Three Days Grace: A Meditation On The Finding Of The Child Jesus In The Temple

 As anyone who undertakes the First Saturday devotion knows, Our Lady asks us to spend an additional fifteen minutes keeping her company while meditating (meditation being "prolonged reasoning with the understanding," according to St. Teresa) on the mysteries of the rosary. I have taken this to mean one can meditate on all five of the Joyful mysteries of that day, or focus on one in particular. I usually opt for the latter, and usually receive some insights by the Holy Spirit during that time that I may not have had otherwise. 

Yesterday (Saturday) I felt led to meditate on the fifth Joyful Mystery, the Finding of the Child Jesus in the Temple. I'm sure none of these insights are novel, as someone more learned than myself may have illuminated them already, but for me it was fruitful.

In Luke's gospel, we see the Holy Family returning home via caravan from Jerusalem after the Passover. They had already gone a day before they realized the twelve year old Jesus was not with them (Lk 2:44). Doubling back, they returned to Jerusalem where the scripture says they "found him after three days" (2:46). 

This in itself comprised the bulk of my meditation. As a parent of a soon-to-be twelve year old boy myself, I would be beside myself. Now twelve year old boys two thousand years ago were probably more self-sufficient than today, and parents probably didn't have as much of the helicopter-like and exhausting vigilance they do today, but I nevertheless tried to put myself in the mind of St. Joseph in particular. 

As protector and provider, what must have been going through his mind: He was the foster father of the Messiah--no pressure or anything! He was the strong, silent type, never saying a word in scripture. What was going through his head? It was probably hard enough feeling that Jesus was not related to him by blood, but adopted, per se. Yes, he was chosen by God to be the husband of the Mother of God, but he was also charged with this responsibility. Did Jesus (who was under his watch) disappearing undermine his own confidence in his ability to carry out this role? What if something happened to the boy? And who do you pray to when the son of God himself is missing? "Jesus, help me find...you?!" Poor St. Joseph!

And poor Mary. If St. Joseph was grieved, the twenty-six year old Mary, who bore the Savior and was closer to him than any person on earth, must have been even more troubled on a purely maternal level. But as my meditation went further into her heart, I witnessed what I felt was a precursor to twenty one years later, when she once again would be separated from her beloved son for an additional three days. Did she know he would rise from the dead, that this was not an end but a test of faith and patient endurance? What were those three days like--both when he was a boy separated from her, and then as a man separated from the land of the living?

As I kept our Lady company, I tried to console her with seemingly empty words I wasn't sure I believed myself "Don't worry my Lady, we'll find him" and "I'm sure he's okay." Like someone trying to comfort a grieving friend when you don't know what to possibly say. She took my hand in hers as if I was the one in need of faith and consoling, and squeezed it gently. I had a vision of Jesus, years later asleep in the stern on a pillow, quietly napping as his disciples thought they were perishing (Mk 4:38). He knew they would not meet their demise. 

But did Mary know Jesus would ever be found again? Was she walking in darkness, while the whereabout of her boy were unknown and also while he lay lifeless as a man in a tomb. When a woman is pregnant, she knows she cannot stay pregnant forever, that the baby will come and it is just a matter of days, weeks, or months. But for Mary in these instances, what if she wasn't sure he would ever be found, or live again? How great that darkness, that silence, that vast ocean black as night! But perhaps God is impregnating us with faith, hope, patience during this desolate incubation.

When we finally find the boy in the Temple sitting among the teachers of the Law, a wave of joy washes over me upon seeing my boy Lord. But also a rush of relief, that this Good Friday ordeal and unbearable tension is finally over. For the past three days, nothing has mattered except WE MUST FIND JESUS, the way nothing matters to a drowning man except air. I'm beside myself; what was lost is now found.

But when I look over at Our Lady, she has a kind of...tiredness. Not annoyance, but a kind of weighty perplexion. In fact, both her and St. Joseph were "astonished," as she says, "Child, why have you treated us like this? Your father and I have searching for you in great anxiety" (Lk 2:48). (In the Douay-Rheims translation, they had been searching for the boy "sorrowing." In the RSV, the NASB, the NIV, it was "anxiously" or "in great anxiety")

Now I love St. Francis de Sales and his pragmatic wisdom. But there is one saying of his that I've always struggled with, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. It is this:

"Anxiety is the greatest evil that can befall a soul, except sin. God commands you to pray, but He forbids you to worry." 

As someone who suffers from anxiety clinically, this is a heavy admonition to shoulder. I mean, I don't like it myself, and yet I fall into the worry-trap during stressful situations in which my anxiety gets away from me. To be accused of sin on top of it is even worse. 

But what is often left out when this quote is taken at face-value is in the preceding verse in Introduction To The Devout Life, where St. Francis says this:

"If any one strives to be delivered from his troubles out of love of God, he will strive patiently, gently, humbly and calmly, looking for deliverance rather to God’s Goodness and Providence than to his own industry or efforts; but if self-love is the prevailing object he will grow hot and eager in seeking relief, as though all depended more upon himself than upon God. I do not say that the person thinks so, but he acts eagerly as though he did think it. Then if he does not find what he wants at once, he becomes exceedingly impatient and troubled, which does not mend matters, but on the contrary makes them worse, and so he gets into an unreasonable state of anxiety and distress, till he begins to fancy that there is no cure for his trouble. Thus you see how a disturbance, which was right at the outset, begets anxiety, and anxiety goes on into an excessive distress, which is exceedingly dangerous" (XI).

Does Mary seem like the self-love type? The fretful type? One who rests on her own power and might of will? Not to me she doesn't. And so, her anxiety at not knowing where her son was was experienced as any human mother would experience it, yet buoyed by her supreme trust and confidence in God, not the kind of needless worry or anxiety St. Francis de Sales talks about. Were she not to have responded in the way she did--as if she was a Buddha from another planet, or unconcerned, it would not only undermine her humanity but our confidence in her as well as one we can turn to when we face similar trials. In the same way Christ, because he himself has suffered when tempted is able to help those who are being tempted (Heb 2:18). 

No, the "anxiety" of Mary was not the needless or useless kind that we in our imperfections subject ourselves to when we fall short in trust, faith, and confidence. The Greek term ὀδυνώμενοι used in Luke 2:48 can also be translated as to grieve, to be in agony.  

This is not your run of the mill anxiety, but the anguish of a mother being separated from her beloved son. But what if it was to prepare her for what was to come years later, not a mistake of human negligence but as a component of divine formula? Just as when he was in the tomb, she suffered the grief and agony of his death--not because it should not have happened, but because as someone so closely united to him she was resigned to it and entered full into the grieving and agony of that desolation of separation. She knew she had found her son once, three days after being separated from him; perhaps after his death, then, she knew in the silent, grieving astonishment of her heart that she would see him again.  

I Will Celebrate Before The LORD

 One of the great privileges of having a late night slot as an Adorer of the Blessed Sacrament is the possibility for unbridled intimacy. Once a week, from 11pm to midnight, I am alone with the Lord exposed under the guise of bread; there are typically no other visitors to the chapel during this hour.

Even so, my Adoration hour is typically how I would be in the presence of other people. Sometimes I read from Scripture, pray the rosary, or simply kneel or sit in silent meditation with the Lord, speaking from my heart. 

But this past week, on the heels of a retreat my wife and I attended earlier that day, I felt lead to take advantage of that alone time by verbalizing my (extemporaneous) prayer, praise, and supplication. That is, praying and speaking not just from the heart, but with my lips verbally.

It's a little strange, honestly. But divine intimacy in this manner--being unabashedly intimate with the Lord, like a child without social awareness, like the blind man calling out to the Son of David or the woman with the flow of blood who had the chutzpah to boldly reach out and touch the Lord of Lord's garment--is really a conduit of grace. I found it was like a bleed valve for a water heater or something, releasing that pent up spiritual pressure of always having to be so 'well-behaved' and composed in the company of others. 

I do love the passage in 2 Samuel in which David dances half-naked before the Lord in the Ark, and how his love for Yahweh Saboath overflows in unbridled praise and passion. Here is the verse, which I will break up and add commentary as it relates to this idea of "shameful dancing": 

David again brought together all the able young men of Israel—thirty thousand. He and all his men went to Baalah[a] in Judah to bring up from there the ark of God, which is called by the Name, the name of the Lord Almighty, who is enthroned between the cherubim on the ark. They set the ark of God on a new cart and brought it from the house of Abinadab, which was on the hill. Uzzah and Ahio, sons of Abinadab, were guiding the new cart with the ark of God on it, and Ahio was walking in front of it. David and all Israel were celebrating with all their might before the Lord, with castanets,[d] harps, lyres, timbrels, sistrums and cymbals.

When they came to the threshing floor of Nakon, Uzzah reached out and took hold of the ark of God, because the oxen stumbled. The Lord’s anger burned against Uzzah because of his irreverent act; therefore God struck him down, and he died there beside the ark of God.

