almost semi-divine being looks like in his 2004 film, Kill Bill: Vol. 2. When the Bride (Uma Therman) ascends the steps of an ancient forest monastery to begin her kung-fu training and suddenly sees her new master, Pai Mei, sitting cross-legged before her at the top, she drops to her knees before him. Within a few moments of being in his presence she appears to be overtaken by the energy (chi?) emanating from his being, almost like a kind of cosmic radiation. More significantly, the frame is shot with the camera just behind Pai Mei's head as the Bride kneels in a subservient position before him as the sound of the cicadas whirring in the background intensify until it seems like the head of Pai Mei is literally buzzing with a supersonic consciousness. (Check it out from minute 1 to 1:30 in the clip from the film below if you want to see what I'm talking about). He goes on to berate her and in a duel, brings her to a point of helplessness as he threatens to break her arm. This state of being broken down and having the ego completely razed is necessary, however, in order to be formatively built back up under the precise and selfless tutelage of the Master. The cup must be emptied before it can be filled.

This kind of discipleship of student to master portrayed in the stories of the Far East is one of intense training, unrelenting focus, and supreme human effort to attain such a state of enlightened consciousness, the goal being to eventually step off the merry-go-round cycle of life, death, and rebirth (Samsara) and escape the grip of māyā, or illusion. Such religious traditions also may employ historically universal asceticism (such as fasting) to aid in their efforts of transcending the cycle of suffering. 

For Christian disciples, the idea of submission to the tutelage of a master looks differently, since salvation for the Christian is not a matter of human effort, but of grace and man's cooperation with it. Just as St. Paul encouraged followers of the Way to "be imitators of me, as I am of Christ" (1 Cor 11:1), so do those in the monastic tradition subvert themselves to living holy men and women who have trod down the grass of concupiscence and made a path towards Heaven here on earth for others to follow after them. Figures like St. Benedict, St. Anthony, St. Francis of Assisi and St. Clare, St. Mother Cabrini and others attracted followers who wanted to learn from them not how to train the mind necessarily but to learn how to excel in the School of Love. In the Christian East, the yuródivyy or "holy fool" seeks to upend the rational, commonplace behavior of polite society and in doing so, attracts those seeking wisdom, prayers and miracles from what appears to be a madman. 

But the formation of saints is not confined to that of monasteries and convents. Many saintly figures throughout history were given the grace to achieve holiness in their state of life without the support of a human master. St. Juan Diego, St. Benedict Joseph Labre, Ven. Matt Talbot, and even modern figures such as Servant of God Chiara Corbella Petrillo or St. Carlo Acutis are a few that come to mind. They have died in the state of sanctity and either are, or on the way, to being canonized as saints in the Church. The common thread in this diverse tapestry of believers, however, is Jesus Christ and their submission to him as the Son of God, and to his Bride, the Church.

But this doesn't answer the question of why the representation of Christian sanctity in art and iconography has always centered upon the head of the saint. If the trait that all Christian saints hold in common is the lived-out perfection of caritas, wouldn't it make more sense that a halo appear over, say, their heart, since this is the spiritual center of a Christian person? We see this outpouring of divine love and concern visually represented and personified in the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. And scripturally, the heart is the seat of not only the emotions, but of the intellect. But in hagiography, the representation of sanctity is always a halo surrounding the head.

St. Alphonsus wrote, "If you pray, you will be certainly saved; if you do not pray, you will be certainly damned."  Salvation is impossible without prayer, and prayer requires an effort on our part. But with what faculty do we pray? With the head? The heart? And is prayer a matter of words, or a "groaning in the spirit?" The path of salvation for, say, a cloistered Carthusian may look different than that of a Franciscan Tertiary or Missionary of Charity, as one may never leave his cell and in doing so never have the opportunity to exercise charity to his fellow man, while the other takes as her mantra the simple admonition to give Christ under guise of the poor a cup of cold water to slake his thirst.

In the words of St. Anselm, "I do not seek to understand in order that I may believe, but rather, I believe in order that I may understand." That is, the beginning of the path to union with God begins when the intellect is subsumed by a humble admission of its inadequacy. Belief then, is the vessel that carries the limp and destitute traveler to the shores of understanding. When they arrive, it is this faith born of belief that admits complete helplessness to sin and concupiscence and a clouded intellect. It is only then that the intellect can begin to build on these shores, forming one's conscience from the depositum fidei and the Logos--the Word in flesh and in holy scripture--not unlike how the Ethiopian eunuch was instructed and baptized by Philip in Acts 8:26-40). 

Prayer, then, is both the daily effort of setting bricks and mortar to build a solid house for one's soul to dwell (Mt 7:24-27) as well as the "faith seeking understanding" of bringing into alignment one's own consciousness with that of the mind of God. Because God's "thoughts are not our thoughts" and "as high as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways" (Is 55:8-9), this is not possible apart from the incarnation of Christ, the human manifestation of God's presence on earth. But in Christ, we are given the grace to be able to "pray without ceasing," to never be separated from his mind, his heart, his Spirit, and his love. "For who can separate us from the love of Christ?" (Rom 8:35). It is only through our own volition that we turn the dial on the divine radio, disrupting the frequency and introducing static into our minds and hearts. During these periods of "dead air" we "seek him and do not find him" (Jn 7:34) and are susceptible to the pull of sin. 

In prayer, however, we cloak ourselves in the mantle of the Almighty and set up a rampart against the Father of Lies, the harbinger of illusion, the thief who comes only to break in, kill, and destroy the treasures of grace. We seek, through small daily efforts, to not only bring our will in alignment with God's will, but to make our will inseparable from His. This is the state of mystical contemplation that very few of us will ever achieve. But that does not mean we cannot hope to be saved, for salvation does not depend on man but on God; only that we will experience more disruption, more static, more confusion in our lives. Because in forgetting, in not being dialed in, we have forsaken our first love (Rev 2:4), the One we should love above all things and hold in our minds at all times.    

In the East, the breath is the anchor to consciousness--as long as you are breathing, you are alive, and so one can use the breath as a tool in meditation since it (the breath) is a constant. In doing so, one learns to empty the mind but also begin to see reality "as it is." Dukkha (suffering) is the result of this disjointed world view in which we do not perceive reality for what it truly is but instead hold on tightly to how we desire it to be. Just as fasting is not reserved for Christians alone but adopted by other religious traditions as well, so too the act of breathing is universal to all human beings. For the Buddhist, the anchoring of one's consciousness to the constant of breathing, simple a tool as it is, may be enough to lead one to a state of Enlightenment. 

For the Christian, obviously, noticing one's breath and using it as an anchor of focus is not enough to save one's soul (the concept of the soul being non-existent in Buddhism). However, one particular Christian attempt to bring into perpetual alignment their consciousness--their very being--with that of Christ comes from the Christian East, specifically in an anonymous work titled The Way of the Pilgrim. In this book, a Russian sojourner seeks to answer the question of how one may "pray without ceasing" and discovers the Jesus Prayer. 

I have practiced the Jesus Prayer on and off for many years after I was introduced to it by an Orthodox priest who sat next to me on a flight to New Mexico, where I was heading to spend a few weeks at a contemplative Benedictine monastery. He gave me a prayer rope--kind of the Eastern equivalent of a rosary--to assist in this prayer, which is, interestingly enough, tied to the breath. One breathes in Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God... and breathes out Have mercy on me, a sinner. The idea is that one can learn to almost "automate" this prayer so that it eventually, over many years, becomes as natural and commonplace as breathing itself. In doing so, one will eventually learn the secret of "praying without ceasing" and thus be always united with God sans separation. 

