A Prince of the West

A Father's Birth Story

2012-01-29T08:13:00.000-05:00

Usually it's the mothers who tell the birth stories. This is one of mine.

Ninteen years ago today was a sunny, snowy, cold January day. Ellen and I were awaiting the Next Big Event in our life: the birth of our next child. It was, especially for our culture, a "late pregnancy" - Ellen was just a month shy of her 42nd birthday. Ellen had been experiencing - something - from the evening before, but it never settled into a pattern that resembled her earlier labors, so we didn't call the midwife. However, as the day progressed, it became clear that things were indeed happening, so we called our friends who were to assist at the birth, and I prepped the requisite materials, as I'd done for our three prior home births.

We called the midwife twice - once earlier in the day just to give her warning that something was probably imminent, and again in the early afternoon. Ellen's contractions weren't settling down into a pattern, so she didn't want to sound a false alarm. But after talking to Ellen the second time, the midwife told us she was on her way. But by then it was midafternoon, and the midwife was driving from a neighboring county over country roads thick with schoolbuses, so her trip took longer than she expected.

As it turned out, it was too long - at least for Kelson's purposes. Perhaps the knowledge that the midwife was coming gave Ellen "permission" to get on with labor - we'll never know - but shortly after hearing that she was on her way, Ellen's labor progressed rapidly. She went through a very quick and mild transition, and before we knew it was struggling against the urge to push. The midwife hadn't yet arrived, and our friends were rather alarmed, but Ellen and I had both been through three home births and knew that if the baby was coming quickly, the odds were that it was a problem-free delivery (most delivery problems are related to overly long, not overly swift, labors.) So when, after panting through one serious contraction, Ellen gasped, "baby's coming!", I was much less alarmed than the assistants. I gave them orders about what they should have ready while I got Ellen into position for delivery. Suddenly a little head was not just crowning, but emerging. I'd seen it before, but this one looked different. I realized that I was seeing that very rare occurrence: a baby born under a caul. Because this birth had been too swift for interventions of any kind, even rupturing the amniotic sac, Kelson came out wrapped in his. There was no problem - it was the work of a moment to sweep it aside and welcome him out. He opened his eyes and started breathing without any trouble. As with all of our births, there was no howling or crying. Our friends swept in to wipe him clean and wrap him in a warm blanket, then Ellen took him in her arms.

About 15 minutes later the midwife arrived. She gave mama and baby a look-over and affirmed what we knew: everyone was all right. We had the siblings in to see their new brother, and Ellen at last got her wish: having a "party" after the birth. Not a real party, of course, but welcoming visitors and celebrating the new arrival. All our prior births had been in the night or early morning, and everyone had assumed Ellen wanted to go right to sleep after the rigors of labor, but she insisted that she was so "up" from the experience that her real desire was to have lots of friends around to celebrate. (She slept a lot in the weeks that followed.)

Now, nineteen years later, that hasty baby who couldn't wait to show up is getting ready to embark on the next major phase of his life. He's done well and made us proud in so many ways, and he's making us even prouder - not just because he's going into the service, but because he's continuing to take responsibility for his own life, make his own decisions, and accept the burden of maturity with grace and dignity. In this he's following the superb example of his elder siblings, but it's not just out of imitation of them. Sure he's building on their example, but he's also doing things his way in a manner that honors God, respects his family, and is true to his own vocation as a man. We're proud of all our children, but on this, his birthday, I wanted to specially honor him.

God bless you, Kelson Reuel Thomas. May His grace follow you every step of your life.

A life worth staying in

2012-01-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

I don't often quote “experts”, particularly medical experts. This isn't because of disdain for medicine per se, but rather out of suspicion of those who pretend that expertise (or advanced education) in one field makes them automatic experts beyond that field. Thus when some MD weighs in attempting to provide a medical answer to a moral problem, or a psychological solution to a spiritual struggle, I take their statements with large helpings of salt.

But once in a while one of these experts comes up with a statement that's spot on, even if it's strictly outside his area of training. Such was this column by Dr. Keith Ablow of the Fox News Medical A-Team (whatever that is.) As a doctor, Dr. Ablow does a good job of explaining some recent statistics published by the CDC and unpacking their implications. But as a man, he goes further and discusses the dire significance of these developments, painting a somber picture of our culture. He's not scaremongering or doomsaying, but he is gravely concerned about what it means when “A significant portion of our population wants to not be present for significant portions of every single week.” He sees what so many of us have been ringing the alarm bell about for some time: that a culture whose members want to regularly check out is a culture in trouble. As he puts it, “The fact that we are doing this as a culture is the single most ominous psychological trend we have ever faced. I am not exaggerating.” For the sake of those of us who (fortunately) have never had to deal with chronic drunkenness up close, he goes on to detail just how it saps the will and guts the character of those who do it, with dire consequences for individuals, families, and society.

The best prescription Dr. Ablow can offer is “decisiveness” - that people should just choose well and “be present” for the critical decisions in their lives. Granted and fully agreed. The problem is that most of those who are drugging themselves senseless on a regular basis have heard some variation on that argument, but can't for the life of them find a good reason to follow it. It reminds me of a comment once made by a priest when he heard of a campaign urging youth not to take drugs because it was slow suicide. “First,” the priest explained, “you have to convince them that they shouldn't commit suicide.” I think Dr. Ablow succinctly summarizes the dangers we face and even prescribes a correct solution, so far as it goes. Where it falls short is providing an incentive to those who need it to follow the prescription.

This week in our parish Bible Study we're covering chapter 10 of the Gospel of John, which contains Jesus' explicit statement of one of the reasons He came to us: “I have come so that they may have life, and have it more abundantly.” (v. 10) Think of that: abundant life. That's what's really lacking here. People who have an abundant life don't gut their way through the week so they can drink (or smoke, or snort) themselves insensible on the weekend. How can it be surprising that when so many in a culture have “gotten beyond” God Himself, they find themselves with something-short-of-abundant lives? And this in the most generally affluent culture in known history. If security, freedom, and material wealth could provide abundant life, then surely the modern West would have more than enough. Instead we find ourselves in a bind that even the secular world recognizes as dire.

All the likes of Dr. Ablow can tell us is that we need to take charge of our lives. But we need an incentive to be decisive. Jesus provides the incentive: love. Absenting ourselves from our lives and the lives of those who care for us is not a loving thing to do. We should be present because we love those around us and want to help them. When we don't love enough to care for those around us, or when we don't think anyone does love us, then we suffer deep loneliness and alienation. That's just the sort of pain that calls for an anesthetic of some sort, and so the cycle continues.

For any who acknowledge the accuracy of Dr. Ablow's prognosis but despair of implementing his prescription, permit me to direct you to the One who can not only help you accomplish it, but give you a good reason to do so: Jesus Christ, author of abundant life. The life He gives is so rich that you won't feel the need to escape from it.

The 100%

2011-12-08T08:14:00.000-05:00

While the various Occupy movements fade away with a whimper, what impact they might have had linger in phrases like “the 1%”. Lots of the chanting and debate sparked by the Occupy movements center around those sort of catchphrases.

It seems to me that the problem is that this sort of thinking restricts the debate to the economic and political sphere – a far too common fault of modern thinking. Supposedly “the 1%” exercise disproportionate control over a too-large amount of the world's wealth, and “the 99%” should have more of that control, and (presumably) that “the government” should do something about it. This is answered by questions about liberty, and legitimacy of government power, and free markets, and so on. But the whole debate ranges along economic and political lines, as if these were the only areas of human activity that really mattered.

In the midst of this discussion we find this almost unnoticed incident . Los Angeles County recently buried 1639 “unclaimed” bodies – people who had died for whom nobody ever showed up to attend to their burial. They lingered in the morgue or wherever they're kept until they were interred in a mass grave with a civil ceremony. The Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors is to be commended for making this minimal sign of respect for their fellow humans, as are civil authorities everywhere to attend to such matters, but even they acknowledge that it was far short of what those people deserved.

Some would notice that some of the unfortunates were “poor or homeless”, and resume the 99% vs. 1% argument with renewed fervor. But I think this misses the point. It was not because of a shortage of money that these 1639 people died abandoned. Only “some” of them were poor – probably a good number had sufficient means to at least pay for a simple burial. The shortage that necessitated this mass burial was a shortage of love. Nobody loved them enough to bother providing a simple burial, so the responsibility devolved to the civic community.

We have no idea how this came to be. Perhaps some of them lost all their close relatives. Perhaps some had children who they'd lost through death or estrangement. Perhaps some had walked away from love offered to them to pursue abstractions like “independence” (I've seen it happen). Whatever the reason, these people died with nobody to love them enough to know about their death and do something about it.

That is the ultimate poverty.

Blessed Teresa of Calcutta used to say that the world she served in, what wealthy Westerners referred to as “the Third World”, was poor in material goods but rich in love, while the West was rich in material goods but poor in love. This mass burial of unknown, unclaimed people could be Exhibit A of this. In one of the richest, most envied counties in the world,1639 nameless people were buried in a mass grave with no marker to record them and nobody to mourn their passing. This is an impoverishment of what matters most.

Ultimately, discussions about which percentage of the population controls which percentage of the wealth are meaningless. In the end, 100% of us are stripped of all economic goods. That's when we find out how much real wealth we have. Who cares enough about us to stay by our side through our final days on this earth? Who loves us enough to honor our memory and insure we're laid to rest with dignity and respect? Who remembers our names, and why? In short, what is the balance of our “love account”?

One of the classic works of mercy for Christians is burying the dead. This meant more than just cleaning the landscape of corpses – it meant expressing God's love to even those who no man loves. The reason it was a duty was not to remind us to do it for those we loved and respected. Burying them comes easily. It so that we'd do it for those like these 1639 forgotten ones of Los Angeles County.

Because 100% of us die without earthly wealth. But thanks to what happened at Bethlehem, and Calvary, none of us should die unloved.

My Father Was Half Right

2011-11-02T19:04:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry for not having posted here for a bit. Life has been happening at a good clip, and it still is, but I didn't want to totally neglect this small portion of it.