Then David was angry because the Lord’s wrath had broken out against Uzzah, and to this day that place is called Perez Uzzah.

This is interesting. I have not read commentaries on this, and so don't have the context, but the idea that poor Uzzah was struck dead simply for tying to keep the Ark from falling seems harsh, doesn't it! It is sobering, but not out of line with the power of Yahweh, which should fill all men with awesome fear and trembling. 

The fact, too, that David becomes angry with the Lord on account of His wrath is interesting as well. David, the lover of the Lord, felt comfortable enough having these emotions directed to Him. And yet, as seen in the next passage, David also has that sober and appropriate fear of what the Lord is capable of, his great power and might. He decides to 'park' the ark in the house of this Gittite (maybe as a kind of test, to see the outcome of such a decision?), and Obed-Edom and his household is blessed. So David decides to bring the ark to the his city.

David was afraid of the Lord that day and said, “How can the ark of the Lord ever come to me?” He was not willing to take the ark of the Lord to be with him in the City of David. Instead, he took it to the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite. The ark of the Lord remained in the house of Obed-Edom the Gittite for three months, and the Lord blessed him and his entire household.

Now King David was told, “The Lord has blessed the household of Obed-Edom and everything he has, because of the ark of God.” So David went to bring up the ark of God from the house of Obed-Edom to the City of David with rejoicing. When those who were carrying the ark of the Lord had taken six steps, he sacrificed a bull and a fattened calf. Wearing a linen ephod, David was dancing before the Lord with all his might, while he and all Israel were bringing up the ark of the Lord with shouts and the sound of trumpets.

David's dancing "with all his might" would be a sight to behold. In the presence of God, one who sincerely loves him can struggle to restrain that love. We see this in the saints (St. Philip Neri's near-exploding heart, and St Teresa of Avila's ecstasies come to mind). And yet, as we see in the next verse, the daughter of Saul is disgusted by his unrestraint. 

As the ark of the Lord was entering the City of David, Michal daughter of Saul watched from a window. And when she saw King David leaping and dancing before the Lord, she despised him in her heart.

They brought the ark of the Lord and set it in its place inside the tent that David had pitched for it, and David sacrificed burnt offerings and fellowship offerings before the Lord. After he had finished sacrificing the burnt offerings and fellowship offerings, he blessed the people in the name of the Lord Almighty. Then he gave a loaf of bread, a cake of dates and a cake of raisins to each person in the whole crowd of Israelites, both men and women. And all the people went to their homes.

When Michal approaches David, pay attention to his response. He maintains that he is God's chosen; his confidence in God extends to his rightful vocation. His love for God compels him to celebrate. Not only that, but he promises to stoop even lower in unabashed expression of unrestrained worship to praise the Lord God almighty--his humiliation in his own eyes will be his elevation to those who view him. Amazing! This undignified king is so honest, so enraptures with the Lord of Hosts, that he strips and dances without a thought of his reputation or 'right conduct'

When David returned home to bless his household, Michal daughter of Saul came out to meet him and said, “How the king of Israel has distinguished himself today, going around half-naked in full view of the slave girls of his servants as any vulgar fellow would!”

David said to Michal, “It was before the Lord, who chose me rather than your father or anyone from his house when he appointed me ruler over the Lord’s people Israel—I will celebrate before the Lord. I will become even more undignified than this, and I will be humiliated in my own eyes. But by these slave girls you spoke of, I will be held in honor.”

Finally, we see the virility of David, and the frigid barrenness of Michal, reflected in verse 23 in their physical outcomes. 

And Michal daughter of Saul had no children to the day of her death. 

I think unchecked emotionalism when it is manufactured (as can sometimes happen in "praise and worship" congregations) should give us pause. But so should a stodgy formalism that despises those who abandon their masks and costumes in favor of intimacy with the Lord. The Lord honors those who fear him, but also to those who love Him He will not abandon. David was not wrong to dance before the Lord. He enjoyed that privileged place by his calling as King to do so. 

We also have that ability to be honest, humiliated, and forthright before the Lord of Hosts when we close the door and are alone with Him in prayer. We may not dance half-naked before the Lord in the Tabernacle--but if there were no one around to see at midnight on a weeknight, would it be so bad if we did so?

The Evening Word

 Sometimes when visiting the Lord in the chapel in Adoration, I split my time in contemplation/adoration and reading/meditating on the Word of God in scripture. I figure if the Lord is there before me, and I in His presence, he speaks in both silence and through the inspiration of the Spirit through the Word. 

Both St. Francis and the Little Flower were known from time to time to pray before opening the scripture at random for the Lord to speak. It's a practice I have taken up as well. I figure there is nothing in Scripture that is not true, not wasted, or not inspired--it is all good. And also that when we put our trust in God, He can speak to us as He sees fit in that moment if we defer our judgement to His will in that moment. 

So, this evening during a Holy Hour when I was in the chapel alone, I prayed and openened the Scriptures to the Book of Micah. And I read it, and the Lord spoke. Maybe you will find some wisdom and solace in the scripture as well, or maybe it was just meant for me in that moment. Regardless, scripture is never wasted. Take from it what you will, and have a great evening.

"The Older Will Serve The Younger:" The Novus Ordo And The Stolen Birthright

 The liturgical noose seems to be tightening in many parts of the country. The ICKSP getting booted in Chicago; Savanah and DC, among others, issuing restrictions on the Traditional Mass. It's crazy to think about, especially if you love Tradition. 

Most well-meaning but largely ignorant Catholics who may not know or care enough about the significance of the changes to the Mass after the Second Vatican Council might wonder what the big deal is, this liturgical "preferencing." Out with the old, in with the new. If they are sympathetic, they may even throw consolation bones, like "we have a reverent Novus Ordo where we can receive on the tongue. And we even have Chant and incense too!" 

I'm not steeped in the history of the liturgical reforms by any means, but I've read and been exposed to enough to know that it was the machinations of a few (Annibale Bugnini being the chief architect) that intentionally switched the tracks in the train yard, and took things where they were never intended to go. It was not accidental, but by design.

In the readings at Mass today, we see the praising of the dishonest steward in Lk 16:1-9. So already there was this theme running through my head about deceptiveness, guile, and switch-a-roos. And it brought be back to Genesis 25-27: the story of Jacob and Essau.

Now, I don't have these thoughts worked out; this is just a dumb blog post, not a scholarly article. We know that the Christ comes through the line of Isaac, not Ishhmael; through Jacob, not Essau. We also know that Essau is first born, and so is in line to receive the blessing and birthright. We see in the birth story, Jacob "gripping Esau's heel" (Gen 25:26) and coming out a close second. Note the words of the Lord spoken to Rebekah:

"Two nations are in your womb,

two peoples are separating while still within you;

But one will be stronger than the other, and the older will serve the younger." (Gen 25:23)

Strange, right? Now let's look at the two things first: the selling of Esau's birthright to Jacob for a pot of stew (Gen 25:31), and then the stealing of the blessing in Gen 27. 

Esau himself sold his birthright (gave it away, basically) in exchange for food. Jacob is like the shrewd steward who is commended in the reading today. "First sell me your right as firstborn." The implications were long-standing. Later, Jacob continues his cunning by donning a hair suit and sneaking in to Isaac's chamber to trick him into giving him the blessing instead of Essau. He puts on the hairy suit to pretend he is Jacob. 

Think about that a minute. 

When I think of the Consilium, I think the Esaus in the Church didn't realize at the time, perhaps, the value of what they possessed. But other, more shrewd churchmen who sought to remake the liturgy could only do so by a kind of swap-a-roo, akin to the deception of Jacob's hair shirt. Not only do they lose the birthright, but they lose the blessing. And the words of the Lord spoken to Rebekah seem to be actualized today: "Two nations are in your womb; two people are separating while still within you. But one will be stronger than the other, and the older will serve the younger."

Even when Isaac summons Jacob and blesses him in Chapter 28, what does he tell him? "You shall not marry a Canaanite woman!" (Gen 28:1). He doesn't, but Essau does. I don't know what to make of that one.  

The Novus Ordo is a kind of liturgical "stranger"--it's birth came about by way of a kind of deception, a cunning and shrewdness (imagine Bugnini in the hair shirt and Paul VI as the aged Isaac) in how it was forumulated and carried out, that robbed the unknowing faithful of their birthright. And now, if Rome has its way, it will be "the older serving the younger."

How all these liturgical battlelines, prophecy, human deception, and Gods' will in it all plays out remains to be seen. And I'm not coming to any conclusion here--only noting some interesting themes in scripture, here. Take the disjointed thoughts for what they're worth--which is not much, really. 

Sex Is The Snare

A Commentary on Proverbs 7, on my twelfth wedding anniversary.