The Jesus Prayer, for all who adopt it, is a prayer of the heart. This particular prayer is meant as an ascetic nepsis, a spiritual broom used to sweep its chamber of the passions that disrupt it. In doing so, it both cleanses the heart of such disruptive passions and clears the mind to make fruitful contemplation possible. This would suggest, then, that there is a kind of spiritual runway existing between the heart and the mind. In being cleansed of its passions, the heart may soar in love, untethered from what binds it to earth. As it gains lift traveling this runway, it in turn elevates the wings of the mind to higher states of contemplation. Or perhaps it is a case of the mind being singularly focused in consciousness and united to the very Mind of God, a Mind which cannot be understood rationally but only approached on one's knees by emptying itself--of pride, of presuppositions, of activity and unruly frivolousness-- and in doing so, brings the heart into communion with that of Christ's own heart. Fides et ratio.

This conscioussness-based gnosis, however, holds the danger of being co-opted by syncretists and rendered sufficient in and of itself when it is severed from the heart. Love--charity, caritas--is inseparable from the life of the Christian disciple and from Christ himself. Does this love emanate from the mind or the heart? Perhaps this is a bit of a koan for the Christ-believer.  If the heart is the seat of the intellect, this dualistic thinking may, then, be a bit of a misnomer.  In Christ, there is neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor freeman, male nor female. In Christ, then, perhaps there is no mind and no heart separate from one another. The deification of the individual, then, does not depend on one's breath or one's individual consciousness or single-handed efforts, but on the Incarnation of Christ who came to lay down his life for us. He gives us his very flesh to eat in order to enter into this life, and lends us his very back to traverse the chasm separating earth from heaven which he himself bridges.

St. Josemaria Escriva said once that "a saint is a sinner who keeps trying." In this he recognizes the effort--the trying--is necessary; a cooperation with the grace which preceded it. However, we can ascend by way of stairs, or, as St. Thérèse of Lisieux advocated, by way of an elevator. Or as Fr. Jean Pierre de Caussade imagined, a simple "abandonment to Divine Providence" which consisted of an ever-present awareness and participation in the "sacrament of the present moment." This "paying attention" for the grace of opportunity God gives us to do His will at every moment of every day is akin to listening to that radio which is dialed in to a station. So too, the Jesus Prayer, and countless other tools Christian tradition offers to bring our will in alignment with His. When we lapse into forgetfulness, of failing to pay attention, failing to pray, of "missing the mark" through sin, we inadvertently and ever so slightly turn that knob and everything comes out of focus and becomes static in which we cannot hear His voice anymore. When we stay tuned in, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day and year by year through conscious awareness and submission to this sacrament of the present moment, we come closer to aligning our will with His.

If anything, the halo is a kind of metaphysical tattoo, a branding that there is something special about this individual--not because of any merit of their own, but because of their willingness to empty themselves of that which blocks the pathway between the head and the heart, between their will and God's. Even in periods of radio silence, when God does not speak and withholds His consolations, they do not turn the dial seeking another station but instead hold the unbearable tension of such silence, entering deeper and deeper with every passing moment into the cavern of such silence, seeking even the slightest whisper, a single word, a brushing of presence. Most of us do not experience this sustained degree of consciousness because we do not bother to clear out the tunnel between the mind and the heart, but instead fill it like a junked-up hallway with immaterial "things"--distractions, activities, busyness, noise, passions and striving--that prevent us from hearing. It also prevents us from performing miracles, from healing the sick, from raising the dead, not because God does not give us that opportunity, but because we have chosen the "lesser part" instead. 

Like all iconography and art, the depiction of the halo surrounding the head of "a sinner who keeps trying" is an articulation of a divine reality that can only be communicated imperfectly. Were one to photograph a living saint or walk next to him or her, this "aura" surrounding the head would, of course, not be visible.  I wonder if a man or woman who is, say, halfway there during their sojourn here on earth--not quite perfected, but growing closer every day--has a budding halo, or a dim, barely perceptible "50% holy" one. Or if such illumination only comes at the moment of their death, when they have definitively run the race and received the hallowed crown, no longer in danger of being pulled from the rings of the ladder of divine ascent and are secure in their salvation. 

Mary of Bethany was a true contemplative, forgoing all things to simply sit and gaze at the feet of Jesus in seemingly useless adoration. Her sister Martha loved the Lord through servicing Him, attending to the many needs before her, and yet in doing so was accused by the Lord of being "anxious and troubled about many things." Her sister, Jesus points out, "has chosen the better part," and not only that, but that "it will not be taken from her" (Lk 10:41-42). And yet both--St. Mary and St. Martha--are united with their brother Lazarus as saints in the heavenly kingdom. All three have won the race and earned the crown. All three wear the halo. They did not all arrive by the same path. But all were sanctified in the end.

I no longer put any stock in New Age Gnosticism, and have abandoned religious syncretism as an esoteric way to God. For better or worse, I have stripped down my practice of the faith to the basics of Christian orthodoxy--mental prayer, rosary, Mass, confession, reading the Scriptures, periodic fasting and abstinence, acts of charity, spiritual reading, etc--but sustaining focus in a world of distraction and as a layman makes the "deep work" of prayer difficult. I am no religious and under no physical tutelage or Rule. I have sold myself as a slave to Christ yet still run away from my Master periodically to indulge my own whims of fancy. He does not send out the dogs after me, but patiently waits for me to wake up, come to my senses, and start making my way back home. My prayer--that is, my focused gaze on the person of Christ, my tuning into the divine frequency found in silence and contemplation--comprises 1/100th of my day. And I wonder why it is I sin, stumble in the darkness, am unhappy and discontent. It is because I took my eyes off his, the way one takes their eyes off the road, their eyes off the ball, their eyes off the prize. It is at times like this when I lament the seemingly childish and outlandish desire to become a saint one day, to wear the halo like my heroes and models, those who have gone before and those who show me a way. Not an escape from a cycle of rebirth, but a transcendence to a divine communion not reserved for just a future Heaven but available now, here, on earth. If only I would listen, love, pray, relent, surrender...die. To my idea of how I want to live and instead "see things as they really are." That is, as God sees them. 

How, then, can I--or anyone for that matter--pray without ceasing, live in the mind of Christ, make my will his, exist in the divine consciousness and partake in the sacrament of the present moment every moment of every day? How can I clear the hallway and get past the static and simply remember my first love, rather than being like the man who sees his face and then goes away forgetting what he looks like (Ja 1:24)? Will it always be fits and starts, imperfect, falling out of the flow? Will I be a sinner who keeps trying but never quite gets it, or who gives up before he finishes his race, who forfeits my crown, who scoffs at the idea of halos and like a child who grows up too fast, can no longer see them illuminating the night from the heads of those who have not given up and given in? Will enlightenment--of metanoia, of understanding, of seeing--come in an instantaneous flash of Zen-like grace--perhaps through tragedy or loss--like cold water thrown in the face of deep slumber? Or will it be a slow, steady, imperceptible slog: two steps forward on the path of understanding and one step backwards, day after day, year after year, in cooperation with grace? Will my heart and my head eventually be as one, just as the Father and the Son are One? And is our halo reserved as a posthumous medal of honor for a life well lived, or a sign of mystical communion that can be seen in this life on earth as well as in heaven?