One of the kindest things my father ever said was me was, "Once you get outside your family, nobody gives a damn about you - they only care about what you can do for them." He meant this in the kindest possible way (really!) with the intent of bracing me for what I could expect in the Big Wide World. And indeed, that advice was very helpful in adjusting my expectations, and I have always kept it in the back of my mind, especially as an independent consultant. People might be cordial and even kind, but I'd better deliver the value if I'm going to be handing them a bill at the end of the visit.

But as I've grown older, I've come to see that my father was only half-right on that point. It was helpful counsel so far as it went, but taken straight is is overly pessimistic, almost to the point of being cynical. It may usually be true that strangers, particularly employers, will not invest more in you than they can get out of you, but that does not mean that others will never invest in you. In my personal history, it has sometimes been people I barely knew who invested in me out of sheer charity. A high school teacher and football coach, who saw potential in an introverted sophomore that nobody else had spotted. A second class petty officer saddled with a boot who'd never even been underway, who nonetheless took the time to instruct him in character and manhood. There were others, and though it isn't a long list, it is long enough to prove that sometimes people do give a damn about strangers, and go out of their way to help them thrive and grow.

One irony about my dad's dictum was that he'd had experiences that proved that it was not universal. One was in Colorado, on his way west to California, when his car broke down on a lonely mountain road. A stranger driving by stopped to help, then drove my dad 20 miles back to the last town to get the requisite part, drove him back to his broken-down car, waited while he installed the part, and then followed him until he was safely to the next town. (Furthermore, that man was black, which was a real shock to my father, who'd been raised in a racist Missouri home.) Another irony was that he tried to raise all of us children to be the sort of people who extended Christian charity to strangers - in short, to be the sort of people who'd defy this principle.

I've tried to keep dad's proverb in mind, particularly in the business environment. But I've also learned that it's "more like a guideline", something to keep in mind when out in the world, but not something to assume is always applicable everywhere. True love, charity toward another - even strangers - does exist. Furthermore, we should stive to be people who spread it. Granted, it's hard to deal with everyone at a level of intimate love. Courtesy is possible and desirable, and we should always be on the lookout to do good, but we may be called to invest deeply in the lives of a few others - who may be strangers.

Of course, there have been a few who have attained to expressing deep charity toward everyone they encounter. We call them saints, and we just celebrated them yesterday. Wouldn't it be great to be that kind of person?

More lessons of manhood from the Inklings

2011-08-17T21:21:00.003-04:00

Continuing in with the theme of an earlier post, I wanted to share a few more principles of manhood I learned from the Inklings:

Wisdom matters

“Edmund was a graver and quieter man than Peter, and great in council and judgment.” The Hunt for the White Stag, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

“The might of Elrond is in wisdom not in weapons, it is said.” The Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

The importance of wisdom is a theme that weaves throughout all the works of the Inklings, and it caught my eye from youth. Even as a lad I was enamored of the image of King Edmund the Just, wise in council, even more than with the High King as a leader or warrior. And in Tolkien's works, great figures such as Elrond and Gandalf and even Aragorn displayed the value of wisdom over raw force and power.

Of course, as I grew older I realized that there was more to gaining wisdom than growing a white beard and sitting around talking about deep things. The Wisdom Books of Scripture especially helped me to understand that wisdom changes you – that if you truly seek wisdom, you will return from the journey a different person than you were when you started out. This is one reason true wisdom is so hard to obtain, far more difficult than simply learning reams of facts or gaining technical skill. Again the examples from the Inklings lore helped me grasp this: the price Gandalf paid to learn the truth about what happened to the One Ring after Isildur's fall, or the price Ransom paid in Perelandra to learn what he did.

But I credit their imaginative vision with helping me to understand the value of wisdom – that it is worth striving for, and to be treasured when found. I think that has been part of my lifelong urge to understand things, rather than just learn how to manipulate them.

Sometimes being a man means doing what needs to be done without calculation

“Will you ride with me then, son of Arathorn? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song – if any be left to sing of us hereafter.”

“I will ride with you,” said Aragorn. Helm's Deep, The Two Towers

You may recognize this bit of dialog between King Théoden and Aragorn at Helm's Deep. The defenders were trammeled in by Saruman's orc hordes, and things were looking bleak. Théoden was proposing what looked like a suicide charge, for they had no knowledge of the help that was even then coming to aid them. Even so, Aragorn agrees to accompany him.

But anyone familiar with the story knows that in the Big Picture, the struggle between Rohan and Saruman was a side struggle. It certainly was part of the greater war against Sauron, but the Main Event was the showdown between Gondor and Mordor. That was Aragorn's ultimate goal, even from their departure from Rivendell and before. It was only by strange chance that he had gotten embroiled in this regional struggle.

In light of that, Aragorn's unhesitating agreement to ride with Théoden might seem reckless. Had he been prudent, had he pulled back and weighed his options, we wonder if he might have come to a different conclusion. The main war was in the east, which was also to be his kingdom if they came through this, and that was the price of his bride. That was an awful lot to risk on a death-or-glory charge in a backwater fortress. Perhaps better to lie low, perhaps slip away in the darkness and live to fight another day?

Aragorn's determination to do what was necessary displays what I think a vital aspect of true manhood. Wisdom and prudence are important (see point above), but sometimes one has to decide that the game is worth the candle and do what must be done, regardless of risk. Here wisdom comes to our aid, in helping us decide what causes are worth such risks.

Men don't leave dirty jobs for others

“I have no help to send, therefore I must go myself.” Aragorn, The Passing of the Grey Company, The Return of the King

Another consistent theme in the works of the Inklings is that a mark of noble manhood is shouldering difficult burdens. This stands in stark contrast to the adolescent desire to avoid hard tasks, or find some way to “stick” someone else with them. Accepting difficulty without shirking is the way that character, and civilizations are built.

Men make it easier for those who follow

Pippin marveled at [Boromir's] strength, seeing the passage that he had already forced with no other tool than his great limbs. Even now, burdened as he was, he was widening the track for those who followed, thrusting the snow aside as he went. The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring

Related to the point above is the idea that a man strives to ease the burden of those who follow him. This image, and many others throughout the works of the Inklings, has served as an ideal for me for years. The example of Boromir and many others has encouraged me to look beyond just discharging immediate task to see where and how I could help make the path easier for those who follow. I haven't always succeeded, but the ideal has been there for me to strive for.

The next 30 years

2011-08-16T08:40:00.000-04:00

Yesterday Ellen and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. In a way the celebration has been going on all month - last weekend we had a long visit with most of the kids and all the grandkids in celebration - but yesterday was The Day. We had a quiet day away, just us two, running over to Frankenmuth to be "fudgies" for the day (something that Ellen pointed out we'd never done without little ones!) It was subdued and low-budget, but all the more charming for that. Lunch in the snack shop at Bronner's - where we took all the time we wished to browse around - and a dinner of sausages and cheese and veggies and wine at a little roadside park on the shores of Lake Huron. Someday we may be able to do something more costly, like retrace our honeymoon route (not that that would be all that expensive), but this year a subdued celebration seemed more appropriate.

For some reason the 30th is making me stop and think more than, say, the 25th did, even though the 25th is supposed to be the more notable milestone. Perhaps it's because our life circumstances are truly different now. On our 25th we still had kids in school, and were in the thick of graduations and open houses and all. We lived in the same house we'd lived in for 20 years, and things were pretty much as they'd been for most of our marriage.

Now, at 30 years, we live in a different house, are more or less empty nesters, and our focus is shifting from supporting our children to supporting our children's families. Also, three decades is a long time - longer than some people's entire lives, and (sadly) longer than many marriages last. It's the kind of span of time that causes one - or at least one like me - to meditate on the path traveled, and how well or poorly one has done along it. I'm probably a poor judge standing at a poor vantage point, but I'm pondering more things.

If there's one thing 30 years has taught me it's the importance of love. Not just romantic, "in-loveness" love, but sacrificial charity that gets up every morning and expends effort on behalf of others. That's the love that bears fruit. What we've achieved in 30 years of marriage has been due to that kind of love. The feelings come and go and come again, and they're great in their way. But the thing that matters, the thing I can build on, is that Ellen is always there, and will always love me.

That's why 30 years is, in a sense, a big deal, but in another sense it's not. We didn't leap 30 years in a single jump, but in thousands of little jumps: each day we got up and by God's grace stayed true to the vows we'd taken to one another. He promised to help us keep them, and He did. That's why the next 30 aren't that intimidating: so long as they come at us one day at a time, we'll handle them the way we handled the first 30.

The things I learn from vinedressing

2011-07-24T14:56:00.001-04:00

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit, he will take away. And each one that does bear fruit, he will cleanse, so that it may bring forth more fruit." (John 15:1-2)

I think I've mentioned before that our new house came with a Great Big concord grape vine, which was a bit of a surprise find, because it had grown all through some adjacent shrubs. As I've learned to tend this vine, all manner of Scriptural metaphors that were opaque to me before have come alive with meaning.

Our first year's harvest was when the vine was still intertwined with the shrubs. Though I found a respectable amount of fruit considering how well the clusters were hiding, many of the grapes were inedible due to mold or fungus. So, that winter I cut down the other shrubs, extricated the vine, and strung it on a makeshift arbor. The vine survived my inexpert handling, and bore some fruit the second year, but the harvest was sparse. I'm not sure how much this might have been due to trauma from all the handling and how much was because it was just a bad year for grapes, but there were few grapes, and they still had mold problems.

So I started reading up on the care and tending of concord vines. I had a friend come over to show me how to do the mid-winter pruning, where the last season's growth is cut back to optimize the vine to bear in the new year. But I read something else interesting: about the mid-season cleaning of the vines.

This is the vine early in the year.
Lots of leaves!

The vines start leafing out in springtime, throwing out big leaves and swift-growing tendrils that wrap around stems and fences. It's very impressive growth. Then the buds and flowers come, though it's easy to miss the flowering stage. The flowers are little tiny things that don't look like much - little six-stemmed stars just a few millimeters across. You have to look very deliberately to find them.