 [1] My son, keep my words, and lay up my precepts with thee. Son, [2] Keep my commandments, and thou shalt live: and my law as the apple of thy eye: [3] Bind it upon thy fingers, write it upon the tables of thy heart. [4] Say to wisdom: Thou art my sister: and call prudence thy friend, [5] That she may keep thee from the woman that is not thine, and from the stranger who sweeteneth her words.

Notice the "who" and the "what" in v 1-5. An elder is giving exhortation to a younger. He has traveled longer, farther, and seen the end and where it leads. Like a seasoned scout, he admonishes the younger to "keep my words." Notice the "what" as well. What should be the "apple of one's eye?" This is typically a moniker for one's beloved. But what should be the apple of one's eye? Their spouse? No, "my law." It is wisdom which should be one's first love, the captivator--not as a lover here, but as a sister. Of the wife: "may her breasts satisfy you always, may you ever be intoxicated with her love" (Prov 5:19). But like a sister, "wisdom is sweet to the soul" (Prov 24:14). 

[6] For I look out of the window of my house through the lattice, [7] And I see little ones, I behold a foolish young man, [8] Who passeth through the street by the corner, and goeth nigh the way of her house. [9] In the dark, when it grows late, in the darkness and obscurity of the night, [10] And behold a woman meeteth him in harlot's attire prepared to deceive souls; talkative and wandering,

Married lovers can communicate, after a number of years, with wordless words. They speak with deft gestures, looks, and the silence of what is not said. A fool, on the other hand, multiplies words (Ecc 10:14). The woman here, provocatively dressing her line as a fisherman ties his lure to bait ignorant fish, is "talkative," multiplying her words. She has "her [own] house," and yet is out looking to "deceive" by being out and about, "wandering." The young man's first mistake was "going nigh the way of her house." And not during the day, when there is accountability and witnesses in bystanders, but under cloak of night, "when it grows late."

The foolish harlot uses her many words to capture the hearts and loins of the young men, because she cannot stand silence, or staying put. The dutiful wife speaks to her beloved's heart in silence, as the years go on in their marriage, because words become extraneous and unnecessary in this communion. In contrast, the harlot hasn't the peace of silence, and is instead agitated by it. She is like a gyrovague, "who spend their entire lives drifting from region to region, staying as guests for three or four days in different monasteries. Always on the move, they never settle down, and are slaves to their own wills and gross appetites." (Rule of St. Benedict, Ch 1:10-11). 

[11] Not bearing to be quiet, not able to abide still at home, [12] Now abroad, now in the streets, now lying in wait near the corners. [13] And catching the young man, she kisseth him, and with an impudent face, flattereth, saying: [14] I vowed victims for prosperity, this day I have paid my vows. [15] Therefore I am come out to meet thee, desirous to see thee, and I have found thee.

The trap of adultery is the bait set in the jaws of narcissism. For even for young lovers, their love is full of ego--they love to be loved. As married couples age, they realize this intoxication of "falling in love" is a lure of the Lord, for were they to know the difficulties of the road and years ahead, they may never have married. "Lord, you tricked me, and I was tricked. You overpowered me and won" (Jer 20:7). 

And so the wayward woman sharpens and weaponizes the irons of her words, nuget covered barbs, but not before "catching" the young man and making him drunk with the tantalizing kiss which promises "more where that came from." She disarms his reason with a flaming arrow of what would normally be reserved for the altar. She even entices with a play on words, "vowing victims for prosperity...paying my vows." Were he not disarmed by a kiss, he may have remembered his own vows, but she has gone on the cunning offensive before he has a chance. 

See, too, the bait of narcissism. "You have come out to meet ME? Desirous to see ME? Found ME?" The young man is suddenly a willful object of desire, in his mind. Flattery baits the trap, for "pleasant words are a honeycomb" (Prov 16:24). 

[16] I have woven my bed with cords, I have covered it with painted tapestry, brought from Egypt. [17] I have perfumed my bed with myrrh, aloes, and cinnamon. [18] Come, let us be inebriated with the breasts, and let us enjoy the desired embraces, till the day appear. [19] For my husband is not at home, he is gone a very long journey. [20] He took with him a bag of money: he will return home the day of the full moon.

The words continue, now painting pictures of enticement in the mind of the brute. His mind is enthralled with the details of fantasy: "a woven bed, painted tapestry, perfumed." In his body, he is enraptured by her arms and mired in her kiss, but in his mind, he is transported beyond the streets to a exotic country, an intimate foreign chamber devoid of witnesses. For "even her husband is not home," and even the day of his return is set, "the day of the full moon" to allay the anxiety of an unexpected discovery. He is given a set window of opportunity, and he can't believe his fortune. A marathon of night-long inebriated passion. At this point, not only his mind swells with the opportunistic prospect. 

[21] She entangled him with many words, and drew him away with the flattery of her lips. [22] Immediately he followeth her as an ox led to be a victim, and as a lamb playing the wanton, and not knowing that he is drawn like a fool to bonds, [23] Till the arrow pierce his liver: as if a bird should make haste to the snare, and knoweth not that his life is in danger. [24] Now therefore, my son, hear me, and attend to the words of my mouth. [25] Let not thy mind be drawn away in her ways: neither be thou deceived with her paths.

Many words. Flattery. "Deceived by the flattery of fools" (Ecc 7:5). "Immediately" he follows her, his reason bludgeoned, any potential protest muzzled. He begins to be led like an ox to slaughter, captivated as Peter, Andrew, James, John, and Matthew were captivated and as in a trance, followed Christ to their ultimate death. "Immediately, they left the ship with their father, and followed him" (Mt 4:22). And yet it is not wisdom, or grace, or the precepts of the Lord that draw the young man away as his father's words recede in the background of his mind, but desire, inpropriety...the flesh. 

[26] For she hath cast down many wounded, and the strongest have been slain by her. [27] Her house is the way to hell, reaching even to the inner chambers of death.

But unlike the disciples--the followers of Christ who were led from their earthly ties and died for gain--the young victim is led to his spiritual deathbed by the earthly, the temporal, the honey-soaked poison, never to rise again. "The mighty are cast from their thrones" (Lk 1:52). And here the harlot, the temptor casts down the wounded--wounded reason, wounded conviction, wounded temperance. She has wounded virtue and sound mind with her arrows, "piercing his liver" like a bird. He joins the army of corpses, among them even "the strongest." For strength is impotent before desire, for desire disarms and dethrones a man from within. In the post-coital bed, the sheer drapes of fantasy dissolve and the "house, the inner chamber" which brought him here has become his prison, his hell, his death. 

"For as wisdom is a defence, so money is a defence : but learning and wisdom excel in this, that they give life to him that possesseth them" 

(Ecc 7:12)

Why Are You Here?

For some reason today I really felt the weariness of Elijah the man of God, in reading 1 Kings 17-19. 

In chapter 17, Elijah proclaims a drought on Yahweh's authority. This is set up in the shadow of King Ahab's coming to power, who "did what was evil in the Lord's sight more than any of his predecessors," marrying the wicked Jezebel and serving Baal (1 Kings 16:30-34). After proclaiming the drought, the Lord sustains him in the Wadi Cherith, where he drinks and ravens bring him bread and meat. When the wadi runs dry, he goes to Sidon at the Lord's command, and demands a widow with her last morsel of food make him a cake. This widow was fully planning to eat and drink her last pathetic meal, and then succumb to death. The Lord, however, worked through the Elijah to ensure her flour and oil did not go empty. When her son falls sick and dies, Elijah brings him back to life (17.22). 

In chapter 18, the mighty prophet Elijah proves his mettle in going toe to toe with the prophets of Baal. King Ahab claims Elijah is a "disturber of Israel" (a nation that has gotten comfortable with worshipping both Ball and the Lord of Hosts), and Elijah fires back unapolgetically that it is the King who disturbs Israel by following the Baals (18:18). He demands the 450 prophets of Baal be summoned to show these his people--these "fence sitters"--who is Lord and God. He works a fantastic miracle by God's power, deferring to the priests of Baal to arrange their bull themselves for holocaust, and drenching his own alatr in water. He embarasses the prophets of Baal by their impotence, and the fire of the Lord consumes Elijah's saturated offering, proving beyond doubt that the Lord is God, and there is no room for the abobination of idolatry in his midst. Then he rounds up and slaughters the priests of Baal. 

In chapter 19, Elijah is spent. The last remaining prophet of the Lord in a land of abomination (18.22), and having worked mighty miracles and standing up to King Ahab and the 450 pagan priests, you would think he would have been fortified. Instead, he fears at the words of Jezebel who sought his life. He prays for death. "Enough, Lord! Take my life, for I am no better than my ancestors" (19.4). He rests a while, and eats and drinks the angelic rations provided to him; it is enough to strengthen him to make the 40 day trek to Mt. Horeb. When he arrives, he recountes all he has done for the righteousness of the Lord. And yet, the Lord asks him twice, 

Why are you here, Elijah?