"For who has known the mind of the Lord so as to instruct him? But we have the mind of Christ." (1 Cor 2:16)

An Homage To Saint Martha

The beginning of the semester is always a very busy time for me at work. Part of my responsibilities in my role is coordinating events, and I'll be the first to admit it's not my favorite. As anyone who has, say, planned a wedding in a professional or hired capacity knows it can be stressful with a lot of logistics, planning, coordination, and moving parts. As someone who suffers from anxiety to boot, it's an especially burdensome task. 

The weird thing is, I'm actually pretty well-suited for it despite the stress. I'm organized, plan and pull people together well, leverage contacts, and am time-conscious. I do get anxious about the things I can't control, but the things I can I do a pretty good job with. As with many things, sometimes the anticipation and the unknowns leading up the event are worse than the event itself, and the past couple months for me has been no exception. And like a wedding, no one really remembers that the centerpieces were missing a bow, or you ran out of plates. All they remember is they had a good time. 

And that's what happened tonight. Thankfully the months of planning and keeping things organized on my end helped, even when there were a few unforeseen glitches. There was a lot of running around and coordination. But in the end, everything went smoothly and it was a positive and memorable night for those we served.

What's strange is I found myself over the past day or two for the intercession of a new (O.G.) saint in my spiritual Rolodex, and that was St. Martha. 

Martha, like Thomas and Nathanael, aren't always portrayed in the most flattering light in Scripture. They are kind of like the supporting actors in Hollywood; not your typical go-to for casting calls. 

In Luke's Gospel, we see the busy Martha contrasted with her serene sister Mary, who sits at the feet of Christ as he visits their home. Martha is somewhat indignant that Mary is not pulling her weight in the service department, but Jesus lovingly admonishes her,

"As Jesus and his disciples were on their way, he came to a village where a woman named Martha opened her home to him. She had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord's feet listening to what he said. But Martha was distracted by all the preparations that had to be made. She came to him and asked, "Lord, don't you care that my sister has left me to do the work by myself? Tell her to help me!" "Martha, Martha," the Lord answered, "you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken away from her." (Lk 10:38-42)

Clearly there is a "better part" here, and Martha has settled for bronze. But I think she was just being who she was. One has to wonder how different the two sisters personalities may have been. It's also likely Martha was the older sister. It's always interesting when it comes to my wife and I how much birth order factors into our marriage; my wife is the youngest of four, and I am the oldest of three. As the oldest, I always felt a weight of responsibility--burden if you will--to "worry" about things that my brothers never gave thought to. My wife, by contrast, never worries about anything, and is used to just being "taken care of." 

The thing is, (needless) worry never really accomplishes anything; it's kind of like the mirage of social media where you think you are doing something noble and worthwhile and getting close to people, but you're really just wasting time in an echo chamber with internet strangers positing as friends. We spend a lot of energy worrying about the bad things that never end up happening, which falsely reinforces it's value in a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy: I worried--the bad thing didn't happen--worrying helped. It's not true. But it can be a real struggle to overcome that fallacy mentally. 

I'm not saying Martha of Bethany did this, but the always-perceptive Jesus is the one who says, she is "worried and upset about many things." Maybe she was concerned the bread was not rising fast enough, or that there wasn't enough wine, or the house was a mess, and all this was going through her mind in the other room while her sister, without a care in the world, took the privileged place on the floor at Jesus' feet. Mary is living in the world of the primary and macro, while Martha concerns herself with the secondary and micro.

Sometimes we want to be "the other sister." We may be a Martha that longs to be more contemplative, while a dreamy Mary might wish she had more practical skills in the kitchen. Personality wise, I have a "doer" shell while I think my core is in the realm of "being." I have a woman's brain but live in a man's body. I'm an introvert at heart, with strongly extroverted tendencies. 

But my work these past few months (and especially this evening at the actual event) had me solely in Martha's world. I was "worried and upset" about many (little) things. And so I found a soft-spot in my heart for St. Martha, for Christ loved her for who she was and sainthood was not beyond her. I thought she may understand my struggles, my anxious anguish, and could help me. So I prayed and asked for her intercession specifically. That's what's so great about the saints specifically, and Catholicism in general--there is a friend in Heaven for every occasion, every plight, every particular struggle and miracle needed. And I feel like she really came through in the clutch for me, because everything could not have gone better tonight.

So, this is my homage to the virgin Martha, whose less than flattering appearance in holy scripture is nonetheless honored and counted among the saints in Heaven and who had the privilege of serving the Lord Christ himself in her lifetime. We need Peters and Pauls. We need Teresas of Calcutta and Teresas of Avila. And we need Marthas in this life as much as Marys. 

Because, let's admit it: that food ain't going to cook itself.  

When to Follow the Crowd...and When Not To

When I was in high school, and before I was a Christian myself, I remember driving by the local Catholic church with my father one day. Mass must have just been getting out, as people were leaving the church en masse and walking to their cars. "Sheep," I muttered under my breath. "They're all sheep." As a general non-conformist and angsty punk-rock teenager who was ignorant of religion, it was a predictable response. But I remember it being visceral as well, a kind of disgust of "the masses" blindly following social norms and conforming themselves to something "good people did" (which was going to church). The fact that I remember using the term "sheep" was curious in itself, given the scriptural foundation for followers of Jesus. The reaction from my father--himself a Catholic, though one who left my brothers and I to our own discernment regarding religion--was swift, a kind of "How dare you" response. 

Curious also was my feeling of being conflicted over the scene and the competing emotions. I scoffed at groups of people all doing and thinking the same thing in uniformity, pitying them in a sense. But there was also a part of me that envied them. I wrestled with the human and religious questions as a teenager--why are we here? what is the purpose of life?, where do we go when we die?, how can I be happy?--but I was like an explorer without a map. Here were people honoring a prescribed mandate (to keep holy the Sabbath), and they knew where to go to do that (in this case, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel parish). 

Like many of the teachings of Christ, The Way is paradoxical--God gave us the Law through Moses and the fulfillment of the Law He gave to us in His son. Those who were once in darkness have seen a great light, for they now have a way back to God: through Christ. 

W.C. Fields said, "A dead fish can float downstream, but it takes a live one to stream upstream." We fight against our own concupiscence, as well as the allure of the world, the flesh, and the Devil. And as the Lord Christ makes clear in his teaching, “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it" (Mt 7:13-14). 

If we follow the ways of the world, we can be assured we are not on the narrow road. And so we are expected to follow Christ, who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and conform our life to his. As Catholics, we know we are meant to travel this road as a corporal body, not as individuals divorced from it. We account for our lives before the just Judge alone, but we do not get before the Throne on our own.

There are times when it is good practice to follow the herd, for sometimes it is for good reason. If you are driving on the highway and everyone is merging to the right lane because of construction, we would do well to follow suite. We all know that guy who insists on doing the opposite and then finds himself stuck with his turn signal on at the last moment, trying to make his way in to avoid the barriers. 

Likewise in the liturgy. As Catholics, we sit, kneel, stand at prescribed times, respond in unison at the appropriate times. It is not the place for following one's whims, or improv-ing with raised hands or free-wheeling vocal prayer. Were one to do so, they would not be praying with the mind of the Church in this context. 