Grape flowers

Once the flowers are gone and the fruit starts to develop, there comes a point you have to cut away the leaves around the clusters. This is what I didn't do the second year, but the experts say is vital. Grape vines put out an immense amount of foliage, often large leaves that shade the entire area under the vine. But being shaded isn't good for the grapes. They need to be exposed to the light, and able to have air circulate freely around them. If they aren't, the clusters will remain damp from dew and rain, and mold and fungus will grow (this was the problem the first year when the grapes were growing all through the shrubs - they were too shaded, which was why so many were lost to mold.)

These clusters are too shaded.
They'll be prone to mold and fungus

So earlier this week I took my secateurs and went out to trim back the leaves and expose the clusters to the light and air. It turned out to be a tremendous task - far more than just trimming a leaf or two here and there. Once you get in among the vines, you find that nearly all the clusters are shrouded by leaves that need to be trimmed away mercilessly if the clusters are to see the sun and feel the air.

As I was doing this, I was pondering Jesus words in John 15:1-2. Most translations I've read say that the Father will "prune" the vines that they may produce more fruit, but I can't help but wonder if this translation (Catholic Public Domain Version) might have the more accurate nuance. Pruning is typically done off-season, during winter or some other time when the plant is not bearing fruit. Grapes are the only fruit I've heard of that calls for actually dressing the vines in the middle of the season to help the fruit along. People in that agrarian culture would surely have understood the need for and purpose of such "cleansing", and some of Jesus' disciples may have actually done it.

With that in mind, I found myself wondering in what way the leaves and clusters correspond to elements of our spiritual life, and how the Father's "cleansing" would help the fruit along. I came up with an analogy, which will break down at some point as analogies do, but it seemed to have some useful correspondence. What if the grapes themselves correspond to the "good fruit" our lives are supposed to bear - charitable deeds done for the good of others and glory of God, Christlike attitudes, humility, and the like? What if the leaves are pious practices of the type that can be observed: prayers, Mass attendance, Scripture reading, and so forth? By this I don't mean empty external actions, but truly well intended practices that are intended to form us into Christ's image.

Presuming that rough correspondence, how does that help us understand Jesus' promise that the Father would "cleanse" the "vine" of our lives, that we might bear more fruit?

One obvious point is that leaves are necessary, and always come first. Were one to strip all the leaves from a vine, it would die. Likewise if we were to strip from our lives all the external spiritual disciplines such as prayer, fasting, worship, and the like, our spiritual life would quickly end.

But the point of the leaves is the fruit. A big, leafy vine may look like it's Really Something, but if it's not bearing fruit, it's meaningless. By the same token, a vine full of fruit but with no leaves will never ripen, because the leaves are needed to make the sugar that goes into the fruit. So it's not a leaves-or-fruit question, because the fruit needs the leaves, but the point of the vine, including the leaves, is to bear fruit.

These clusters have had the
shading leaves trimmed away,
so that sun and air can reach
them. They should ripen well!

But, just as too many leaves around the clusters can hinder the growth of the fruit, likewise the fruit of our lives needs the "light and air" of accountability and public examination to stay free of "mold" like self-delusion and pride. To use a historical example, St. Francis of Assisi started his movement as a group of men committed to a way of life living according to certain rules. But he submitted his rules to the authority of the Church, who investigated the movement and ruled upon it. Some of the original rules which Francis proposed for his Order were denied by Church authorities - they were "pruned away". St. Francis accepted this, and the Franciscan Order was born. Had he not accepted the pruning, his movement might have remained a small, local activity that might have just dwindled away, or degerated into rebellion or heresy.

On a personal level, sometimes we have to accept cutting back of things which seem like great spiritual practices in order to bear good fruit. When I first discovered the Liturgy of the Hours, I dreamed of finding time to say all the offices through the day. Eventually I had to settle for Lauds and Vespers, because my vocation as a father and breadwinner didn't permit me to take breaks for all that praying. If it's a question between fruit and leaves, the fruit will win every time.

Sometimes the "pruning" in our lives can seem severe, even brutal. It's like this with grapes, too, but it doesn't mean the plant is being killed. It doesn't take many leaves to keep a vine going - in fact, grape vines are always throwing out new leaves all through the season. Unlike deciduous trees, which grow a crop of leaves at the start of the season and that's all they get for the year, grape vines are sprouting new leaves all the time. Come to think of it, it's kind of like that in our spiritual lives as well. If the new baby or the new job means I can't attend daily Mass like I used to, maybe the Lord will cause a new avenue of blessing to "sprout" in my life. Just because a familiar set of "leaves" was trimmed back doesn't mean all is lost, it just means that the Father was trimming back to make me more fruitful.

Another thing I learned with my pruning is that you can never tell where the fruit might be. As I started cleaning away thick foliage, I found grape clusters in the strangest places. Totally hidden by leaves and stems, they awaited the pruning back of the leaves to be revealed. Had I not trimmed back the leaves, I never would have found them. In similar manner, sometimes the Lord has to trim back parts of our lives that seem healthy and impressive in order to bring forth some hidden fruit that even we might not have known was there.

A pruned-back vine, with plenty of leaves
and developing fruit. Hopefully it will yield a rich harvest!

I think I've taken this comparison as far as it'll go, at least for now. I hope I remember some of these lessons the next time the Father starts to take His divine "pruning shears" to my life.

Staying alive - a lesson from yeast

2011-07-22T17:43:00.003-04:00

Last Sunday's Gospel reading from Matthew 13 contained the parable of the Wheat and the Tares (to use the older reference) as well as the brief metaphors of the Kingdom being like the mustard seed and the yeast mixed into the flour. (Matt 13:24-43) I've always been able to grasp the Wheat and Tares parable, and the mustard seed comparison (somewhat), but the one about yeast always befuddled me a bit - until I started baking a lot of bread.

I'm a renowned bread baker - at least in the circles I travel. I don't do much, but what I do, I do well. My basic white bread has been called by some the Best Bread in the World. (Credit for that has to go to the late James Beard - it's his recipe.) The ingredients are simple: flour, water, a little salt, yeast, and some sugar to feed the yeast. Yet for all its simplicity, I've had many people ask me for help, because they "can't make bread".

Turns out the most common problem is dead yeast. Three tablespoons isn't a very big portion of nine pounds of dough, but it makes all the difference. If the yeast is fresh and vigorous, the dough rises swiftly and evenly, transforming all that wet flour into high, light loaves. But if the yeast is dead (as most grocery store yeast is), the dough just sits there - a flat, heavy, unappetizing lump. Without good yeast to leaven it, bread is just flour that's been saturated and then dried in the oven.

My experience with yeast dough has helped me understand a little of Jesus' brief metaphor. For one thing, I read somewhere recently that the "three measures" of flour was quite a bit - the same measure stipulated by Abraham in Genesis 18:6, which would have been about three bushels in today's measures. Three bushels! Also, the "yeast" (or "leaven", depending on your translation) would not have been the dry powdery material we typically use today, but a living culture more like a sourdough starter. So even if the woman mixed in three cups of starter, that would have been a lot of dough to rise.

Yet yeast, being the stubborn little beasties that they are, would've done the job given enough time (especially in the warm Mediterranean climate.) I think part of Jesus' point was that it doesn't take much to have a dramatic effect. Just as a few tablespoons of yeast can turn nine pounds of wet flour into bread people will drive miles to get (especially fresh from the oven), so just a few children of the Kingdom can make a big difference in a culture. However - and I think this was another point that Jesus' audience would not have missed - the yeast has to be alive. Yeast isn't like baking soda or vinegar. It's a microbe that is only effective when it's living. Dead yeast is worse than useless - it just smells, and you have to throw it away. But if it's living, it's very effective.

Something for us to keep in mind: if we're to have the "leavening" effect that Jesus desires, we have to be alive in Him. If we are, then we can have a dramatic effect on the world around us, transforming it dramatically. If we don't stay alive, the "dough" of our culture will not be leavened, but remain a soggy, heavy, useless lump. It'll be good for nothing but to be thrown out - and us with it.

The Weight of Love

2011-07-06T13:08:00.000-04:00

One of my daughters recently gave birth to twins. Though a few weeks premature (not unusual with twins), they arrived healthy and without complications. After a couple weeks of observation in the infant care section of the hospital – which was stressful in its way but could have been a lot worse – the twins were brought home, and the fun truly began. At first the impact was buffered by the presence of some extra help. One of my other daughters stayed and helped for a couple of weeks, and then my wife for a couple more weeks. But eventually all the helpers went home, leaving mom and dad with “four under five”.

My poor daughter has been feeling the weight of this, as everyone expected she would. My son-in-law is a superb husband and father, and does everything he can to lighten the burden, but having even one newborn added to a home that already had a four-year-old and a two-year-old would be a tremendous burden. Two newborns seems unbearable; and indeed, my daughter's online posts both short and long indicate that the incessant demands of the babies are stretching her and her family to the limit.

And yet, deep down, even my stressed daughter and her husband understand that it isn't really the babies that are the burden. They “weigh” nothing at all. What is so heavy is the love. They love so deeply and so truly that they will give nothing less than everything they have to all of their children. It is that compulsion, that intensity of love, that is the real burden.

This is a burden they have taken up voluntarily, and take up again every time one of their children needs care. They lay down their immediate preferences, die to themselves a little more, and shoulder the burden of love and service. It is the love that is the burden, not the babies.

Of course, they don't have to shoulder this burden. They could simply not respond to the need, or give it cursory attention. They could love their children less, and spare themselves some effort. But they will not take that route, for even the thought of that weighs much more heavily than any task. They could not bear to think of their children being less-than-completely loved.

Parenthood is an extreme example of this principle, but it is what comes into play every time we care for others. The burden is always the love. It is not the cry of our child from the next room, or the late-night phone call from the distressed friend, or the sleepless spouse sitting in the darkened living room with a burdened heart, that is so hard to bear. It is the love, or it is nothing. We can always pull the pillow over our head, or let the call roll to voice mail, or pretend we don't notice the empty bed. But if our love is great enough, those options will not even occur to us, and we will again shoulder the burden of love.