Why are you here? I often pray the prayer of Samuel, "Here I am!" (1 Sam 3). It's short, to the point, and affirms a readiness to listen and serve. It affirms the zeal of Elijah, the last prophet standing, to do what is commanded.

But I'd be lying if I didn't have my moments where I also prayed the prayer of Elijah, the man of God: Lord, let me die. It is enough. You get weary. You get spent, discouraged, disgusted. There is the natural expiration of the widow--"let me eat my last meal and die" when her food runs out. But the longing for death by the prophet goes deeper: he is not let off the hook. Not permitted to expire while there is still work to do. He sees it as a respite, a temptation even. But then he shows up to the mountain, and the Lord asks him, Why are you here? Elijah, why. are. you. here?

This needs to be separated from the so called "dignity" of assisted suicide, in which a person desires to leave the earth by their own hand, to be the commander of their destiny, or to avoid the indignity of suffering and loss of bodily functions. Whatever the reason, a Catholic cannot follow this line of reasoning. The Lord is the author of life, and He determines when it ends. We cannot intentionally end our lives by suicide because it is not for us to decide. 

That being said, my wife and I have discussed if we were given a terminal diagnosis (cancer, say), is it permissible as a Catholic to refuse chemotherapy or other things that simply prolongue the inevitable? What is the right thing to do? This is why we have the Catechism but also bioethics to help explore and seek to answer these sometimes grey and complicated questions. I have caught myself on more than one occasion "Please Lord, if you want to take me, just take me. I love my wife and kids. But there's not much keeping me here except the work you need me to do. If you need to keep me around to do it, I will. But Lord, give me death, as long as I can be with you forever."

Why are you here? Speaking to myself: If it is to do the work of the Lord, then get back to it and quit your memento mori daydreaming. If you need a rest and a snack, so be it. But you're not going to get off easy. This is the weariness of the disciple, when he forgets the joy of following the precepts of the Lord and only tastes dryness and never ending expansiveness of the road. 

Why are you here? Lord please let me die. This world holds nothing for me, and it would just be so much to leave it behind. I'm tired. Take me how you choose, send what you will. Just let me not defect from your word. Lord I long for death, the respite from this life, but not my will but yours be done.

Why are you here? You worked miracles through Elijah, showed your mighty Hand, slaughtered the priests of Baal. I have done nothing, accomplished nothing, but I keep going out to the fields, your fields to do the work. Elijah calls down fire which consumes soaked wood. I pick grapes, one by one, fill my basket because you tell me to. I try not to complain, but then I find myself hot, thirsty, sunbruned...and the complaining finds me. When will the work end, Lord? How long, my life? Can't I be with you now? I don't know how. I seek you in this life and am covered with noise, blasphemies, and idolatry at every turn. I am here because I want to see your holy Face, do your will. How long do I have to stay here? How long, O Lord? 

I'm Sorry, But No One Has Your Back

Our vacation last week was a nice reset--we swam at the local pond, cooked, lay in the hammock, read, and spent time together. Some friends and family came to visit a couple of the days, but largely we were removed from our normal work and social routine. It was overdue. And one of the surprising side-effects I found was that I didn't want to see, text, or talk to anyone even after we got home.

Please forgive my slightly cynical mood at the moment. I have been pouring myself out at work, with little regard or recognition. In the works of charity, this is the desired approach to build humility and merit; but at work, I get chaffy and resentful. I've felt similarly in other areas of my life, and other circles--I shouldn't be surprised at this point how quickly people can turn their backs on you, social relations can sour, and how our expectations of reciprocity are often frustrated. I'm  human, and am tired of pouring into things when I often feel empty myself. 

In Genesis 18, Abraham negotiates with Yahweh, who is looking for 50 righteous men to stem his wrath against Sodom and Gommorah. Abraham talks him down to 45, then 40, then 30, then 20, and they finally settle upon 10. He only needs to find ten righteous men to spare the city. In the end it doesn't matter, for by the time the perverts hit Lot's door and want debauchery, not hospitality and charity, Yahweh has prepared His arm to destroy it all. You can only take so much.

Ten men...not even ten righteous men in the city. I often think about the bishops, the men of God: "Give me ten righteous bishops," the Lord asks, and you realize you have trouble numbering them all on one hand. Sure, you might get a "bold" tweet or some kind of stand that should have been made fifty years ago; the bar is so low we are impressed by even a modicum of so-called bravery. And I guarantee that any of the faithful to put their neck out to pay the price on any issue would not get backed up by one of the bishops with anything other than a standard dicoesan statement on the matter. As has been proven time and time again, they'll often be the first to throw you under the bus.

Words are cheap. We see it in scripture as well: on Palm Sunday, when the crowds chanted Hosana to the King of Kings only to quickly change their tune before Pilate. We see Peter offering to die for Christ, and then disowning him. The disciples couldn't even stay awake for one hour in Jesus' greatest time of need, his most desolate hour. We see it at the Cross, when only his mother and a handful of others stay at his feet.

Christ's abandonment can be spoken of in two ways: his complete abandonment to the Father's will, and his being almost completely abandoned by men in his hour of need. He is stripped and scorned, with no human solace. His cry from the cross is a worthy meditation: Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? ("My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"). For the pain of abandonment had gone so deep as to echo David's cry that his own Father had left him. The cavalry isn't coming, because the Father willed that Christ go through, not around, the suffering and abandonment. Which, of course, is straight to the Cross, the loneliest of lonely sufferings and humiliations.

We don't often do the same. We seek human comfort and understanding, a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen to your lament. But the longer you are in the grind, the more you realize the establishment (from the Holy Father on down) is a in-name-only set of reinforcements. Maybe it's unrealistic to expect otherwise. The Church has been made weak and a laughingstock not to be taken seriously. Because the saints and those willing to pay the price of discipleship among them do not number in the 50, or 45, 40, 30, 20, or even 10. As the sheep are led to slaughter, those willing to lay their lives down for them can be counted on one hand; the rest are simply weak men and pious administrators. 

 You will have a few friends (hopefully) in your lifetime who will sit with you in the Garden when you are sweating blood, come to your Cross, and not leave when it's dinnertime. I haven't found those friends yet, and I haven't been one either, so I don't even blame them. One can't expect too much. 

Even family, as thick as it can be, is not absolute. Otherwise Christ would not have subjected the Fourth Commandment to the call to hate father, mother, wife, children, and breathren for the Gospel (Lk 14:26). Children turn on their parents, parents disown their children. Many converts know this pain, and it cuts absolutely deep. 

There is one who does have your back, though, and that is Christ, our God, our deliverer in whom we have our hope. Zion said, The Lord has forsaken me! And yet,

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me" (Is 49:15-16).  

I think entering into this sadness, this desolation, can be a fertile burial plot for our spirit. No one would choose it, but when we find ourselves feeling alone and abandoned, sucked dry and empty with nothing left, the love of the Lord has room to fill us, bathe us, and comfort us. Our spirits are often crowded with the coming and going of men, of engagements, of sweet encouragement and contingent affection. 

But at the end of the day, everyone goes home to their own house promising to come back in the morning, and the sweaty dark of night seeps into your cell from beneath the door jamb. We can meet Christ now, because he has now found room at the inn. When no one else has your back, when the reinforcements aren't coming, when you are hung out to dry and have no consolation and your tears become your bread...I think then you will taste a little bit of the loneliness of Christ, who had nowhere to lay his head in this world.

My Son Where Have You Gone

Whenever I have reflected on the parable of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15, my focus has been on the younger son. We are presented with two sons, of course, but my life experience has always tracked with the prodigal; the elder son became a kind of peripheral character. 

But there is a third figure in this story, and that is the father himself. For the past decade my kids have been little, so our lives revolved around diapers, tantrums, and keeping them from whacking their heads. I was a father, sure, but in that initial stage of fatherhood. 

Now that my son is ten going on eighteen, I'm beginning to wrestle with different issues now--the difficulty in relating to him, connecting with him, navigating the moodiness and sometimes disrespect, and sensing a growing distance between us that I struggle to address. I don't think it's anything out of the ordinary for a parent, but it still weighs on me. I'm proud of him in so many ways--he is an accomplished thespian and serves at Mass, among other things--and feel I tell him that I love him and am proud of him often. But suddenly, that archetype of being a runaway son has shifted and I am now sitting in the father's seat bracing for the day my son wishes I was dead already and slams the front door behind him on his way out.

In our circle of orthodox, solid, Catholic homeschooling families I think there can be this temptation that our children are a reflection of us as parents that gets held up in the community. If our kids are "good," we're doing something right--teaching, catechizing, and raising them well, a badge of honor. If one of our kids go off the rails, there's not only the pain of estrangement and feeling helpless, but the shame of what it looks like to those in our circles. 