And yet, even within the Church we are sometimes faced with scenarios in which we are called to swim upstream. When you look around you and everyone is receiving Communion in the hand, for instance, one may think this is what they should do so as not to stand out. But sometimes conscience dictates we do otherwise--either through refraining from receiving at all, or doing so by kneeling and receiving on the tongue. If you are blessed with a Latin Mass parish, this is a non-issue, as Communion in the hand is not given (which is how it should be). In this sense, conformity with established norms and practices is a light yoke, since it removes the tension and burden of having to buck the trend by being an outlier.

The Asch "Line Experiments" in the 1950's were an interesting case study, where 75% of 123 college-aged males answered a relatively simple question incorrectly when influenced by the majority. In the control group (not exposed to majority influence), the rate was 1%. "That intelligent, well-meaning, young people are willing to call white black is a matter of concern," he noted. 

In "The Hardest Thing For A Person To Do Is Go Against Their Tribe," I made reference to an Atlantic article from 2017 in which the author wrote,

“A man with a conviction is a hard man to change,” Festinger, Henry Riecken, and Stanley Schacter wrote in When Prophecy Fails, their 1957 book about this study. “Tell him you disagree and he turns away. Show him facts or figures and he questions your sources. Appeal to logic and he fails to see your point … Suppose that he is presented with evidence, unequivocal and undeniable evidence, that his belief is wrong: what will happen? The individual will frequently emerge, not only unshaken, but even more convinced of the truth of his beliefs than ever before.

“You spread stories because you know that they’re likely to be a kind of litmus test, and the way people react will show whether they’re prepared to side with you or not,” Boyer says. “Having social support, from an evolutionary standpoint, is far more important than knowing the truth about some facts that do not directly impinge on your life.” The meditation and sense of belonging that Daniel Shaw got from Siddha Yoga, for example, was at one time more important to his life than the alleged misdeeds of the gurus who led the group.

Shaw describes the motivated reasoning that happens in these groups: “You’re in a position of defending your choices no matter what information is presented,” he says, “because if you don’t, it means that you lose your membership in this group that’s become so important to you.” Though cults are an intense example, Shaw says people act the same way with regard to their families or other groups that are important to them.

The inference of conformity to the state of the world should be obvious. But it gets a little more gray when it comes to our duty as Christians within the Church. The strongest Christians are usually those who have weighed the evidence, determined the stakes, and discerned the costs of following Christ and do so anyway. This can include those who have a strong non-conformist personality but who nonetheless discern the truth of Catholicism. The weakest are those who go to Mass or believe "because I was raised this way," or "I don't know, it's just what we do" unreflexively.

And yet, in relation to Christ, he still refers to his flock as sheep--those who follow a voice they know, who act unthinkingly in a herd, who have an innocent desire to simply follow. The wolf, by contrast, is one who breaks in to the pen to cause carnage--instinctual, prowling, aggressive, and led by no one. 

In Matthew 10:16, Christ admonishes us to be "wise as serpents, and innocent as doves," and commends shrewdness as well (Lk 16:1-15). He tells his disciples regarding the Pharisees, "do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach" (Mt 23:23). Again, there is this uncomfortable paradox: we are not to conform ourselves to the ways of the world, but to Christ and his teachings, which should be obvious. Less obvious is how we should conform our behavior of our fellow Christians within the Church.

As in many instances, the saints give us the example, as St. Paul gave to the Corinthians to "be imitators of me" (1 Cor 11:1). Were St. Thomas More or St. John Fisher to conform themselves to their fellow bishops during their time, they would have found themselves on the road to perdition. Were St. Teresa of Avila not to have urged Pope Gregory XI to return to Rome from Avignon, we may have a very different Church today. Even modern day followers of Christ like Fr. Benedict Groeschel found it necessary to establish a new religious order (the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal) to get back to the roots of their charism of poverty, though it would have been 'easier' to stay with the Capuchins. 

In all these instances, this was not a matter of conformity, but conscience. As Cardinal John Henry Newman wrote so eloquently, 

"The rule and measure of duty is not utility, nor expedience, nor the happiness of the greatest number, nor State convenience, nor fitness, order, and the pulchrum. Conscience is not a long-sighted selfishness, nor a desire to be consistent with oneself; but it is a messenger from Him, who, both in nature and in grace, speaks to us behind a veil, and teaches and rules us by His representatives."

And therein lies the paradox: that Christ speaks to us behind a veil, and yet teaches and rules us by His representatives, just as he commanded his disciples to do everything the Pharisees told them, but not to do what they do. And so we conform in the macro, and discern in the micro. 

My personality as a non-conformist has not changed over the years; it is both surprising and unsurprising that I became a Catholic twenty-five years ago as a teenager, and have remained so to this day by God's grace. In doing so, I have sought to conform my will to Christ's, and my life to the teachings of his Church. I follow the same road as those who have gone before me, rather than bushwhacking and getting lost in the forest. In that, I am a sheep.

But if it is God's will I be a saint, there may come a time in which conforming my life to that of those around me within Her walls and resting in that comfort is not enough, as our Lord told St. Peter, "when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go" (Jn 21:18). This applies to all who wish to follow Christ and be baptized into his death. For the saint must walk alone. 

The Safe House

 

*Note: I am back from retreat. Thank you for your prayers, they were efficacious. Many graces, and one small miracle as well. I am still letting things digest, and as we spent five days keeping silence and meditating often on the nature of the Mother of God, I would like to just imitate our Mother in the way she "kept all these words, and pondered them in her heart" (Lk 2:19-20 DRV). 

I am indebted to Dom Pius Mary Noonan, OSB, who flew over from Australia to offer this retreat for men, offered the Latin Mass daily, and made himself available for spiritual direction throughout the week to the 24 men who were there to "be broken apart, and put back together again" in the Lord's school of charity. The monk's budding monastery, Notre Dame Priory in Tasmania, is a traditional order of Benedictines very much worth supporting if you are able and feel called to do so, as they could truly use the financial help; if inclined, you may donate here. 

While I'm going to keep the particulars of my retreat to myself (for now, at least), I would like to share a little bit about something tangential I experienced this past week:

Off country road 274 in western Ohio two Churches converge. Not two local parishes, nor two physical structures even, but the meeting of the universal Church Militant and the Church Triumphant. The day I arrived to the Relic Chapel in the unincorporated town of Maria Stein, I was the only one representing the Church Militant--alone among the remains of 500+ friends who has walked the same path I found myself on, and who have won the crown of victory in the heavenly court (1 Cor 9:25).

I had driven six hundred miles to attend a retreat in the middle of corn and soybean fields near the Indiana border for the week and wasn't even aware that a quarter mile walk from where I was staying would take me to the second largest collection of holy relics in the United States. I really do think I was being led there by the Holy Spirit, as I was sitting outside on a bench in the middle of a clearing, struggling with something particular to my spiritual battle and feeling besieged by the Devil (who probably wasn't happy I was there), and just felt like wandering over to what I thought was just a church down the way to kill time in between sessions.

When I came to the brick church, there was a sign that said Relic Chapel, and the heavy wooden door was ajar. I curiously opened it and walked inside and was completely blown away. 

The space itself was small, maybe 30' by 30' but it was packed with the bones, clothing, and other remnants of literally almost every single holy heavy hitter in the course of Church history: 1,200 in all, including fragments of the True Cross. I had never been to something with holiness so...concentrated before. 

I knelt down on the wood floor and got to work on asking each saint represented there, by name, for special favors for those who needed them. There as an alphabetical guide of all the saints' relics that were represented, so I started with the "A's" and ended with the "Z's". It took me 20 minutes or so all in all to ask every single one for these intentions, just to cover my bases: "St. Abdon, martyr, pray for us. St. Abinius, pray for us. St. Abundus, pray for us...and so on and so on."