We were warned of this. The One who loved so much the He left perfection to come down to shoulder the burden personally was crushed to the ground (thrice, according to legend) before He was broken for love. He told us that following Him meant shouldering the burden of love every day. He also assured us that we would have help with that burden, because it was His burden, and He would help carry it.

But we won't get that help unless we step up and agree to take on the weight of love. Perhaps it will help if we remember what's so heavy: it isn't the baby, or the friend, or the spouse, or whoever. It's the love we have for them that weighs so much, that drives us to expend our scarce personal resources for another. And let us pray for one another (particularly my daughter, her husband, and their children!), that we can share the burden of the weight of love.

Much of what I learned of manhood, I learned from the Inklings

2011-06-24T21:00:00.000-04:00

For a variety of reasons, I didn't have a lot of instruction in manhood from other men while I was growing up. My own father never had good instruction from his father, so he had only so much he could pass along. He led by word and example as best he could, and I'm tremendously grateful for that, but it was limited. We lived far from any relatives and didn't have many families we were close to, so I didn't have grandfathers or uncles or surrogate uncles to do the kind of mentoring that can form lads into men.

But the Lord has many tools in His toolbox, so He arranged for me to learn critical things about manhood from other sources. One of them happened to be the Inklings – primarily C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Now, don't go looking for a book or essay on “Manhood 101” from either of those authors, because there isn't one. What they have to teach is scattered through their works. In my case, it was mostly through their fiction, which was very formative in the development of my moral imagination. I grew up with the Chronicles of Narnia from elementary school days, discovering the Lord of the Rings and Lewis' Space Trilogy in my high school years. I cannot count the number of times I walked across Ettinsmoor with Puddleglum, or crossed the Midgewater Marshes with Strider and the hobbits, or looked on while Tirian gave Eustace lessons in knighthood. Though these were literary figures alive “only” in my imagination, they were real, formative, and very valuable.

So, I'd like to pass along a few of these lessons, and what they've meant to me. These aren't just nice theories and maxims – these lessons have helped me at critical points in my life, and have guided my decisions great and small since I was 10 years old. I'm afraid that understanding them will require a reasonable working knowledge of the works quoted – I haven't the space or skill to synopsize them in blog posts.

So, I present: the manly wisdom of the Inklings:

“[Shasta] had not yet learned that if you do one good deed your reward usually is to be set to do another and harder and better one.” (from The Horse and His Boy)

The young traveler Shasta had only intended to escape a harsh and bitter life in Calormen. He would have considered himself fortunate to simply succeed at that, but one circumstance after another kept complicating his journey. The hardships kept piling up, and he always bore the brunt of them. In the end he was forced to do dangerous and heroic things in circumstances he could have never foreseen. He didn't choose these struggles; they were just handed to him and he was expected to overcome them.

Except – he did choose them, in the sense that he did not walk away, as he could have done. With the immediate future of Archenland and the ultimate future of Narnia in the balance, he could have just thrown up his hands and sat down on the grass, letting the Great and Powerful decide the outcome rather than a ragged, runaway peasant boy. But he and his companions just couldn't do that, so he kept at the tasks, even when the cost kept going up. The hurdles were the cost of getting to Narnia, to the freedom he had dreamt of his entire life, so he kept his eye on the goal and kept at the increasingly difficult tasks.

Lewis tosses this principle into the narrative almost as an afterthought, but it is a pivotal one that has helped me many times in my life. It's only human nature to look for some kind of reward or at least recognition for a job well done, especially when in service of a noble ideal. The reality is far different, especially with service to Christ's Kingdom, and doubly so with less glamorous tasks like pro-life work. Often when I'm feeling disappointed or getting discouraged or tending to self-pity with the never-ending-ness of it all, I remember the “Shasta principle”. I should not be surprised when the reward for doing a good deed is being set to do a harder and better one. Expecting that, living with that, is a critical part of true manhood.

A true man takes responsibility, even at great personal cost.

“And since it seemed fit that Isildur's heir should labour to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.” Aragorn son of Arathorn at the Council of Elrond, The Fellowship of the Ring

The character of Aragorn is a lesson in nobility and true manhood, and this statement is a good example of why. Gandalf needs Aragorn's help in a difficult and dangerous task: finding Gollum to learn the truth about the Ring he held for many years. That the Ring was not destroyed when it should have been was due to Isildur's fascination with it. Centuries later, Aragorn remembers this fault of his forefather, and undertakes the brutal hunt of the lost Gollum in partial reparation. He takes responsibility for something that happened centuries before he was born, to which he is only tenuously connected.

The cultural phenomenon of adolescence was all but invented for my generation, the Baby Boomers. Part of the definition of adolescence is claiming adult privileges while avoiding adult responsibility. When I was a young man, I saw most of my peers place an almost unquestioned value on avoiding responsibility. The idea was to get as much as you could while giving as little as you could get away with, especially as little personal commitment. This was what engendered men living with their parents well into their 20's, and participating in “relationships” that sometimes lasted longer than a decade without moving closer to marriage.

Over against this insipid model stands the inspiring figure of Aragorn, who accepts responsibility for something for which no reasonable person would consider him in the least culpable. This has inspired me all my adult life not to fear responsibility, but to step up and accept it. I've been far from perfect at it, but the example of Aragorn has always been there, calling me on.

What must be done takes precedence over what you feel like doing

“Were I to go where my heart dwells, far in the North I would now be wandering in the fair valley of Rivendell.”

“...may I not now spend my life as I will?”
“Few may do that with honor.”

Conversation between Aragorn and Éowyn, “The Passing of the Grey Company”, The Return of the King

One of the highest value in our culture is self-fulfillment. Every day through hundreds of channels we are told that we, and only we, should define ourselves and lay out our own paths. We should go where we want to go and do what we feel like doing. Nothing should stand in the way of self-fulfillment – not duty, not honor, not responsibility. “I just had to be true to myself” is the mantra that trumps every claim on us and justifies any treachery, any abandonment, any shirking. It is even taught that to deny yourself pursuit of what you wish is to be false to yourself, to betray your own identity.

Again the manly figure of Aragorn stands in stark opposition to this lie. Duty and responsibility drive him to do what must be done. He knows what he wants, and longs for it deeply, but first he must attend to his tasks. Others are counting on him to come through, and he must not let them down. His own desires and wishes can wait – he has a job to do. To Aragorn, being a man means being one who puts responsibility and duty before his own wishes and preferences.

Aragorn's example has helped me frequently through the years, especially when the sirens of our culture have sung to me about placing my own identity and fulfillment ahead of my responsibilities. I will not find my identity by abandoning my duties and chasing after what seems fulfilling at the moment. I will find my identity by seeing my responsibilities through to their completion – because that's what men do.

I'll have a few more examples of Inkling manhood in my next post.

T.M. Doran's /Toward the Gleam/

2011-05-18T21:09:00.002-04:00

I have on my shelf The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunits, an anthology of short stories set in England's post-Elizabethan era. The stories draw in a surprising number of period characters. Shakespeare, Pocahontas, Henry Hudson, and even King James are among the notables written into the tales. This seems to reflect an emerging tendency to people fictional stories with well-known characters from other contexts. These days, everyone from Beau Brummell to Fitzwilliam Darcy are showing up as characters in mystery novels, suspense stories – even horror tales.

I bring this up to prime readers for what to expect from T.M. Doran's Toward the Gleam (Ignatius Press, 2011). I purchased the book partly from shameless self-interest in encouraging Ignatius to publish more fiction, and certainly out of interest in the contents (besides – who can resist a book with a trailer?) But even as I ordered it, I was unclear exactly what type of story it was. I know it had something to do with the Inklings, but the synopses and even the trailer left me wondering: what is this story about? There were hints of a primeval threat and the darkest years of the 20th century, but even as I began reading, I didn't know what to expect.

It turns out that Toward the Gleam is a modern suspense/intrigue novel peopled with well-known historical characters. The protagonist, John, is transparently J.R.R. Tolkien himself, even down to his wife and children's names. The premise of the story is that the saga which became Middle Earth was not imagined but discovered in the form of a carefully hidden book, sealed in a metal box of wondrous make and hidden deeply in a nondescript cave in the English countryside. (There are even hints that it may be the Red Book of Westmarch itself, but that's never made clear.) The mysterious book is written in runes which John, with his philological training, eventually able to translate, and the story of the Great Ring comes to light.

The main tension of the story comes about when John, casting about for scholarly assistance in his efforts to understand his discovery, draws in a mysterious character named Alambert who embodies the ruthlessness of that time in Europe. This antagonist is wealthy, intelligent, and obsessed with any hints of primeval civilization, which he ties to Atlantis. But where John seeks to present the story as a source of wisdom and caution, Alambert seeks the ancient knowledge as a source of power and control. John is very circumspect about his treasure, never even admitting that he has found anything. But the cunning Alambert discerns that John is hiding something rare and – dare we say? - precious, and attempts every means to acquire it.

Thus the story unfolds, the retiring Oxford don matching wits with the unscrupulous rogue. Through its pages wander Chesterton (who warns John against ever contacting Alambert – advice he ignores to his regret), Churchill, Agatha Christie – even Conan Doyle gets an honorable mention. Of course the Inklings are there (without Charles Williams – the body of the tale takes place in the mid-30s), ensconced at the Bird and Baby. It is a classic mystery/intrigue story, with visits to exotic European locales, assassination attempts (which Dolan uses as partial explanation of Tolkien's dread of spiders), a seductress, and even a one-eyed pirate.

Those concerned that Doran may have turned the beloved but retiring Tolkien into a cloak-and-dagger figure can rest easy. Though the plot takes John into some unusual circumstances, it never stretches believability beyond the breaking point. John remains “in character”, responding as one would expect him to. Perhaps the climactic final encounter with the villain is a touch melodramatic, but not so much to spoil the story. Doran is clearly working hard to cast the characters into his plot as the people they were, and render their behaviour accordingly.