I think this is a projected fear--of being judged or whispered about--that is overstated. Most of the inner shame of our failings as parents is seen in scarlet through our own eyes, and the regret can be bitter, "If only I had spent more time with him. If only I had been more intentional about catechizing her. If only I hadn't yelled so much, lost my temper so easily. If only I had been a better dad." 

I have a buddy who I get beers with every now and again; I can tell when he needs some encouragement because he feels the weight of his four boys trying behavior and the self-imposed feeling that it reflects poorly on him as a father, that he's doing something wrong. When he loses his patience with them, is forced to discipline them out of love and concern, when he's told them to do something a hundred times and they just don't listen, he says "this is how God must feel with me." 

A friend told me a story of someone he knew back in the UK who had gone to Thailand on a trip as a twenty-something and got into drugs; he was in all aspects, a true prodigal living dissolute among the swine. His father had no idea where he was, but his care and concern prompted him to fly halfway around the world to set off and find him. He carried his picture around the streets of Bangkok, asking people if they had seen him, until one opportune moment led him to a drug den where lo and behold, his filthy, sick, strung out son was. He gathered him up, and took him home.

You don't know the love and sacrifice you are capable of until you become a parent, the fruit of your vocation. 

For the father in the Lord's parable, his nobility and tender character would seem to lend itself to the belief that his legacy was good stock. He gave his sons everything, was a good father to them, and still one goes off the rails and the other seethes in resentment. What went wrong? How bitter the recollection of the prophet Isaias' words in his mind, “All your children will be taught by the Lord, and great will be their peace.” (54:13) How the townsfolk must have talked when he went into the village. 

None of that matters, of course, to the father. He searches the horizon day after day, and is willing to gird his loins and run in such an undignified manner to meet his returning son when he sees him in the distance--the son who had no regard for his dignity or respect for his authority--embracing him and showering him with the great good of his household. He had every right to turn from him and disown him, as the son recognizes in his rehearsed speech, "Treat me as one of your hired hands." (Lk 15:19). 

The father was not a tyrant-turned-empath. His character was one of compassion, devotion, and paternal love from the beginning. It would seem that one could not blame the father for "failures" of parenting that drove his son away. The father did everything in his power, and still his heritage turned against him and made him the object of murmur within the community. The parable is as much a story of the exercise of free-will as it is of fervent love, longing, and forgiveness. 

As fathers and mothers, we all have a heightened sensitivity to our parental failures. We also are subject to the temptation to comparison: "So-and-so has such good kids. They're all doing so well. And look at us." 

Part of the added temptation of traditional Catholicism, I think, is "if one simply does X, Y results." Because the liturgy is constant and unchanging, and the rubrics a protection against abuse, I suspect that there may be a tendency to internalize this and apply it to our children. "If we attend the Latin Mass every Sunday, if we don't fraternize with pagans, if we homeschool, etc., our children will not turn away." And for some, that may be the case. 

And yet when I reflect on the good father in the parable, he seemed to have done everything right, and his son(s) still strayed...and not only in slight, but in complete dissolution. Is the father the one to blame for the sons indiscretions? Did he spare the rod and pay the price for this dereliction of duty? Was he emotionally distant? Too protective? Not protective enough?

Or is it simply the exercise of that awesome and fearful gift of freewill that God entrusts each of us? That gift that we can use against Him, just as our children may use against us one day despite our best efforts to keep them on the straight and narrow? It's uncomfortable to think that our control as parents is in many ways, illusionary. We set boundaries, we do our best without a Missal for Parents, and still sometimes the rubrics aren't enough and our children stray for whatever reason. I would ratchet it as one of life's great and tragic mysteries that can even lead some parents to the brink of despair. Parenting is not an "A+B=C" affair. There are a lot of unaccounted for variables.

My darkest nights as a parent are when everything seems to be drifting, and I don't know how to reign it back to the way it was. I experience a loss of control and am driving in the dark with no headlights. I miss my son; I don't want to lose him. In these times, my faith in the paternal love of God is all I have.

Our lives as Christians are founded on the hope of resurrection and ultimate redemption. We know no son or daughter is beyond God's mercy and saving grace, no matter how lost or fargone. As parents, it is our job to never lose that hope, to always be scanning the horizon in prayerful anticipation of that homecoming, to run out and embrace when they are still a long way off, and relish the miraculous joy of the dead coming back to life.   

In Vain Have I Kept My Heart Pure

 "But as for me, my feet had almost stumbled; my steps had nearly slipped,

Because I was envious of the arrogant when I saw the prosperity of the wicked.

Such, then, are the wicked, always carefree, increasing their wealth

Is it in vain that I have kept my heart pure, washed my hands in innocence?

For I am afflicted day after day, chastised every morning.

Had I thought, 'I will speak as they do,' I would have betrayed this generation of your children.

Though I tried to understand all this, it was too difficult for me,

Till I entered the sanctuary of God and came to understand their end." 

(Psalm 73:2-3,12-17)

Sometimes scripture speaks words into us more potently than the words we formulate for ourselves. This was the case tonight in praying the Psalms (69-73). I apologize I don't have anything more to write; I am feeling pretty hollowed out these days. I open my mouth and it is like a dry spigot. I put one foot in front of the other, will my devotion in the absence of feeling. Doubt is like a lapdog that won't leave me alone but is constantly running into my line of sight and nipping at me from afar. Like I said, the Psalmist spoke to my heart this evening, gave me the words I didn't have myself in desolation. I pray the Lord will sustain me. 

The Mammon of Iniquity

It's strange the way the Holy Spirit speaks to us through Scripture in its timelessness. When I posted yesterday about the Siege of Jerusalem, I had no idea it was actually the Jewish day of mourning and fasting (Tisha B'Av) which believe it or not, marks the destruction of the Temple. For Jews, it is considered "the saddest day of the year." There was a feeling of solidarity there, I think, between traditional Catholics that I hadn't even realized when writing it. I was only made aware of the significance by a friend after she read it.

 While everyone was talking about the Novus Ordo readings for this Sunday (which were especially timely and somewhat uncanny in their exactitude), it was actually the Gospel during the TLM this morning that caught my eye. 

Again, I had meant to write about this very passage from Luke 16:1-9 the day before as it seemed apt to the current situation that I had been mulling over, and then there it was being proclaimed at Mass. For those who missed it:

 

"And he said also to his disciples: There was a certain rich man who had a steward: and the same was accused unto him, that he had wasted his goods. And he called him, and said to him: How is it that I hear this of thee? give an account of thy stewardship: for now thou canst be steward no longer. And the steward said within himself: What shall I do, because my lord taketh away from me the stewardship? To dig I am not able; to beg I am ashamed. I know what I will do, that when I shall be removed from the stewardship, they may receive me into their houses. Therefore calling together every one of his lord's debtors, he said to the first: How much dost thou owe my lord?

But he said: An hundred barrels of oil. And he said to him: Take thy bill and sit down quickly, and write fifty. Then he said to another: And how much dost thou owe? Who said: An hundred quarters of wheat. He said to him: Take thy bill, and write eighty. And the lord commended the unjust steward, forasmuch as he had done wisely: for the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light. And I say to you: Make unto you friends of the mammon of iniquity; that when you shall fail, they may receive you into everlasting dwellings."

I don't know why I was thinking about this passage this week prior to hearing it. Biblical exegesis is not my thing, and it can be a confusing one to expound on, so I'm not going to do it justice. It may very well be a teaching on usury, but what struck me was this: "the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light." Another passage from Scripture came to mind yesterday from Matthew in parallel with Luke's Gospel: "Behold I send you as sheep in the midst of wolves. Be ye therefore wise as serpents and simple as doves." (Mt 10:16). 

We could learn something from this. When it come to our enemies, we pray for those who persecute us--yet they are still our enemies. And what do you want to do with your enemies? Beat them at their own game, as St. Paul writes, “But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for in so doing you will heap burning coals on his head" (Rom 12:20).

A few thoughts:

As we navigate the coming days and years, we truly do have to adopt the adage to be wise as serpents and simple as doves. You have to be smart, and keep your lower faculties (emotionalism) in check. It's okay to mourn, be upset, angry, etc. But this is not the level at which wars are won. It takes prudence to keep them in check, so that you can advance with a clear mind and unfettered from poor decision making. As Fr. Z wrote the other day, "Don't do anything stupid."

Second, as our Lord says, "your righteousness must surpass those of the Pharisees" (Mt 5:20). Your cheerful fasting and prayer, living the virtues in charity, and not giving the enemy ammunition will serve as an indictment against them. They may rage internally in response, but you also need to learn how to take a beating, and take it with fortitude. Don't be a complainer, avoid being too self-focused, and play the long-game. 