Now, I hate museums, and I'm not big on books either. But holy scripture is not dead letters on a page, but God alive in the Word. And this was no 'museum' in the secular sense, but a powerhouse of living holiness, if felt like. The relics of all my favs were here: St. Agnes, St. Benedict Joseph Labre, St. Antony, St. Benedict, St. Charbel...you'd be harder pressed to find a holy man or woman in history who wasn't represented or present. Because Satan was working hard on me over the past week, pummeling me at night and during the days, this chapel felt like a safe house of sorts, where he literally couldn't stand to be because my holy friends were protecting and surrounding me.  

What was strange was I was so excited, like I found an unclaimed treasure chest that washed up while at the beach for the weekend--and the place was empty! Why? Why weren't there busloads of pilgrims, people flying in from all over the country and world, to venerate and pray here? Did they not know it existed? 

In holy scripture, we see the sick and suffering healed who merely fell within Peter's shadow passing by (Acts 5:15). To expect that these friends in Heaven can and do want to intercede for us through divine favor is not only biblical, but congruent with one's faith in God, His saints, and His Church. I just couldn't believe it wasn't standing room only. What a divine privilege to be there alone, among so many friends and heroes. 

But then, why should I be surprised? This is human nature. We have the privilege of keeping watch with our Lord in Eucharistic Adoration less than ten minutes from our homes, and rather than being standing room only, there are empty hours. The Lord's best friends fell asleep on him in his hour of need, and all those who yelled Hosanna! on Palm Sunday have left him alone or lost interest. The road of discipleship can be so sparsely traveled that you get excited when you meet another disciple on the way, one who gets it, who has a burning heart to talk with zeal about the Messiah and the salvation of mankind (Lk 24:13-35).

I feel like an elementary school kid in these situations--I take Christ as his word, that anyone who prays and does not doubt can throw mountains into the sea, raise the dead, experience the same miracles that were happening 2,000 years ago when he walked the earth before he ascended into Heaven, leaving us these breadcrumbs of the fallen soldiers mowed down by the Romans or other hostile empires. It's like a secret nobody gets or cares about--yes, a pearl of great price that you find and run home to withdraw everything you have in the bank to buy it. 

I went back each day of my retreat, and each day I was the only one there. I spent the twenty minutes praying A-Z each saint by name for favors, for faith, for friends, for miracles so that the world might know that Jesus Christ is King and Lord, and LIVES (Col 1:17). Yes, work a miracle brothers and sisters for the glory of Christ's name. 

When you think about it, though, it can sometimes be easier to travel 10 hours by car to some random chapel in the middle of cornfields, or to fly to Lourdes seeking a healing, or touch the glove of Padre Pio, than it may be to cultivate the faith living in our hearts and commune with the Lord made truly present in the Eucharist at our local parish at holy Mass or in Eucharistic adoration. The relics we venerate are holy because Christ is holy, and the bones and scraps of fabric connect us to him. But we are in not shortage of opportunities to be intimate not in the 2nd or 3rd degree with Christ, but every time we receive Holy Communion is a pilgrimage of the heart. You literally cannot get any closer and more intimate with the Lord than you do when you receive him into your body. You can visit him in the flesh anytime at your local adoration chapel as well. 

Relics are awesome, like visiting old friends. It's more than just a museum, but a safe house where you can talk shop with your friends. But the Lord has not hidden himself. He is in plain view, in ordinary guise--bread and wine--just down the street from you. 

We think spiritual direction with a wise director is something complicated or in-depth. Often, it's the opposite. Over the course of five days, when I would meet daily with the Abbot Father, I would pour out the consolations and struggle mightily under the desolation. I would dig deep and scour the corners of my soul to bring the dust into the light, only to be met with rather ordinary and commonplace advice/direction: "ask Our Lady to help you;" "pray to your guardian angel;" "commit to mental prayer." Because I'm only at the lower rungs of the ladder of divine ascent, it's not spiritual brain surgery here. But the Dom's advice was spot on. I prayed sincerely for a particular grace (because he told me to), and the Lord unequivocally and unmistakably provided it. I asked Our Lady to help me conquer a vice, and lo and behold, the vice was conquered. Just like that. 

Faith is simple; we make it more complicated than it has to be. It is a gift, freely given when asked for in humility and without doubting. The week on retreat with these twenty three other guys was like being a schoolchild, an inmate, a cadet, and a novice all at once. We were doing the hard work of discipline under the deft guidance of the Dom for a limited amount of time, so we can learn to love better, pray better, serve better, and become holy. 

If we do not become saints it is not because the Lord withholds anything from us to make that possible. It's because we do not will it and want it enough.And what else is there in this life than to become a saint? Nothing! It is only thing that matters. We have evidence--in the relics we venerate, in the stories we read--that men and women just like us have gone before and received the crown. So, the only thing stopping us from joining them is not God, nor our sin, nor our weakness or past, nor the Devil, nor our family. It is ourselves! 

When I got home my wife told me the sad story of the billionaires that recently went on a $250,000 submarine ride to see the remnants of the Titanic, and all died. Tragic. All I could think of when she told me was, "all that money, and they still died like anyone else, albeit in the middle of the ocean." It wasn't able to help one as much as you might think it could, I suppose. And they too, like many of us, will be soon forgotten. For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten (Eccl 9:5). May God have mercy on them, as they are now coming before the throne at their particular judgment and like all of us, will give an account of their lives (Lk 16:19-31)

So commit to Christ, to the work, to the suffering which is not without joy, that maybe one day a piece of our tee-shirts or a fragment of our fingernail might hang on a wall in some obscure church somewhere, to help give encouragement and friendship and favor to the next wave of cadets in the Lord's school of charity. The only thing stopping you from joining the alphabetical list of saints, is you.

Cultus

I'm of the "I'll take grace wherever I can get it" camp, but I'll admit that when I heard of the news of Pope Paul VI's canonization a few years ago, I was a little perplexed. It seemed that throughout history, there was a kind of local cult that sprang up when news of a particular person's sanctity spread. In other words, saints were privately venerated from the "bottom up" by way of the cultus, and then vetted canonically and rubber stamped by Rome once sufficient investigation had been carried out. Maybe Paul VI had this at the local level in Italy (or beyond), those 'on the ground' recognizing his personal sanctity and witness to heroic virtue and petitioning that he formally be recognized a saint, and now now now. If he did, I didn't hear much about it. So, the next thing I know he's a canonized saint and I'm like, "where did this come from?" Seemed like it came "from the top down." I don't understand it.

Contrast this with the recent veneration of Sr. Wilhelmina, a nun from a traditional order who died in 2019 and whose body was found to be incorrupt when exhumed four years later. I had two sets of friends text me photos during those first few days (before word was spreading much) of their families praying at the foot of her body. It was quite remarkable, and seemed to develop a cultus of faithful quite organically. As word has spread, the small country convent has become the center of a national fascination with this obscure nun and her order, her history, and her personal sanctity. Heck, I would have set off myself for the 14 hour drive if I would have heard about it a bit earlier!

This seems like the more normal process--God does something in history to speak to us; the sensus fidelium recognize it from the ground, and the cultus forms. Of course the Church has the final authority to determine whether such figures are worthy of public veneration, which comes with time and investigation and verified miracles. But it's from the 'bottom up' versus from the 'top down.' It's not the Church saying "behold your Pope-Saint! Pray away!" It's Her doing Her due diligence to vet those traditionally put forth by the cultus, over time, so that they have the assurance that nothing the would-be saint is opposed to the faith and morals, did indeed exercise heroic virtue, and that the miracles attributed to them have no natural explanation. 