Overall, Doran tells a good tale, keeping it reasonably believable (even the Famous Personages), well plotted, and moving along briskly. It might disappoint anyone expecting mythopoeic fiction, but as a suspense/intrigue tale it is worth picking up - though I do wish they'd published a paperback version.

One thing I must admit that mystified me a little, though perhaps this is just me being dense: even as I finished the book, it was never quite sure just what "the gleam" was, and who or what was moving toward it. Maybe Doran could have been a bit more clear about that.

Luminous Times

2011-05-08T20:04:00.000-04:00

Those were luminous days.
	Glowing smiles and shining rings,
		Six yellow-clad girls wandering down a long aisle.
	A tiny kitchen bathed in morning light,
		Breakfasts at a table only big enough for two.
	A living room just large enough to turn round in,
		A tub too small even for that.
	Bookshelves full of books all mixed together,
		A crib full of a smiling little turtle.
Those were luminous days.

Those were luminous weeks.
	Mine measured by classes, and projects,
		and long days away; a college rhythm.
	Your forty (again! surprise!) measured by drives
		to Algonac, with stops at McDonald's.
	Two whole bedrooms, and a living room!
		With a front window overlooking a parking lot.
	A contraband Christmas tree festooned with lights,
		A hobbit in the doorway and another fuzzy head to love.
Those were luminous weeks.

Those were luminous months.
	A house of our own and a blue station wagon,
		Summer sun streaming across the front lawn.
	My first real job, long early commutes,
		So many adopted aunts to share our home.
	Drives to Richmond, classes beneath the grain elevators,
		A walk to the corner in a blizzard.
	Peepers, and Bulldogs, and Squiggys,
		And one you wouldn't mind if he was the last.
Those were luminous months.

Those were luminous years.
	Flashing past, season by season,
		Almost too quickly to track.
	A giant van with a funny name,
		And great passenger miles per gallon.
	Halftime shows and quiz bowl meets and dance recitals,
		Lean years and rich years and “Cago-Mento” years.
	Star fields in the front window and
		A peppermint from the ceiling.
Those were luminous years.

Those were luminous decades.
	A familiar white house, living now only in memory,
		An upstairs hall lit by summer sunsets.
	A deck in the morning breeze,
		Counting down months to a midwinter retreat.
	Nestlings making nests of their own,
		A homestead under the shadow of loss.
	A surprise find; grapes among the bushes,
		An Advent sacrificed and a house remade.
Those were luminous decades.

Yes, there were shadows.
	The ones we never got to hold,
		The family lost and friends who followed.
	The encroaching fear, the misunderstandings and conflicts,
		Some days heavier than lead.
	But looking back at the clouds and brightness,
		A Glorious Face emerges,
	And the shadows are enveloped
		By the light.
Indeed, there were shadows.

Now we live.
	In a house full of light,
		Rich, warm wood and fresh-painted walls.
	Bush surrounded, bird beset,
		The kind of place your dad would have chosen.
	Filled with quiet and calm,
		and peace, except when
	It is filled with laughter and clutter
		and peace.
Now we live.

These are luminous times.
	30 years, 360 months, 1565 weeks,
		10957 days.
	Illuminated by Radiance
		Not of this world.
	If what is to come is half as blessed
		As what has been.
	Then the time shall pass joyfully at your side,
		And the days will be light.
These are luminous times.

On August 15th of this year, I will celebrate 30 years of marriage with my wonderful bride Ellen. This is for her.

A Mother's Day tribute

2011-05-07T14:46:00.000-04:00

My poor wife hasn't had a proper Mother's Day in decades.

You know, one where dad & kids get up early, make breakfast to bring to her in bed with a little vase on the tray and cards tucked under the plate. One where she didn't have to lift a finger to cook or clean all day because her appreciative family took care of all that for her. She can't remember the last time she had one of those, if she ever has.

It wasn't that the kids and I didn't love her and want her to have a good Mother's Day. The main reason was that our local right to life chapter offered roses at local parishes on Mother's Day as a fundraiser. This meant setting up on Saturday afternoon, staffing the tables for the vigil Mass and all the morning Masses, and then packing up, bringing the remnants home, and packing them away. Typically we wouldn't all be done until 2:30 or 3:00, at which point all of us wanted to do nothing more than rest. Thus for years my dedicated wife sacrificed her Mother's Days to the pro-life cause.

This year was supposed to be different. I was rallying a few KofC members to help with the tables, and our youngest son was home from college. She was going to be singing at two Masses anyway, but she wasn't planning on staffing tables, at least. She might not get the breakfast in bed, but she wouldn't have to shoulder much of the burden of the fundraiser.

Then the phone rang last Thursday. Our eldest daughter, who is well along with twins, was having hard, regular contractions at 33 weeks - not a catastrophe, but worrisome enough. She was being admitted for observation, and Ellen was needed to watch the little ones and run the house while daughter and husband were at the hospital. This wasn't completely unexpected, so Ellen packed up and headed down. Fortunately, things didn't go so far as premature delivery: rest and a few appropriate medications slowed the contractions down to the point that my daughter was sent home from the hospital today with a prescription for strict bed rest.

For Ellen, that means what we expected it would mean when this pregnancy got near this stage: she's managing our daughter's home for the remainder of the pregnancy (which will probably be no more than a couple of weeks at best.) She'll tend to dinners and kiddos and laundry and diapers and all the other things that will need tending while my daughter is restricted to bed for the sake of the babies she bears. Ellen will have the help of sisters who live in the area, and Arwen's helpful husband (when he's not at work), but the brunt of the household management will fall on her.

Just in time for Mother's Day.

Which means, once again, my longsuffering wife is giving up her Mother's Day for the sake of unborn children. This time it happens to be her own grandchildren, who she'll be able to hold before very long, but it's still a sacrifice. In years past I've assured her that the Lord will make up to her all these Mother's Days she gave up for the sake of others. And, given what He's asked her to do over the decades, I'm sure it'll be quite a reward.

It can't come a moment too soon.

Happy Mother's Day, precious wife.

Trusting Rightly

2011-04-17T15:30:00.000-04:00

I've been meditating quite a bit recently on placing trust – specifically, in what or whom I place my trust. What piqued my interest was an account I read of Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower. She recounted how some sister in her convent had misunderstood something she'd said or done. Rather than attempting to correct the sister's understanding, or to “clear her name”, St. Thérèse let the matter pass, reasoning that on Judgement Day, when all things would be made known, the true account of the incident would come out.

This impressed me greatly. Such an attitude reflected a deep faith and a long vision. Even if this outlook had not come easily to St. Thérèse, and even if she did not execute it perfectly on every occasion, it still displayed powerful trust and profound insight. It is certainly leagues beyond my attitude. I'm so preoccupied with what others think of me that even the possibility that someone is misunderstanding me keeps me awake at night. I want everyone to understand how upright and reasonable my motives are, and am willing to expend tremendous effort explaining myself so that I am perfectly understood. Unlike the Little Flower, I don't trust God to vindicate me eventually – I want to submit evidence of my innocence immediately, to be judged by whoever I fear is misunderstanding me. I want them to judge in my favor.

Simply put, I'm placing my trust in others. I crave the good opinion of men, to the point that I get nearly frantic if I think that good opinion is endangered. I'll scurry and fret and draft letters and rehearse explanations and arrange meetings, all out of dread. Oh, I'll rationalize my efforts as an attempt to insure “the truth” is known, but I know my heart. It is only about 3% concerned with “the truth”, and 97% concerned with retaining the good opinions of others.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with others having a good opinion of you. I'm sure many had good opinions of St. Thérèse even while she lived. But she did not center her importance on those opinions. Neither did she disdain them out of pride (“Who cares what she thinks?”) She kept her focus in the right place – on the hands of her all-knowing and all-just Father – and the judgements of men fall where they may. She trusted that the day would come when all circumstances and motives would be laid bare, and her actions would be vindicated – or condemned – according to the criteria that mattered to Him.

All of which brings me to Psalm 118. It seems to me that this psalm stretches over all Holy Week. The cries of the crowd on Palm Sunday - “Hosanna!” “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” - were drawn from Psalm 118. Jesus quoted it to the Pharisees after the damning parable of the wicked tenants (Matt 20:9-18). It is the last portion of the Great Hallel, the hymn sung by Jesus and the apostles just before they left for Gethsemane (Mk 14:26). And eventually St. Peter quotes it when proclaiming Jesus' Resurrection before the very Council that condemned Him. (Acts 4:11)

And what is the theme of this psalm? Trusting in God rather than in men. Looking to the Lord with complete abandon (v.6), not trusting in men (v. 8 & 9), and leaving the final outcome in God's hands (v. 7 & 22). Surely Jesus demonstrated what this kind of trust looked like in practice. When accused before the Sanhedrin, He did not start explaining Himself, “Look, guys, you've got it all wrong. The Kingdom I'm founding isn't a political entity – it won't threaten your rule of Jerusalem in the least.” Even before Pilate, when He easily could have laid bare the machinations of the chief priests and secured His freedom, He did not. His attitude was, “My Father will know the right of it” - even if that vindication lay on the far side of being tortured to death. (That's trust!)

Jesus was not worried about being misunderstood. What others thought about Him, said about Him, and ultimately did to Him did not matter as much as obeying His Father, and trusting in His final vindication. From this example, saints and martyrs down through history have been able to follow, fixing their eyes upon Him, trusting Him to vindicate them regardless of what men did. Even the little trials offered by St. Thérèse's sisters in the convent afforded an opportunity to trust and surrender.

This is the challenge to me this Holy Week and beyond. I've never been reviled, slandered, and verbally attacked. I've certainly never been physically abused. But considering how agitated I get when I'm merely misunderstood, I've got a long way to go before I even meet the standards set by the Little Flower, much less Christ Himself. But the first step is to recognize where I'm failing, and it is here: at the point of my trust. May I grow in this trust during this Holy Week, this Easter Season, and through the rest of my life.