Thirdly, do you not believe that God is in control of everything? That anything proceeds from His hand by chance? Get yourself in proper spiritual perspective. All things proceedeth from the hand of God. Nothing happens apart from His will. Do you trust God? Get your eyes off the ground, and do not lose your focus. Peter sank walking on the sea when he took his eyes for one moment off Christ. Let that serve as a good reminder. Keep your focus. Put your blinders on if needed to stave off the ancillary distractions. First things first. 

I went to adoration a little before midnight last night and was reading the scriptures and happened upon the wisdom of Ecclesiasticus (Sirach) which again spoke to me (Chapter 2):

"Son, when thou comest to the service of God, stand in justice and in fear, and prepare thy soul for temptation. [2] Humble thy heart, and endure: incline thy ear, and receive the words of understanding: and make not haste in the time of clouds. [3] Wait on God with patience: join thyself to God, and endure, that thy life may be increased in the latter end. [4] Take all that shall be brought upon thee: and in thy sorrow endure, and in thy humiliation keep patience. [5] For gold and silver are tried in the fire, but acceptable men in the furnace of humiliation.

[6] Believe God, and he will recover thee: and direct thy way, and trust in him. Keep his fear, and grow old therein. [7] Ye that fear the Lord, wait for his mercy: and go not aside from him, lest ye fall. [8] Ye that fear the Lord, believe him: and your reward shall not be made void. [9] Ye that fear the Lord, hope in him: and mercy shall come to you for your delight. [10] Ye that fear the Lord, love him, and your hearts shall be enlightened.

[11] My children behold the generations of men: and know ye that no one hath hoped in the Lord, and hath been confounded. [12] For who hath continued in his commandment, and hath been forsaken? or who hath called upon him, and he despised him? [13] For God is compassionate and merciful, and will forgive sins in the day of tribulation: and he is a protector to all that seek him in truth. [14] Woe to them that are of a double heart and to wicked lips, and to the hands that do evil, and to the sinner that goeth on the earth two ways. [15] Woe to them that are fainthearted, who believe not God: and therefore they shall not be protected by him.

[16] Woe to them that have lost patience, and that have forsaken the right ways, and have gone aside into crooked ways. [17] And what will they do, when the Lord shall begin to examine? [18] They that fear the Lord, will not be incredulous to his word: and they that love him, will keep his way. [19] They that fear the Lord, will seek after the things that are well pleasing to him: and they that love him, shall be filled with his law. [20] They that fear the Lord, will prepare their hearts, and in his sight will sanctify their souls.

[21] They that fear the Lord, keep his Commandments, and will have patience even until his visitation, [22] Saying: If we do not penance, we shall fall into the hands of the Lord, and not into the hands of men. [23] For according to his greatness, so also is his mercy with him." 

Does this speak to you as well? If you're like me, it should. We are in many ways currently in the "furnace of humiliation." We cannot afford to be fainthearted, as those who believe not God (v 15). We cannot lose patience, and go aside into crooked ways (v. 16). If you love Him, you shall be filled with His law. Prepare your hearts (v 20). Do penance (v. 22). What can the hands of men strip from the hands of God, from which all things come? Not a sparrow falls without Him knowing it. 

Be smart. Don't let your lower faculties (emotions) rule you. Learn from the children of the world; be innocent as doves and wise as serpents. Make friends with the mammon of iniquity. Let your righteousness exceed those of the Pharisees. In the end, you will heap coals on the heads of your enemies. 

Persisting Contra To God's Will

 I remember very distinctly when my idealized vision of my life in my twenties came in curt confrontation with the reality of my situation. Whereas most people during this time are getting started in their careers post-college and working their way up the ladder, meeting people to match up for a future together, and buying their first house, I was going in the opposite direction--quitting my job, giving away everything I owned, and buying not a house but a school bus to live in. 

For ten years--from the age of 19 to 29--I wanted more than anything to be a monk. Not just wanted to be a monk, but wanted to be called to be a monk. The pursuit of what I thought was a calling seemed like a noble one--not from a worldly perspective of course, but from a spiritual investment standpoint. Objectively, I had "chosen the better part." And so surely it must be God's will because it was what I wanted, what I thought I wanted. 

When I actually did apply to be a postulate at a contemplative Benedictine community after my observership was completed, and was turned down, I was crestfallen. As an alternative, I decided to go the "DIY monastic" route and bought a school bus to convert to an urban hermitage where I would eat, sleep, read, and pray in monastic fashion. I worked for weeks outside of my apartment as my lease expiration loomed. I removed the seats, built cabinets, bed, and desk, laid flooring, and had everything set (except a place to park it). When I actually got down to the quasi-monastic life, though, I realized something--I was not happy.

The analogy I have always used to describe this experience that seemed to describe it best was akin to finding the shirt you always wanted at the local thrift store, trying it on, and finding that it's one size smaller that what you typically wear. You can make it work if you walk out of the store with it. But then you begin to notice it chaffs under the arms, rides up an inch too much at the waist, and is just snug enough to be uncomfortable. It looks great--it just doesn't fit. Because it wasn't made for you. 

You could use the 'trying to fit a square peg in a round hole' analogy, but it doesn't quite work because no matter what you do in that situation, you can't ram it through. It would be almost easier if it was like this, because the fact that you have the wrong piece would be apparent from the start. You wouldn't spend ten years trying to make it so (that would almost be an apt description of a kind of insanity). 

You could use the 'puzzle piece' analogy, which is closer to the mark, but that isn't quite it either. You know, when you find a 'close but not cigar' piece in a puzzle, and it's almost the one you are looking for, but you'd have to slam your fist down on the table to force it, which would distort the edges and present an inaccurate picture. 

No, I think the shirt analogy works best in this circumstance. You want to look good. You found a good deal on a great brand. Surely, it should fit, despite the label saying 'S' rather than 'M.' The stitches aren't breaking, the buttons aren't popping off. You can tolerate the discomfort to an extent, but it's far from fitting like a glove. You always kind of feel it, even if you convince yourself otherwise. 

When we don't pay attention to these things, these little chaffings, we can sometimes miss the ways in which God is telling us "this isn't for you. I have something set aside for you. But you have to trust me." Because God rarely speaks to us audibly, we have to rely on these signs and signals to discern whether we are trying to conform our will to God's, or God's will to our life. 

St. Alphonsus speaks of this when he writes of the difference between conformity and uniformity with God's will.

"Conformity signifies that we join our wills to the will of God. Uniformity means more--it means that we make one will of God's will and ours, so that we will only what God wills; that God's will alone, is our will. This is the summit of perfection and to it we should always aspire; this should be the goal of all our works, desires, meditations and prayers."

Uniformity is the "more perfect way," the better part (between good and better) that our Lord relates to Martha and Mary. It is beholden to the attainment by saints and mystics, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be our aspiration as well. 

Here in the world, in the day to day, our seemingly noble and holy actions of attempted abandonment can sometimes be held up so that we present them to the Lord expecting Him to bless them, when in fact, He wants something else of us entirely. Like saying, "I will prepare the altar for you Lord," when He really needs the monastery toilets scrubbed. Or whatever. 

Think of the testing of Abraham. The Lord tests his faith by demanding his most precious property--his son Isaac. At the moment of sacrifice, when there was no doubt Abraham had the butt of the knife ready to bury within the flesh of his son, an angel comes to tell him to back it off. Would Abraham had responded, "no, begone demon who appears as an angel of light! For it is God's will that I slaughter, though I do not understand it, and I will do God's will as He has asked." 

But that's not what happens. Abraham pivots, and is awash in relief. Not only that, He has pleased the Lord by His obedience and abandonment to the Divine will as it was given to him. If the news media were there to throw shade, they may take a snapshot out of context and print, "God told you to sacrifice your son Issac with the knife, and that didn't happen, so obviously you did not follow through and accomplish His holy will." 

Did God's will change? Well, yes and no. God was seeking faith and obedience, and that Abraham supplied in full measure. And yet the action to accomplish and live out that faith and obedience did change. Were Abraham to plow through with what he thought to be God's will after the angel holds back his arm by decree, he would have lost the blessing of such obedience, and the subsequent inheritance for generations to come. 

This is what can be so deceptively difficult in following God's will, compounded in proportion to the extent that we are not praying and paying attention. We may charge ahead with our ideas--"I will become a monk and be holy!" "I will marry John because he is such a good Catholic man!" "I will become a missionary in Africa and save God's orphans!" But maybe God wants you to be a father; maybe he wants you to marry Maurice, the air conditioner repairman; maybe he wants you to get your rear end back to work at your computer programming job. Who knows. But you get the idea. 

"The shirt that never was" can be a painful experience, because it scrambles our holy expectations of our life the way we envision it. When we think we are doing God's will, and God says, "no, not this way," we can feel the pain of the virtuous plate of doing God's will being pulled off the table. And so what are we left with? Often something unexpected, or more waiting (which causes suffering), or something not in accordance with our own will. When we pray for x and get y instead, it can be hard to reconcile. This is why it takes an attuning of the heart to be assured that doing something contra to God's will, even something holy and virtuous, will not ultimately give us the peace we seek, but will chaff ever so slightly. 