I'm not making a statement here about the process of canonization, the politics of canonization, or to cast shade on anyone who is truly devoted to, say Paul VI, as an intercessor. Just that I thought it was curious that this week we have what seems to be a truly organic process and development of a cultus happening in our lifetime which seems to be genuine and baffling to scientific explanation. The fact that Sr. Whilhemina was previously unknown beyond the walls of the convent and lived a hidden life, is American, is Black/African American, and comes from a traditional order....well, it's all very exciting. 

You have to wonder: God is trying to speak to us in our lifetime and make Himself known with these more frequent Eucharistic miracles, Marian apparitions, and now this. He is not keeping hidden the work of grace that can't always be explained naturally or scientifically. I wonder if we will get to a point in which He is literally pouring out his grace so profusely to prepare us from the final siege that is to come by the forces of Darkness that we almost take them for granted. 

God is raising up great saints and courageous men and women in our lifetime, pouring out to overflowing His great grace to prepare us with what we need to endure. In any case, it is a very exciting time to become Catholic, and to see what God is doing here on the ground. 

Getting On Base

 

I re-watched MoneyBall the other night. It's based on a true story of a former ball player-turned-MLB scout and General Manager of the Oakland A's, Billy Beane (played by Brad Pitt), who attempts to rebuild the "runt of the litter" A's on a limited budget. He recognizes major league baseball is an "unfair game" where there are rich teams and poor teams, and they are the poorest of the poor. 

Billy knows it's either business as usual of managing the decline and keeping things status quo, or "thinking differently" with an unconventional approach. He takes a chance on Peter Brand (played by Jonah Hill), a young statistician with a degree in Economics from Yale and pilfers him from the unappreciative Cleveland Indians so he can run numbers for him. "Baseball thinking is medieval," Brand tells Billy, "They are asking all the wrong questions. And if I say it to anyone, I'm ostracized, I'm a leper." It takes a lot of calculated risk on Billy's part, putting his faith in a different way of doing things (statistical analysis) and in Pete himself. If Billy fails, he fails big and can be easily written off with his "little experiment." But in reality, he has little to lose...because they are losing already.

You can see this "medieval thinking" in a great scene with Billy in the board room with all the scouts trying to replace three of their top players. As his managers go around the table trading their insights about players and potential, Billy knows nothing is going to change because his old-school colleagues are acting as if it's business as usual. In fact, they don't even see the problem.

"You guys are just talking. Talking. Lalalala. Like this is business as usual. It's not."

"We're trying to solve the problem, Billy."

"Not like this you're not. You're not even looking at the problem."

"Okay, what's the problem?"

"Look Billy, we all understand what the problem is, we..."

"Okay, good. What's the problem?"

"The problem is we have to replace three key players in our lineup..."

"Nope. What's the problem?" 

"Same as it's ever been. We've got to replace with what we have existing...."

"Nope. What's the problem?"

"We need 38 home runs, 120 RBIs, and...."

"Wrong. The problem we are trying to solve is there are rich teams and there are poor teams. Then there's 50 feet of crap. And then there's us. It's an unfair game. And now we've been gutted, organ donors for the rich. Boston's taken our kidneys, Yankee's taken our heart, and you guys are sitting around talking the same old good body nonsense like we're selling jeans, like we're looking for Fabio. We've got to think differently." 

Billy sees the potential to rebuild in "cheap players;" that is, undervalued players with various defects who have been passed over by everyone else who nevertheless have potential to do one thing: Get on base. He doesn't care if they are walked or whatever; their on-base percentage is all that matters to him. Getting on base eventually translates to runs, which means wins...and Billy wants to win, not just manage a mediocre decline to maintain the status quo. 

He meets resistance from his managers, scouts, and team at every turn, and for a while their initial losing streak seems to prove the inevitable: that the experiment has failed. But Billy sticks to his plan while he's "taking it in the teeth" from everyone, and little by little, base by base, things start to turn around. It's a big gamble...but it pays off in the end, and fundamentally changed the game of baseball.

In a way, the Church--from the individual parish to the KOC to the Bishops themselves--is like those old guys in the board room: they might recognize but can't answer the question "what's the problem?", and when they try to, they use the same line of thinking that worked fifty years ago.

The Church today is like the Oakland A's in MoneyBall. There have been a few players willing to "try something new." One is Church of the Nativity in Timoninum, Maryland, where the pastor there took a playbook from Rick Warren and attempted to overlay what worked with Protestant pastoral initiatives on a Catholic framework. Whether that is appropriate or not to do is up for debate. My family and I were curious about it a number of years ago after reading the book Rebuilt, which details the parish's transformation. It was kind of a Protestant-Catholic fusion which was unconventional to say the least. It was a novel "success" in the sense of bringing more people into an otherwise dying parish in an bold manner, and I at least give the pastor and his team credit for at least doing something beyond "business as usual." 

We see the Holy Father taking initiatives to "make a mess" of things. We see a Synod on Synodality trying to democratize the Church. We see the Knights re-doing their regalia. All in the hopes of "bringing people in." 

I'm just a guy on the ground. But I have to be honest, I think they are are not seeing the problem in it's entirety, because they are not asking the right questions. And if they are, we must admit, many are not willing to break out of the mold to address it because "business as usual" is not working--but anything else is simply too risky to "how we have always done things." And so it is Band-Aids on a nicked aorta. 

So, what is the problem? 

Is it we don't have enough parish programs? That we need more youth ministry?

Nope. What's the problem?

Is it the laity need more of a voice? More participation of women? 

Nope. What's the problem?

Is it culture? That we need to "get with the times" and be more inclusive?

Nope. What's the problem?

Is it that people are leaving Catholicism for Orthodoxy, or their local mega church? Are we not hardcore enough? Not welcoming enough?

Nope. What's the problem?

What's the problem?

What. Is. The. Problem.

We're asking the wrong questions, and I believe the problem is we have lost faith. We have lost faith in the Church, Her apostles, and the hierarchy. We have lost faith in the supernatural, in grace, in miracles. We have lost faith in the ability to transform the culture, because we are losing the battle for culture. 

But here's the thing--we have everything we need; the solution to "the problem" is right under our noses. 

We have the Truth. We have the promises of Christ to never abandon his Church. We know how the story ends, that He conquered death by death. We have the power of the sacraments, and the example of the saints--who were the moneyballers throughout history, who thought differently and were willing to suffer and labor and be ostracized because of their unfailing faith in the promises of the savior (Lk 9:1-25). 

Our Lord sent the disciples out one by one to "get on base." He didn't discount Saul because he was persecuting the Church, but chose him as His appointed messenger (Acts 9:1-25). We can see Paul opposing Peter's reticence to eat with the uncircumcised (Gal 2:11-14), which was a radical departure from everything Peter ever knew. But the New Covenant does not work while still holding on to the Old, for no one puts new wine in old wineskins (Lk 5:37). For the Lord Christ is "doing a new thing" (Is 43:19).

In order to get base runs, we need to do the hard, risky work of thinking differently. We can't be saying to ourselves, "I'm a good Catholic," or "I go to Mass on Sundays," or "I write checks and volunteer at my local parish." These are all good things, but they are the wrong questions. The question we should be asking is, "Why am I not a saint? Why am I not trusting the Lord when he promises we will work miracles in his name?" (Lk 10:9). 