For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps. ‘He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth.' When he was abused, he did not return abuse; when he suffered, he did not threaten; but he entrusted himself to the one who judges justly.

1 Pet 2:21-23

A Losing Battle

2011-02-24T14:02:00.005-05:00

Catholic New York Governor Andrew Cuomo is divorced, and making no secret about living with his (also divorced) girlfriend Sandra Lee. Though the people of New York don't consider this an impediment to his serving as governor, the Canon Law of the Catholic Church considers this an impediment to receiving Holy Communion (Canon 915). But it seems that Cuomo's bishop, Howard Hubbard, didn't get the memo, and served both Governor Cuomo and Ms. Lee communion at Mass recently. (Full details can be found in this CNS News article.)

When Canon Lawyer Edward Peters publicly stated the simple fact that under Catholic sacramental law, Governor Cuomo should not have been given communion, there was a great public outcry - against Dr. Peters. Everybody and his brother felt the need to reply, including the Bishop, Governor Cuomo, and then cast of the View. These responses were predictable, from the "this is a delicate pastoral situation blah, blah, blah" issued by the Bishop to the blatant Catholic-bashing of the usual suspects like Whoopi Goldberg. The tenor in the public square, reinforced by the Bishop's limp-spined response, was that Dr. Peters was being the extremist, and Governor Cuomo the persecuted party.

In my parish, our pastor is gravely concerned about how few people attend Confession. "I must have a parish full of saints!" he exclaims at Mass. "Hardly anyone lining up for Confession, yet every Sunday, everyone coming up for Communion!" He and many of us are equally concerned about vast numbers of fallen away Catholics, some of whom have gone to other churches but most of whom just stay at home, figuring they're doing well enough without the grace of the Sacraments. We're brainstorming about how to reach these people, get them to understand that the stakes are as high as they can get, and help them back into communion with God.

But as long as stuff like this Cuomo business goes on, we're fighting a losing battle.

Look at it: nobody is more responsible for the souls in his care than a bishop. Governor Cuomo makes no bones about the fact that he is living in public concubinage with a woman, which is a mortal sin, which means that according to the Scriptures and Church teaching he "eats and drinks judgement on himself" (1 Cor 11:29) every time he takes Communion. Simply put, he's damning himself further every time he does it. Yet his Bishop just stands there and enables it.

Furthermore, everyone sees this happening. So let's say my pastor is counselling a man who is living in public concubinage about returning to the Church and resuming Communion. My pastor would explain that the man needed to cease sexual union with his girlfriend, go to Confession, and begin moving toward sacramental marriage before he could come up for Communion. Unfortunately, all the man would have to do is point to Governor Cuomo and his Bishop. How could my pastor respond? Or what if a divorced man wants to get remarried and continue going to Communion? Why bother with the time and fuss of an annulment? Governor Cuomo sets the example: just move in together. Not only can you keep going to Communion, you might get a bishop to serve you!

Sadly, we had a similar situation in our Archdiocese some years ago. Our state's governor was Catholic, but was also fiercely pro-abortion. She vetoed every pro-life bill that crossed her desk, and worked to stymie pro-life efforts in the legislature. Yet at the same time, she faithfully attended her parish church, even serving as a Eucharistic Minister from time to time. The past Archbishop never made any kind of comment about this, and though our new Archbishop is much more publicly pro-life, he hasn't done anything about this public scandal, either.

The Catholic Church in America desperately needs renewal. Yet as long as public accommodation of sin by the powerful and well-known persists, we will not see it. We might see small progress here and there, but there will be no serious renewal until Church leaders have the courage to stand for holiness, no matter how upset Whoopi Goldberg or the Detroit Free Press gets about it. The Scriptures speak scornfully of those who wouldn't stand up for Jesus because they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God. So long as that is the hallmark of the leadership of the Catholic Church in America, we will continue to lose ground in the war for the souls of our nation's citizens – including our own children.

The price of the gods

2011-01-25T21:48:00.003-05:00

One of the lesser noticed aspects of ancient myths and legends is the price that gods, demigods, and spirits sometimes demanded for providing goods or services to humans: their children. This can still be seen in folk tales such as Rumpelstiltskin, and such a legend is alluded to in Kristin Lavaransdatter, where Odin assists a woman in brewing then demands for payment “what was between her and the vat” - i.e. the child she carried in her womb¹.

This harsh levy is downplayed in most modern renditions of the legends, but students who study the original tales know that a consistent theme throughout them is the hunger lesser gods and spirits have for human children. This is harsh to modern ears, for we value our children so highly that we shudder at the very thought of turning them over to some god in return for a service provided.

Or do we?

The “gods” of our culture provide many things for us, one of the more prominent being copious entertainment. Thanks to radio, television, movies, and now the nearly-ubiquitous Internet, very few in Western culture lack for something to amuse or distract them. America is renowned world-wide for our movies and programs, and the happenings on popular shows can actually be reported on news programs. Televisions are so common that a home without one is so unusual as to be freakish.

But what price do these cultural gods demand for this service of nonstop entertainment of nearly infinite variety? I thought of that this past week, as the furor over the new MTV series Skins erupted across the news media. Especially telling was this commentary by a secular commentator on a secular station. He argued compellingly that once this kind of content is broadcast and known about, it doesn't matter what controls parents might attempt to impose on their children: they will be able to access the program some way or another.

Suddenly, ubiquitous access to all forms of entertainment doesn't look so inviting. The problem is, the horse has left the barn. Parents who have opened their homes to the cultural gods in order to be entertained have usually accomplished a few things. One is setting an example that if something is appealing, it should be watched. The other is letting time they could have spent parenting be displaced by something else. Every hour they spent being passively entertained was one less hour spent interacting with their children and forming their characters. Another common occurrence in modern homes, where televisions are found scattered around the house including in bedrooms, is that of total individual choice. If someone doesn't like what's playing in the family room, they can go in the den or their room and watch something else. These factors converge when children get to an age when shows like Skins attract them – and suddenly parents find they have no way of controlling what their children watch.

The gods of the culture have provided their service of nonstop, enthralling entertainment. Their price: the children.

Our entertainment culture doesn't walk in the door announcing its intent. Like the gods in the old stories, it offer the allure first – the help with the difficult task, or acquiring the desired item, or providing the enticing entertainment. Only afterwards is the terrible price revealed, but at that point it's too late to deny the god his price. The deed is done, and the price must be paid. I wonder how many parents lapped up the entertainment services of the gods of our culture, only to realize to their dismay that one consequence of this was the loss of their children to values they never taught – but the children learned regardless?

I wish I could say that Ellen and I were prescient enough to see this coming when we decided not to have a television in our home while raising our children. We weren't. All we knew was that we wanted to have tight control over what formed their thoughts and imaginations. We wanted it to be good books, Christian teaching, and our family values. It's only looking back over the results of our decision, and watching the anguish of parents who find their children slipping away, that it's become clear what has happened.

The ancient legends contain a subtle lesson: beware who you speak to casually, and which dells or glens you wander into. Above all, watch out who you let into your house, no matter what kind of aid or service they offer. You may get something you really desire, but at a price too terrible to consider.

The lessons are just as valid these days, they just need to be applied a little differently.
____________________________________

1The Bridal Wreath, Part 3, Chapter 7

Geographic gods

2011-01-15T12:19:00.001-05:00

Long ago, people entertained the oddest notions about gods. They thought of gods in terms of geographic regions, as if they were tied to or centered around a physical location. The god's power was greatest in his “home” territory, and diminished beyond his boundaries. Physical place, even actual earth, was deemed important to the worship of a god. This explains Naaman's desire to take home with him a couple mule-loads of Israelite dirt (2 Kings 5:17): he wanted to worship Israel's God on Israel's soil, even if that soil had to be taken to the “land” of another god.

It is true that the Israelites also thought this way – after all, God promised them a land of their own, and even set aside a special place within that land, Mount Zion, as the center for His worship. He probably had many reasons for this, one of them being accommodating the preconceived notions of His people, but another thing became more clear as time went by: the God of Israel was truly god of the whole earth, not just the land occupied by Israel. Furthermore, He was no respecter of places when it came to being obeyed. When the Israelites didn't obey His laws, He did not hesitate to deport them from the land, starting with the nation of Israel in the north and ending with Judah in the south. He even gave hints through His prophets that He could be worshiped anywhere on earth, because all lands (and, ultimately, all people) were His.

These days we consider such notions as geographic gods to be quaint and simplistic. As if God had a jurisdiction, like a secular authority, that you could get on a plane and escape! As if the authority and power of God Almighty could be delimited by something as arbitrary as geographic boundaries! We might smile knowingly when we read accounts like Naaman's, thankful that we're sophisticated enough to have moved beyond such elementary views of God's nature.

Or have we?

The older I get, the more I wonder if maybe we post-moderns don't have our own twist on the regional god mentality. Though we may not think in terms of “the god of Oakland County” (or whatever), we nonetheless tend to partition our outlook on the world into “regions”, and behave as if different “gods” reigned over these conceptual regions. For instance, I know businessmen who are Catholic, but whose business practices are indistinguishable from those of their totally worldly colleagues. If you were to ask one of them whether his workplace attitudes conformed to the teachings of his faith, you'd draw a blank look. Teachings of the faith? Those were for Sunday at Mass times – what did they have to do with closing out this month's sales?

See what I mean? Virtual regions – mental areas where people assume other gods have sway. Oh, someone with such an attitude might acknowledge in the abstract that the One True God has authority over everything, but at the day-to-day level, he would behave as if the workplace was controlled by different gods than the one he thought about at Mass on Sunday. He wouldn't call them gods – he'd call them marketing principles, or business precepts, or whatever – but he would certainly consider them to be more influential in his work environment than God Himself. It isn't that he'd think God impotent, it's that he'd consider Him irrelevant.

Here's another one: entertainment. If you were to ask the average person what God thought of what they did to entertain themselves, you'd probably get another blank stare. Why would God care what television shows I watch? Outside of glaring extremes such as pornography (which is increasingly being seen as a matter of taste, not morals,) most people would wonder why you'd mention God and entertainment in the same context. God has no relevance to their entertainment choices – another “region” where other gods hold sway.