Remember, Abraham pivoted in faith. He was not "rigid" (again with the rigid!) so as to keep God's command in this instance immovable and sealed in amber. Amber-ensconced artifacts belong in museums. God's Word and command is not a dead historic letter, but a living, speaking language that is alive and speaks to us differently in different circumstances of our life. God's will for you yesterday may not always be His will for you tomorrow. If we persist in our will contra to God's, we will not have the peace we seek, we will only have a pious veneer. But if we conform and unite our will with God's, and are willing to pivot and carry it out even when it bear no resemblance to what we think it was supposed to look like, we may in time know the peace of Christ that surpasses all understanding. 

Why (And How) To Admonish A Brother In Charity

 

I was reading through 1 Cor 5 this morning, where Paul says of the incestuous brethren "hand this man over to Satan, for the destruction of the flesh, so that his spirit may be saved on the day of the Lord." He goes on to say, "What business is it of mine to judge those outside the church? Are you not to judge those inside." And in verse 11, "But now I am writing to you that you must not associate with anyone who claims to be a brother or sister but is sexually immoral or greedy, an idolater or slanderer, a drunkard or swindler. Do not even eat with such people."

This parlays into chapter 6, "is it possible that there is nobody among you wise enough to judge a dispute between believers? But instead, one brother takes another to court--and this in front of unbelievers!"

As believers, we often we take our brothers and sisters to court--the court of public opinion. In the zeal to uphold God's precepts and expose wrongs, we forget that our Lord gives us a methodological protocol to follow when a brother sins against us:

“If your brother or sister sins, go and point out their fault, just between the two of you. If they listen to you, you have won them over. But if they will not listen, take one or two others along, so that ‘every matter may be established by the testimony of two or three witnesses.’ If they still refuse to listen, tell it to the church; and if they refuse to listen even to the church, treat them as you would a pagan or a tax collector." (Mt 18:15)  

Admonishment is a spiritual work of mercy, and a difficult one. It can be done to accomplish "the salvation of the soul" in preparation for the day of judgement, and it can also be done with less than charitable motivations--out of pride or condemnation, or self-justification. If God judges the heart, he will not spare our own when it comes to the motivation for undertaking this spiritual work.

Our Lord speaks on this matter in a circumstantial situation, but the four steps--private presentation, calling of witnesses, the ecclesial court, and casting out--are to be followed in order. 

The most difficult thing with a wayward brother is that he may not have ears to hear, unless he is disposed to correction. Therefore, one must approach a wounded brother the way they might a wounded animal in a corner--with care and gentleness. The old adage, "nobody cares what you know, until they know that you care" holds true. Heavy handed and self-important condemnations only seek to build up the pride of the admonisher. And if one has not love, "they are a resounding gong" to be tuned out. 

How does one communicate such love? I think one really needs to have a relationship with the person first to have any ground to stand on. They also need to be trustworthy, filled with charity, prayerful, and selfless. Are you those things? If not, maybe spend some time building up your own house before trying to clean someone else's. 

If you are, and your brother doesn't listen after being presented (in charity) with his sin, it's time to assemble the witnesses. Again, this can feel like a gang-up or intervention, so choose your witnesses carefully--men of integrity and sensitivity, prayerful, and strong. But sometimes it's not the spirit, but the nuts and bolts, of HOW to actually bring a church brother's sin before him? I see an ineffective approach going like this: "Listen, you gotta knock this off. You're embarrassing yourself and your family. Now man up, and quit it." Maybe a more effective approach is to shoulder some of the weight: "Brother, we love you and are concerned for you. Your (x) sin is eating you up. So, we will be praying and fasting for you for the next three weeks for your intentions and for the grace of the Holy Spirit to heal you." Something like that.

To bring before the Church a brother's sin is--well, I don't know exactly what that looks like or how it works today. Does one bring it up to a priest? The bishop? What exactly would be the 'next steps' if so? Most bishops and many priests are so removed from this kind of small-church relationship with their flock that I'm not sure how it would apply today. Maybe he means 'the church' small c, meaning the community of believers. Most of us do not have the kind of small intentional church community the early apostles did. But our Lord notes it, so it must be important.

Finally, to treat a brother as pagan or tax collector when their hearts are hardened and they will not listen is a hard but necessary final step. It's a 'hard mercy' but an inevitable one "not to even eat with them." In many ways the brother has already cast himself off from the community, and without repentance, has made a choice to set himself outside the community. This can be a formative time of wasteland searching, but also makes them susceptible to being 'picked up' by other non-Catholic groups. Many Protestants capitalize on the disenfranchisement with Catholicism among many so called "ex-Catholics." "Come join us. We have good music and fellowship, prayer groups, and take care of one another." It's an effective recruitment strategy, and part of me can't even blame them for doing so. We have not always treated and supported our brothers in the true faith in a way fitting of a Christian, and drive them away as a result. Sometimes it is an attachment to a particular sin, but sometimes it is Catholics themselves that drive others from the Church. 

To distill the aforementioned--prayer, sacrifice (penance), love, concern, charity, firm but truthful exposition, support, and forgiveness are the right ways to admonish a brother. Public shaming, gossip, condemnation...these are not of the Spirit. It is not our job to save our brothers' souls, but we play a part in doing the work of mercy when it is warranted. We must do so with prayerful prudence, discernment, and charity, and be willing to sacrifice as well. They must know the concern comes from a place of love and concern, not judgement. Even then, they may not listen, at which point we hand them over to the Lord to do and heal what only He can do and heal. But that doesn't absolve us from the sometimes uncomfortable work. It can show whether our love and concern is true, or just self-elevating posturing. 

Thermal Mass

Thermal mass refers to the ability of a material to absorb and store heat energy. Water has the highest thermal mass, which is why there are not huge temperature fluctuations in, say, the ocean. Materials like brick and stone also can absorb a good amount of heat and radiate it out over time. This is why in desert climates like New Mexico, building things like a Trombe wall to absorb sunlight in the winter through a south facing window helps to round out the extremes of a homespace being too hot during the day and too cold at night, and reduce heating costs. I'm actually in the midst of designing a solar furnace now, since our brick home faces due south and we heat with oil, so I guess thermodynamics is on my mind.

At our men's bible study yesterday morning the topic of joy in faith was brought up reflecting on John 17. For many of the men who had come to faith, they described the uncomfortable reality that they were having more trouble relating to their former secular-minded friends who regarded 'happiness' (temporary and circumstantial) as the highest ideal. For the Christian, joy is a deeper seated virtue that goes beyond emotion or circumstance, as is recounted in Acts 16 with Paul and Silas singing praise to God while in prison. It is the well that doesn't run dry our Lord encourages us to draw from (Jn 4:13). 

Like a trombe wall, faith and joy in the Christian life makes one more resilient to things that may otherwise break us, because it draws its strength from a deeper, more stable source. Our faith is a kind of "thermal mass" that rounds out the wild fluctuations in emotional responses which are dependent on external circumstances. It is joy that radiates outwards gently from the inner virtue of faith. 

Sickness, misfortune, and even death, when viewed through an eternal lens, are seen through an ordered perspective--they are not the 'be all end all' of our lives. For the person steeped in the world, they are buffeted by circumstances and emotions because their happiness depends on them being favorable; when they are not, dis-ease and unhappiness sets in. Even when things are good, their temporal nature means they may not be forever, which also produces this kind of frenzied striving to keep the external circumstances highly regulated. Consumerism, materialism, hedonism, seeking to control, etc--these are kinds of imperfect coping mechanisms in the absence of faith and its handmaid, joy. 

As someone possessing a more or less doddery composition, and a highly sensitive brain chemistry, I can say that faith has added much-needed 'thermal mass' to my emotional life, and joy as the byproduct. I don't have the wild fluctuations anymore as they are tempered by something deeper beneath the surface, which is grace working. It doesn't always make the circumstances of life easier, but it does form our responses to them to be dictated by more than just fleeting, reactionary responses. We are able to 'store' the energy of joy in this wall of faith to draw from when, like Paul, we find ourselves in the proverbial prison cell. When darkness falls, and the sun is not shining, it is faith that sustains us through the night. The sacraments, especially the Eucharist, give us this kind of spiritual 'thermal mass' to sustain us over the long haul through trials which may otherwise break us in half. 

When we build our lives around this faith as the cornerstone--which is Christ--we find we expend less energy frantically heating and cooling our emotions and reactions, and simply (passively, if you will) accepting what life throws us to be absorbed and subsequently tempered through the thick wall of faith. We need less to make us happy, because we grow to love what money can't buy, that which is freely given to us by grace. We expend less energy trying to control our external environment and more time investing in our inner sanctuary, the heart, which does not break down like a worn cog, but beats stronger the closer it comes to the source of Life, which is Christ. 