We do not think big because we do not have faith. And even if we have faith, we must be willing to go out into the vineyard and do the work. Otherwise we become like the brother who says to the father  "I will go" and does not (Mt 21:28-32).

At the end of MoneyBall, Billy is recruited to be the new General Manager of the Boston Redsox, because their owner believes in what Beane is doing and that the "business as usual" dinosaur of MLB thinking needs to change. While tempted, Billy ultimately declines the $12.5M offer (and the chance to become the highest paid GM in history), and stays with the A's. The Sox ultimately go on to win big that season using Billy's "Moneyball" approach, but Billy has no regrets. He has already won the ultimate game. But he didn't get there with a "business as usual" approach.

We can often feel like we're on a losing team remaining in the Church. We are a laughing stock to the world, and the hierarchy is full of hypocrisy and cronyism. We are hemorrhaging believers from the pew, and our priests are aging out. We might be tempted towards Eastern Orthodoxy, or non-demoninationalism, or atheism, or something altogether. For those who remain, it can sometimes feel like the band of misfit players on the Oakland A's. But as the story ends, those players know the wins are in them; they just need someone to inspire them to dig deep and find them.

Wars are won battle by battle. And as any general knows, you have to think differently to win. Runs are scored base by base. It doesn't matter if you get on base by a walk or a home run. We need to start thinking differently as Catholics--we need to do the work of becoming saints not to be an all-star, but because by doing so we inspire our teammates to greatness, to be their best selves--who God made them to be. Some are pitchers, some are catchers, some play left-field. Some are lefties, some are righties. But we get to Heaven together as Catholics--every player matters.

As a Church, we need to get on base. We need to take the risk of looking like fools, of getting out of our comfort zones, of believing with everything we have, and of sacrificing for those who are lost. We get on base, we score runs. We score runs, we win. Maybe not in the eyes of the world, but we're not playing for them. We must think big, not mediocre. We are competing for the crown which never fades.  And we must run our race to win (1 Cor 9:24). 

The Glorious Servant St. Martin de Porres

 

On my A-list Rolodex of saints is St. Martin de Porres. Born in the 16th century in Peru, he was abandoned by his father and endured discrimination on account of his being mixed-race. He was not permitted orders initially with the Dominicans, but was accepted as a volunteer to perform menial tasks around the monastery. 

I have admired St. Martin since I became Catholic for his meekness, patience, and care for the poor and sick. In our family we try to emulate and learn from his charity and generosity, which he exercised with great abandonment. He accepted poverty for himself, but whenever he received any sum of money or goods, he immediately gave it to those in need, sometimes getting a beating for it in exchange for being so "reckless."

We have a relic of St. Martin which we recently lent to a friend who faced a strange but potentially life-threatening infection in her thumb. The doctors, our friend's husband informed us, were sure the infection was bad enough that it would require amputation. She abandoned herself to St. Martin and prayed with the relic over her thumb, and her husband did as well. We prayed at home for the glorious servant's intercession as well. 

Wouldn't you know, the husband texted me not long after, saying that the techs at the doctor's office said her hand was healing so well they thought they were witnessing a miracle. The wife brought the relic to the office and showed it to the staff. Her thumb has now almost completely healed. A miracle of faith, in our minds at least.

Deo Gratias, glorious servant St. Martin de Porres!

"Everything I Count As Joy"

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time nare not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." 

(Rom 8:18)

 

This afternoon I called a friend, and was given a great gift in exchange: the gift of joy in witnessing the reception of Truth. My friend, who identifies as a Protestant Christian, went to a Latin High Mass with his two kids at our local FSSP parish out of curiosity (he told me that when he heard some Latin Mass communities were being monitored by the FBI, "I had to check it out." I got a kick out of that). He said he was blown away, and moved to tears. "That's the real deal, man," he told me. "It just felt...holy." His kids were riveted as well. Even more surprisingly, he relayed that he is all in and inquiring about coming into the Church. As soon as possible.

If that seems rash and impetuous, please allow me the liberty to tease this out a little, as there are a number of layers to peel back in this story. It begins with an impromptu exposure to the Mass of the Ages, but it doesn't end there and is not the focal point; in fact, that is just the beginning. But I promise you--hope and joy is at the center of it all. 

My friend (who is my age) has a stubborn and aggressive form of bladder cancer. He gets it removed, it comes back; more tumors taken out, more come back. At this point, due to a series of delays in treatment for various reasons, it has moved to some of his muscle, and so the prospect of having to have his bladder removed is on the table. This is his life, but he carries it as a manageable reality. After all, dinner still needs to be made, kids need to be attended to, house maintenance needs to be done; life doesn't stop when you are sick. 

He's hopeful and enthusiastic about alternative treatments, but also realizing their limitations, I think. Physicians can treat the body, but not the soul. He and his family are essentially homeless nomads, spiritually speaking. They don't have a regular church, and he recognizes that many of the Protestant congregations they have visited don't have the substance to sustain a dark night like the one he may soon be entering with his upcoming surgery. My friend is a voracious consumer of information, and I think he is realizing that in fact the Catholic Church, the church founded by Christ, is "the real deal." 

He was out shopping for suits for his son and himself tonight so they can be well dressed for Mass when I called. When he got home, I drove over and brought him a "starter pack" arsenal to begin his journey with: A book on the Latin Mass for beginners, a detailed Examination of Conscience put out by the FSSP, a copy of the Baltimore Catechism, and an anthology of saints. I also included blessed and exorcised salt, a bottle of Epiphany Water, a Miraculous Medal and St. Benedict medal on a chain, and a rosary. 

It's hard not to overwhelm people with Catholic "stuff," because you share in their excitement and enthusiasm for their newfound discovering of the faith. You want to dive right in with them straight away. But we don't eat a lifetime of meals in one sitting, nor are we expected to. We have to pump the brakes and learn the hard virtues of prudence and temperance, even with spiritual things (I think the NC Register had a good article on that recently here). 

But it's good to have these kinds of resources on hand for these kinds of occasions. As I mentioned, nothing gives me greater joy than witnessing people come to faith, witnessing conversion flowering and grace flowing like a river. It doesn't always pan out or blossom, but that is God's prerogative. As the saying goes, we are simply beggars telling other hungry beggars where to find bread--a great privelege.

Part of my friend's sense of urgency too, though, is the realization that his mortal body is in a vulnerable and fragile state. Most of us really do take our health for granted; that is, until you're not healthy. Even though our body is not all there is to our person, we can't live without it. And so, we are tasked with taking care of it as a temple of the Holy Spirit as best we can. Health is not an absolute; it is not even a pre-requisite when it comes to living a fruitful spiritual life. Many of the greatest saints in the history of the Church battled with infirmity, and some (like St. Ignatius) found faith while injured/incapacitated and confined to bed.

What's so cool about being a Catholic is you are often afforded behind the scenes footage of the stories unfolding--you don't know how they are going to end, but you know the Divine Director has everything under control. You are right where you need to be and where He has you placed at this moment in time, and not a moment sooner. The same applies to my friend. 

But it's also exciting because while faith is blossoming in his spirit, and God is orchestrating the details and setting the stage for a masterpiece to be written, we really don't know what direction the story is going to go. 