You could find plenty more examples: investment, childrearing, education, health and fitness, and so forth. We Westerners tend to have very compartmentalized lives, whether we profess a religious affiliation or not, and over time we tend to see these compartments as being influenced by different forces. This is simply the idea of regional gods in different guise.

This is one thing I think most Evangelicals do better than most Catholics, at least in this day and age: make a conscious, deliberate effort to make Jesus the Lord of every aspect of their lives. This is often presented as a caricature – e.g. the coworker who punctuates every conversation with “Hallelujah!” and “Praise the Lord!” – but the reality is an important one. Certainly we behave differently in the workplace than we do in worship, and differently again at the ball game, but God Almighty is our Lord wherever we are and whatever we're doing. Sure, He's interested in how we comport ourselves at worship, but He's also interested in what influences us as we draw up that contract or make that repair, albeit in different ways. God doesn't recognize any regions over which He has no control, no matter what we think. He will be Lord over every aspect of our lives. We can cooperate with that or not, but there's one thing we can't do: run anywhere, geographically or in our minds, where He is not Lord.

There is no such place.

The Hidden Pharisee

2010-12-31T14:14:00.004-05:00

These days, if you really want to insult someone, call him a Pharisee. That term seems to be a universal negative, carrying all manner of unpleasant connotations: narrow-mindedness, judgementalism, rigidity of thought, hypocrisy. Nearly every vice most condemned by modern culture is encapsulated in that single term. Someone might be willing to recognize many personal failings and shortcomings, but it would be a person of rare honesty and courage who would acknowledge himself a Pharisee. That would be beyond the pale.

And yet... there was one attribute of the Pharisees that is more common than many would recognize: they didn't like to hear that they were sinners. Of course, nobody likes to hear that he is a sinner, but some people have the self-awareness to recognize that truth about themselves.You see this in the 7th Chapter of Luke's Gospel, where Jesus is speaking about John the Baptist. John's ministry was a simple as it was disturbing: to the people of Israel he announced that their long-awaited Messiah was near, even at the door - but first they needed to purify themselves. The baptism of John drew its roots from the ritual washings of the Mosaic law, which was the final step in resolving ritual uncleanness. John offered his baptism to people who recognized their uncleanness, their unworthiness to receive a Messiah, and to those who accepted it and made the life changes that repentance implied (see Luke 3:8), the promise of cleanliness.

The most surprising people took John up on this offer. As we see in Luke 7:29, folk such as the hated Quisling collaborator tax collectors welcomed John's message and received his baptism. But it's interesting to note who didn't: the Pharisees and experts in the law (7:30). They didn't want to acknowledge that they were sinners who needed cleansing. They thought their behaviour above reproach, in fact, even commendable by God (Luke 18:10-14). Though any one of them might be willing to acknowledge his sins in the generic ("Well, of course, nobody's perfect"), when push came to shove, they didn't want to hear that they were sinners.

Does this remind you of anyone else? Like, perhaps, our entire society? Nobody wants to hear of their own sins. Most people would describe themselves with the phrase, "I'm a good person." Even the lightest hint of accusation of a specific sin typically unleashes a torrent of denial and self-justification. Even the suggestion of things like penitential seasons, or self-accusation, causes all kinds of concern about "being negative" and driving people away with a "Gospel of Gloom".

In this regard we're very Pharisaical. They didn't want to hear they were sinners; neither do we. They broke their arms patting themselves on the back about how assiduously they followed Torah; we spend a lot of time telling each other that we're basically Good People who have nothing to worry about. The Pharisees not only didn't want to hear that they had sins they needed to repent of, they were gravely offended by anyone who suggested any such thing. From what I can see, we suffer from the same problem.

So, perhaps, we're a lot closer to being Pharisees than we wish to believe. After all, if we can harbor one such significant attribute of Phariseeism, what else might mark our lives?

The pilgrimage of Advent

2010-12-06T09:45:00.002-05:00

Celebrating Advent makes no sense to the modern Western mind. With Christmas approaching, with all the arrangements to be made and things to be done, it seems the last thing that one should do is take time to be quiet, to retire, to be still and wait. How unproductive is that? It makes no sense to our mechanistic mentality, with its focus on the bottom line and the return on investment. What's the tangible benefit of this squandering of resources, of this apparent idleness, when there's so much that could be done? Is this the most productive use of our time?

In a few days the film production of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader will hit the theaters. This is a film of one of my favorite stories from the Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis' classic set of tales for children of all ages. In Dawn Treader, the young King Caspian sets forth from Narnia on a voyage through the Eastern sea. His stated goal is to learn what happened to seven Narnian lords, partisans of his father's, who had been sent on a voyage by his usurping uncle Miraz to get them out of the way. But one of his crew, the valiant talking mouse Reepicheep, hopes for even more. It is his dream to travel as far east as possible, even coming to Aslan's Country beyond the edge of the world (one can do this sort of thing in Narnia.)

The voyage of the Dawn Treader is a classic pilgrimage - a journey of struggle and difficulty toward an altruistic or spiritual goal. Pilgrimages have fallen greatly out of favor these days, primarily due to their low return on investment. Pilgrims carry no cargo, nor do they do business along the way. The usefulness of pilgrimages is opaque to the economic thinker because the reason for pilgrimage is that the pilgrim be changed by the journey. To the economic thinker, the participant is always the subject, the economic agent; that upon which he acts is the object of production. The pilgrim understands himself as the object, to be changed by what he encounters along the way. While the economic agent seeks to do profitable work, the pilgrim seeks to be worked upon.

And so it proves for the voyagers aboard the Dawn Treader: they encounter many things, some of them beautiful and some quite difficult. They learn things about themselves and each other, and grow in the process. The further they travel, the more they see the hidden hand of Aslan behind their travels, and have to submit to His sometimes painful ministrations as they go. It is not a journey of conquest, or exploration for economic advantage, but of discovery for discovery's sake - which in turn implies trusting Someone greater than themselves. Terrible and tragic things could (and almost do) happen to them, yet they continue onward, trusting that they will be rewarded. And their trust proves firm, for the One in whom they trust is faithful. They end their voyage as different people than they were.

Advent can be a pilgrimage, for even if we don't travel anywhere, we can surrender our time to Him, and "travel" in prayer and solitude toward Bethlehem. We can be downright profligate with our precious time, and squander our attention and our effort, to bring ourselves to the side of the Manger. We can be still, and give the Infant permission to change us to be like Him in humility and trust. We have to be ready to accept that change, to permit ourselves to be made into different people.

For in the end, Advent is about trust. We humans with our economic outlook geared toward optimizing the use of scarce resources have to entrust ourselves to Someone whose resources are infinite. We have to give our time to Him, to sacrifice our urgings to Do Something while we wait for Him to do what He will in us. We probably won't see the resources He brings to bear. We aren't comfortable the idea that He's as likely to do something to us as through us, for while we may acknowledge at the intellectual level our need to change, we don't like those great Hands descending to reshape us. It hurts our pride at least, and probably much more. We resist being changed. If there is reinventing to be done, we want to be the ones do to it to ourselves - with all angles examined and all ramifications considered. But with the most critical changes we need, we have no more power to change ourselves than we have to lift ourselves by our own hair - or the boy Eustace had to remove his own dragon skin in Dawn Treader.

For those familiar with the story, that is an excellent image for Advent. We need to be un-dragoned, to have our sinful dragonish nature ripped off us by Aslan's claws. We may try a few times on our own, but the result will always be futility. We may be able to scrape off a few externals, but we'll still be dragons beneath. We can't rip ourselves as deeply as we need for the surgery to succeed. We need to stop trying, lie down, and let Him do what He wishes.

The question is: will we have the courage to do that? Or will we find something else to distract us? After all, Christmas is coming...

The Light of the World

2010-12-02T10:36:00.003-05:00

We moderns routinely hear Biblical metaphors like “Light of the World” and “True Light of every man”. While we might appreciate their poetic value, I think much of their meaning is lost to us because in our day, light is cheap. The introduction of widespread artificial lighting through the 20^th century marked a significant change in human civilization. Certainly there have always been some forms of artificial light, but they were cumbersome, relatively expensive, and nowhere near as efficient as electrical light. Thanks to electricity, we weren't bound by darkness any more – with the flick of a switch, we could have all the light we needed. This in turn “freed” us from the natural timetable of the days and seasons, and even nature herself. No longer were our working hours set by light from the sun. Even our architecture has come to reflect this independence from natural – and hence dependence upon artificial – lighting.

Because we take light for granted, admonitions like St. Peter's in 2 Peter 1:19 (“and you will be right to pay attention to [the message] as to a lamp for lighting a way through the dark, until the dawn comes and the morning star rises in your minds”) lose some of their impact. A people who have never walked in great darkness cannot appreciate the importance of a great light. We might apprehend it intellectually, and perhaps appreciate it poetically. But the instinctive import, the gut-level impact, will not reach a people who have all the light they wish literally at their fingertips.

But even artificial light has value in this framework. As the natural light is a metaphor for the truth of God's Revelation shedding light into the darkness of our sin and rebellion, artificial light could be understood as man trying to self-illuminate our condition by our own wisdom and efforts. For what have the last several centuries of Western civilization been but our attempts to determine our own destinies by theories and principles that we invented according to our own wisdom? We would turn from the natural moral “light” of Revelation so we can have “light” of our own making.

Why do this? Well, one reason might be something that man-made morality shares with man-made light: it functions at our discretion. Artificial light burns when, where, and to the degree we wish. If there's something we don't wish to look upon, we don't illuminate it; if there's something we wish to accentuate, we illuminate it more. In like manner, the morality of man can be very selective. We might decry treatment of a preferred minority, such as the residents of Darfur or AIDS victims, but inconvenient minorities such as the unborn or severely handicapped are tucked away in a dark corner.