It costs us everything to live this way, but paradoxically we gain our lives when we lose them, as Scripture says. The Christian builds his life not with the cheap plywood and two-by-fours of the self, but around the unshakable rock of Christ who took on the sins of all the world and poured himself out as an oblation for men, transforming the earth from the inside out by his death on the cross. And so rather than being buffeted by the fickle winds of the world, we can draw from a deeper source that is sufficient unto Himself so that with Saint Paul we can say "It is no longer I who live, but Christ in me" (Gal 2:20).

The Good Samaritan

 Yesterday I was really struggling...complete emptiness and the familiar creep of depression rolling in. Though I've battled it for the past twenty-some years, it still catches me off guard sometimes. Self-accusation, feelings of failure, bitter loneliness (even in the midst of people who love me), lack of energy, and self-isolation. None of my depressions these days are too long-lived (unlike in the past, where they would stretch for weeks or months), but they can be fierce like a tempest.

I went through my mental rolodex of people to call, but was struggling to think of anyone who would understand. Except there was one guy who I thought might, though I hadn't talked to him since I met him at the Courage conference a couple years ago (as an aside, I don't have SSA, but have friends who do, so thought it would be a good chance to understand some of the issues in the Church surrounding SSA and help support those who were trying to live chaste lives by the Church's teachings). 

I have a general policy, that if anyone flashes through my mind at a given point, I either pick up the phone or email/text them, figuring there is a reason why they popped into my consciousness. In this case, I think it really was divine inspiration. This was a man who had lived the gay lifestyle for years until he was converted and came back to the faith, and now lives chastely. An unlikely friendship, honestly. We talked for about two hours, and it was a true balm. I was actually surprised, at the end of the conversation, I was able to get off the couch and do some things--planted some tomato plants after work, cleaned a little around the house. He was kind and encouraging, didn't write me off, and though it wasn't anything in particular he said, it was enough to know that someone believed in you and cared enough to take the time to talk. 

In "Bring Me My Weapon" I wrote:

The thought of killing myself hadn't crossed my mind in a number of years. So I didn't recognize it when it appeared tonight in my bedroom like an unwelcome guest, a Stranger "rapping sharply, four times...on the fatal door of destiny."

I hadn't invited the Thought. It seemed a culmination of events had led to leaving the door slightly ajar, able to be pushed in from the outside. Feelings of betrayal from friends, stress at work and home, and doubt were likely suspects, but not enough to explain the barrage of negative and aggressive thoughts, the usual suspects: "It's useless. You'll never amount to anything. Better off without you. You have no one. You are alone. Just get it over with already and quit wasting our time."   Everything just seemed to be going down. I lay in bed and stared at the wall. Tears had dried up hours ago but I was weary and had trouble moving out of bed.

This seemed like a similar outside attack, but it's hard to distinguish sometimes--brain chemistry, circumstances, moods, and of course the spiritual. All I know is I was feeling brutally low, and I was grateful this ex-gay man picked up the phone when I called. There must have a been a reason he came into my mind. These periods can be frightening, when you are fighting your own mind. Kindness has such a soft connotation, but when it is sincere, it can reach places where other approaches can't. Most of the time, in these periods, I recognize that people have their own stuff they are going through and precious little time, so it makes it harder to reach out. Plus you don't want people to see you when you are your worst. But this man took the time, as much time as I needed, and bandaged my mental wounds just by caring about me in that moment.

So, I'll stick to my policy of reaching out to others, and reaching out myself, when a flash of a person comes through my mind and take it as divine inspiration. I'm sure there was a reason this time.

Humiliation

We live about fifteen minutes from the President's home in Delaware. I've biked and driven past it before, and have been to the church he calls his home parish. Around these parts, he's known as "good old Joe."

I've often wondered if I had the opportunity to encounter the President in passing (not outside the realm of possibilities), if I would be bold enough to speak truth to him. The plague of cultural, privatized Catholicism has probably done more damage to the Church and Her mission than any apostate or militant atheist could, because it rots Her foundations from the inside. Our President's profession of personal faith is not unique, but commonplace.

Last night I had a dream. I dreamed I was actually in this position of speaking the truth--not my own truth, but what the Church professes in terms of faith and morals--to one of the most powerful men in the world. It had the undercurrent of "The Emperor's New Clothes". Remember in the tale that it is a child who points out that, in fact, the Emperor sees through the nonsense and calls it as it is--the Emperor is, in fact, naked. 

Like a dumb child and without spite or malice, I point out the obvious to the POTUS in the dream: that men can't be women and vice versa; that abortion is the taking of an innocent life; that two people of the same sex can not constitute a marriage as it's meant to be. I can't remember his reaction, but I do remember the backlash. Of course it made the news. When people at work (whom I have a good working relationship with) found out about it, I was immediately fired and dissociated with. The shame was burning--I hadn't done anything wrong from a perspective of faith, but I was publicly anathema from respectable society. Of course it was only a dream. 

There's a reason why people don't speak the truth and the prophets stand alone. Elijah wanted to die rather than be tasked with what he was called to. Jeremiah, too. Jonah, Job--they all wished for death. Being a prophet is a heavy burden. Telling the truth comes with a high cost.

Catholicism still holds a modicum of respectability today; not in what it professes (which the world opposes), but as a mainstream religion. As long as it stays in it's lane. As long as it wears respectable clothes.

The theme of nakedness is prevalent in Scripture from the very beginning. Adam and Eve before the Fall were unaware of their nakedness and unashamed, but post-Fall they sought to cover themselves and hide. Shem and Japeth sought to cover their father Canaan's nakedness when he fell asleep drunk and uncovered.  

It is common practice to strip the clothes of those one wishes to humiliate. Jews were stripped of their clothes by the Nazis before they were sent to the gas chambers or executed. During the Armenian genocide women were stripped naked and crucified in public display. My friend Fr. David Nix notes in a video (since suspended) on his blog that Communists who level psychological warfare against those who oppose it do so at four levels: demoralization, dehumanization, crisis, and normalization.  

We see also in mediating on the Sorrowful Mystery of Christ's Crowing With Thorns this stripping of garments in public as a means of humiliation. His own clothes they stripped, and re-clothed him in their own clothes of mockery--a scarlet robe. Then they mocked him for his claims of being a King.

Just prior to the Lord's going before Pilate, we see Peter--whom we can all relate to and see ourselves in--denying his affiliation with Jesus. He wants to strip his identifying discipleship garments to blend in with the rest of the crowd.

One thing about humiliation and shame--it always seems to involve the public, or at least people outside of ourselves. Did Christ suffer humiliation? He does not regard the esteem of men, and is Humility itself, so I can't say the humiliations we may experience in our faith life are comparable. He knew who He was and who He belonged to. The searing of shame that we suffer in our humiliations is often in proportion to the degree of attachment to the esteem of men. 

In our faith, we often wear a cloak of our own choosing. We take the good, respectable parts of our faith--feeding the hungry, praying, going to church like a good citizen--and wear it like an identity badge. It allows us to worship within the bounds set by those in power, and live our lives relatively comfortably as "good people" without the weight of oppression.

But true, raw faith is naked, reserved for the Father's eyes only. If we do claim to be bold in proclaiming our faith publicly, we often do it on our own terms and of our own choosing. 

Stripping, however, is at the hands of others. As our Lord recounts to Peter, "I tell you the truth, 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." Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God." (Jn 21:18) 

The Wikipedia definition of humiliation is strangely in line with how a Christian would understand it as a vehicle towards the virtue of humility: "Humiliation is the abasement of pride, which creates mortification or leads to a state of being humbled or reduced to lowliness or submission."

The Litany of Humility is an antidote to the esteem of respectability we seek, both in our lives and in our public faith. Humility is the foundational virtue on which all other virtues build. When combined with prudence (knowing when to speak and when to keep silent), justice (God's eternal law), temperance (tempering our emotions and appetites), and fortitude (brave endurance in the face of adversity). So, we need to pray and ask for it. But be careful when you do; if it blooms within you, you might just suffer a prophet's fate as a result.

O Jesus! meek and humble of heart, Hear me.

From the desire of being esteemed,

Deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being loved...

From the desire of being extolled ...

From the desire of being honored ...

From the desire of being praised ...

From the desire of being preferred to others...

From the desire of being consulted ...

From the desire of being approved ...

From the fear of being humiliated ...

From the fear of being despised...

From the fear of suffering rebukes ...

From the fear of being calumniated ...

From the fear of being forgotten ...

From the fear of being ridiculed ...

From the fear of being wronged ...

From the fear of being suspected ...

That others may be loved more than I,

Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be esteemed more than I ...

That, in the opinion of the world,

others may increase and I may decrease ...

That others may be chosen and I set aside ...

That others may be praised and I unnoticed ...

That others may be preferred to me in everything...

That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should…