On the one hand, I have faith in the power of grace, and the intercession of the saints. Personally, I am praying and asking for the intercession of Servant of God Francis Houle to heal my friend of his bladder cancer (I have written about SOG Francis Houle, who was a grandfather and stigmatist and whose son we had Thanksgiving dinner with before, here). Francis' son relayed to us that crowds of people would come to their home so that his father could lay hands on them; in once instance, his son found him sick in the backroom throwing up, as he had taken on the toxic effects of chemotherapy to himself from someone who had come to him seeking healing. If I can make a request, I would ask you join me in prayer in asking for his intercession in this case--for the healing of my friend, but also for the glory of God that a literal miracle might take place leading to Francis' formal canonization.  

On the other hand, God is sovereign in Heaven, and He does as He pleases (Ps 115:3). The healing of the body comes secondary to the elevation of the spirit, and if God chooses not to heal my friend, but by way of his cancer bring him to salvation through His Son and His Bride, the Church, then that too is an outcome worthy of joy. For as Christians, we do not fear those who want to kill the body...for they cannot kill the soul. Instead, we should fear him which is able to destroy both body and soul (Mt 10:28). In this, my friend is preparing himself spiritually through the inculcation of unmerited grace, bolstered by the prayers of mine and yours, to prepare his temple. Whether it is preserved in this life, or destroyed and raised up again in the next, is God's will and concern. 

Can He heal him? Yes, He can. God is a big God--nothing is too big or difficult or beyond hope for Him--Christ His son the worker of miracles for those who believe (1 Cor 2:9). Should He chose to do so, we must be sure not to waste the opportunity afforded us to give his holy name glory for the conversion of others.

Can He use his illness for that same glory? Yes, He can. For Christ is preparing a place for my friend, for He has many mansions and He goes ahead to prepare a place for him (Jn 14:2-6)--whether next week, or twenty years from now. The time and hour is not important or our concern when we live by faith; what is our concern--and what my friend has right--is that we prepare our own hearts to accept him, repent, and believe with a sober urgency. This is grace moving the will, and is not accidental. 

As Christians, we participate in Christ's death through suffering, and offering it up redemptively; we can do this for ourselves, as well as others. But because we are composed of both body and spirit, we are called to serve in charity the corporal needs of widows, orphans, the hungry, the imprisoned, and the infirmed. It can be as simple as bringing someone a meal or offering to rake their leaves, or it can be to hold a hand to comfort during a time of need. Our hidden sacrifices we can offer as an oblation on behalf of others; they are not meaningless, not wasted. This is how we witness to our faith in joy--a joy that should be a contagion, not a lab specimen. For we are people of hope--the hope of the resurrection of the dead, and faith without works is dead (James 2:26); 1 Thes 4:13-18). 

I am so excited to see what God has in store for my friend, and am privileged to witness it. If I died tonight, I could die happy, if only knowing I was able to participate in it for even a short time. Please, reader, pray for my friend, his wife and children, his healing if it be God's will, and his eternal salvation. And in all things, to God be the glory.

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! 

Dead Already

 

Something I've been meditating on lately, and I'm not sure where I heard it: The only way to survive war is to think of yourself as already dead. 

I think part of this has to do with what we are willing to risk in order to live. In a recent documentary I watched on Elon Musk, the former head of NASA was describing the NASA culture after the Apollo disaster: Failure is not an option. While it sounds like a noble raison d'etre, this cultural attitude within the organization stymied innovation and a willingness to push boundaries; as a result, space exploration under the government agency plateaued into mediocrity.

Musk pushed back on this idea of risk-aversion if one wants to achieve great things in a limited amount of time. He reassured his employees at SpaceX: It's okay to fail here. That's an incredible thing to say, especially given that SpaceX's first three rocket launches failed--launches financed with millions of Musk's personal fortune--and they had only one shot left to make it work. The alternative was the company goes under. Astonishingly, the fourth attempt was a success. No risk, no reward.

Our Lord makes it clear in the Gospel that those who desire to follow him must lose their life in order to find it (Mt 10:39); you cannot follow Christ until you have died to yourself (1 Cor 15:31). 

St. Andrew (whose feast day was Wednesday) immediately dropped his nets, left his family and livelihood, in order to follow an itinerant preacher doing a "new thing" (Is 43:19). The Lord whom they followed promised that those who have left houses, brothers, sisters, mother, father, children, or farms for him and the Gospel will receive a hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life (Mt 19:29). But that's a big risk, a heavy wager. You could lose it all, and be left with nothing, if this new preacher can't make spiritual payroll. 

We often play things way too safe in the service of the Lord. There's a scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when Indiana is on a precipice and takes a leap of faith; the bridge is largely invisible but he doesn't know that until he steps into the chasm and his foot lands on it. If it wasn't there...you fall to your death. If it is, you live and cross. But you don't do either until you take that step. On faith.

This is what it is like to surrender to God. Faith is not a guarantee. If it were, it would not be faith. There will always be that part of us, that tiny room in our minds and hearts, that fear and doubt: what if this is a lie? What if I'm being taken for a ride? What if there is nothing beyond this world? During this times, we can want to hold back, play it safe, and stick to what we know. The way NASA did with "Failure is not an option."

But the Christian life is staking our lives on Christ and his promises, and potentially losing big--that is, losing everything. But are those things we have--our lives, our goods, our family--really worth anything if it keeps us stuck in mediocrity? Or as Henry David Thoreau wrote, "men living lives of quiet desperation." 

It's not just our goods, either. In living the Christian life in its truest sense, or becoming a disciple of Jesus Christ, we risk looking foolish, risk our reputations, our good name and potential to live "normal" lives. We expose ourselves to ridicule and denigration in becoming "fools for Christ." 

To be a fool for Christ, however, is the only thing worthy of admiration in the eyes of the saints. They understand the foolishness--the willingness to lose it all, sacrifice everything, for the one we should love above all things. 

The hardest thing to give up, though, is our very lives. Be it survivor's instinct, or simply fear, our death grip on retaining our physical lives is strong. Christ offers a compelling case to risk it all for him, but there is still that part of us that holds back in order retain a sliver of autonomy. Unfortunately, we cannot be "99% disciples." It is an all-or-nothing, zero-sum game: We play and win, or we play and lose. But we cannot not play. 

We are taught that to be "conservative" is to act prudently, rationally, weighing all options and taking calculated approaches. It is strange, isn't it, that the Church herself is "conservative" in word and deed, falling back on slow deliberation, old ways of doing things, and judicious reasoning? But in terms of what the Lord asks of us, he demands that we have no Plan B, that we leave cart and farm and kin with no questions asked to become disciples of his, with only a promise of recompense in another life. 

I'm currently reading about the life of Servant of God Father Emil Kapaun, a military chaplain who fearlessly served his flock in war in whatever way he could by routinely running into the bullet-chewed fray. A man, a soldier, cannot undertake such valiancy without risk to his life; were he to regard himself as "dead already," and in fact does have his life taken from him in such service, he is simply fulfilling that destiny. If by some miracle he comes out alive, it is as if he is given a new lease on life.

In Christ, we are "lost, but now found" as sung in the hymn, Amazing Grace. It is grace that "saves a wretch like me." We were dead in our sin, but now live in Christ (Rom 6:11). The disciple of Christ risks everything for Christ in order to reap the reward he promises. There is no in-between in the Christian life (Rev 3:16). If we are not running into the fray as Christian men considering ourselves 'dead already' to this world in order to save others, we are cowering in our foxholes, fearfully guarding our lives which are not fully lived.