Sunlight is indiscriminate – it illuminates everything, the pleasant and unpleasant alike. “Nothing is hidden from its burning heat” (Ps 19:6) There's no ignoring things illuminated by sunlight. I got a little lesson in this just today. I'm currently alone in the house, and since tidying up after the Thanksgiving weekend, the place seems fairly clean – or so it appeared just this morning by light of all the lamps. But when the morning sunlight shone through the east window, it starkly illuminated the dust and dirt on what had seemed to be a clean floor. What by artificial light had seemed acceptable, even laudable, was shown by natural light to be woefully inadequate.

Darkness is one of the themes of Advent. We need to be reminded of our selfishness and pride. While the world would have us raising toasts and celebrating bonhomie and good will, the Church urges us to confront the darkness of sin in the world and in our hearts. Let's dwell here a while. Let's resist the urge to turn on the “artificial light” of self-reassurance and self-consolation. Let's acknowledge what is wrong with us, that we too often allow darkness in our lives by only illuminating that which we wish to see. Let's face this darkness squarely, that we might will to accept the Light when He comes.

“In the tender compassion of our God, the Dawn from on High shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness, and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” (Luke 1:78,79)

A Greater Economy

2010-11-11T19:50:00.002-05:00

One of my daughters lives in an upscale suburb of Washington, D.C. She enjoys a spacious home in a lovely neighbourhood, gets a carpool ride in to work most days and on the days her fellow rider is away, she often gets to drive the car herself. She's very well situated, given her entry-level clerical position that is only intended to last a year or two before she heads off to graduate school – especially compared to the cramped apartment in a seedy neighbourhood that she thought she thought would be her lot when she accepted the job.

The best part about this arrangement is that it costs her nothing. Her lodging, transport, and even board is free. She is able to put away most of her meagre salary against grad school expenses, because her hosts will accept no payment for having her.

By now, you're probably beginning to wonder how on earth she rates such a plush arrangement. What has she done to earn such rich benefits, when so many others are scraping to even get by, especially as young college graduates?

Well, she's done nothing to earn it. It's all gift. She's living with a family who are dear friends with my eldest daughter. The husband works for a D.C. law firm and the wife was once legal counsel to a prominent U.S. senator until she resigned for the nobler and more demanding calling of motherhood. They have a toddler who is a handful, as toddlers tend to be. When they heard my daughter had gotten a summer internship in D.C., they insisted she live with them, and when she got a job at the end of the internship, they insisted she stay on.

I call these kind of arrangements “mutual high-leverage” – i.e. one where a relatively small contribution by one party provides tremendous benefit for the other. The family already has the home with plenty of room, so one more occupant is little strain. He's already driving in to work and her office is just a few blocks away. The family is actually saving money on food because my daughter's help with cooking, or tending the toddler so mom can cook, means they don't eat out as much.

In return for what is for them a very small sacrifice, they get experienced and enthusiastic help around the house – something every couple with a young child can use. My daughter is also delightful company for the couple. But probably most important is her loving presence for their little son. This is no strain – for her, loving children just “comes natural” – but it's an immeasurable benefit for the family.

This wonderful and mutually beneficial arrangement got me thinking along economic terms. Many have thought and said much about the market value of things, even to the point of contending that the only value of a thing is the price it can command on the open market. Some even hold that unfettered market transactions are the summum bonum of human existence, and that all human efforts not only can but should be valued this way.

But a market transaction – payment for goods and services – is at the root an expression of simple justice. Insuring someone gets proper recompense for their labor is only fair. To offer less is to descend into slavery and exploitation. But we need to remember that justice is a minimum standard. We dare not give less than justice, but there are greater things. One of these is charity – agapé love, to use the Scriptural term. There is no buying charity, no talk of its market value. It is pure gift or it is nothing.

If we think about it, it is the most valuable things in life that lie in this realm. I write this on Veteran's Day, when we remember those who sacrificed their freedom to preserve ours. Oh, sure, they got paid, but nothing approaching the value of what they willingly offered when they raised their right hand and took that oath. What they risked and sacrificed was pure gift to the rest of us. Another example is marriage. The mutual gift of self that should lie at the heart of the marriage covenant is of such high value that it seems repulsive to even consider market transactions in the same context (this is one reason why prostitution is always wrong – it takes a human interaction that should be pure gift of charity and reduces it to a market transaction.)

Gifts of charity are always greater things than market transactions. When my daughter moved in with this family, she offered to pay what rent she could for the benefit of living there. The husband literally laughed. He assured her that every penny of her salary could barely make a dent in the mortgage payment for the house, and while that was true, I'm sure that was mostly a façade. They wanted to give her the gift of caring for her, helping her get on her feet. In like manner, were they to offer her payment for the help around the house or child care, she'd laugh right back at them. It's all gift.

Their relationship lies above the realm of market transactions. The charity the family is extending to my daughter is making a huge difference in her present and future life. And the love she is pouring into their young son's life could not be purchased on any market at any price. She's like an aunt to him, and her influence will help him all his life.

It's all gift. That's the kind of life the Lord wants us to live. That's the Kingdom we're supposed to be bringing to earth while we wait our King's return. Would that we had the courage to live it more fully, more often – to give and receive the gift we should be to one another.

The Broken Heart

2010-10-29T22:09:00.001-04:00

I'm not a big one on hanging onto childhood art projects. Don't get me wrong – I loved looking over projects brought home from school, but multiply six kids by at least six productive project-years each by forty weeks per year by one project per week, and the volume gets overwhelming. Add to that the ad-hoc kitchen table projects that occur throughout a creative childhood, and you've got the potential for construction-paper-and-Elmer's-glue overload. So, outside of a handful of projects that go up every Christmas season, our unwritten policy was to quietly and tactfully broom the artwork once interest faded.

With one exception.

It's sitting on my dresser in a 5x7 picture frame, and it has an interesting history. I think it was about Valentine's day, and one of my daughters set out to make a card for me to express her love. She got off to a good start, but muffed part of it along the way. Disappointed and discouraged that she'd “ruined” her card for me, she was about to throw it away when Ellen stopped her. Knowing that fathers have different standards for such things, Ellen assured my daughter that even a flawed card would be appreciated. So it was saved from the trash, and presented to me, and I'm sure at the time I gave it the usual “that's lovely, sweetheart” before tucking it in my drawer.

Some time later I came across the card while I was having a tidy fit over my cluttered dresser. Recognizing it as a childhood art project and wondering why I'd hung on to that one, I was about to pitch it when Ellen stopped me. She told me of my daughter's work to make it, of her crushing disappointment at “ruining” it, and how she'd been encouraged to present it anyway. Hearing that, I looked at the card in a new light. This was a hand made expression of love to me from one of my darling children, and in a way stood for all the birthday and Father's Day and Christmas and whatever cards they'd all made for me over the over the years that we simply hadn't been able to keep. It wasn't perfect, but it was all the more charming for that. A purchased card, no matter how elaborate and eloquent, couldn't have begun to touch the simple expression of love that the smeared paint represented. I decided that this one I'd keep, and found a frame for it. Now it sits on my dresser, where I can see it every morning as I get ready for the day. Over the years of mishaps the glass has cracked, but the frame still perches there, holding the card. And as I've been reminded every morning of my children's love for me, a deeper meaning has become more apparent.

We adults think we can do so much for God. In fact, we're so great that sometimes we wonder how He'd get along without us. But the truth is that we can't bring anything before Him but our own weakness and humility – our broken hearts. That's what He really wants of us, and that's all we can bring. Of course, we don't want to bring them, because they're smeared and smudged and imperfect and not at all as good as He deserves. But that's what He wants, because it's the intention behind the smeared and damaged work that interests Him.

Yet how often do we keep away from Him, not wanting to draw near because the project that is our life isn't ready yet? We keep Him waiting for us while we take another stab at it, because this time we're sure to get it right. We can't conceive of a love so deep that even our failures are precious to Him if we bring them in love. We scramble and scurry and hang back because He's so important that we want everything to be perfect for Him – even though He's assured us that we'll never be perfect, but that's okay, because He loves us and treasures even the smallest, most damaged things we do for Him.

It's a lesson I'm still learning. As a reminder, I keep on my dresser a Broken Heart that was given to me by one of my precious children. It isn't perfect, or expensive, or even impressive art. But I treasure it because it is a gift of love. I try to let it remind me that my Heavenly Father wants my imperfection, and my poverty, and my emptiness. He wants my heart, even though it's broken. That's the only treasure I can give Him.

A matter of perspective

2010-10-14T21:01:00.005-04:00

With the rest of the world, I anxiously watched the situation of the Chilean miners over the past couple months. I was amazed that they not only survived the collapse but were in circumstances where they could stay alive until help arrived. I monitored the progress of the rescue effort, half expecting to hear at any time that some obstacle had hindered or stopped progress. I could hardly believe it when the drillers finally punched through, and was overjoyed that all the miners were rescued safely.

I found myself wondering what it must have been like for the miners trapped miles beneath the surface, their lives in the hands of the rescue workers as they worked against terrible odds to get through. I can only imagine how ecstatic they must have been to see that shaft, and the promise of life that the rescue capsule represented.

One thing I'm certain didn't happen when the drill broke through: none of the miners said, "That shaft is all very well, but it's not quite to my taste. Let's wait a bit, and maybe look around - I'm sure we can find another way out of here." I'm also confident that nobody looked at the rescue capsule and said, "Fitting into that thing is going to be uncomfortable. I imagine they'll want me to hold my arms close to my side, or stand very still, or something. And look how small it is! Imagine squeezing into that for the long time it'll take to be hauled to the surface! No, thanks." Given the entombment they'd suffered for two months, they were hardly going to complain about the path back to life provided for them. They harbored no illusions about how desperate their situation was. I imagine a golden chariot wouldn't have looked as good as that cramped, rusty rescue capsule, and the minor inconveniences of using it wouldn't have been worth considering in comparison to the hope that it offered.

In our parish Bible study, we've been working through the Gospel of St. Luke. One thing that's struck me this time through has been how firmly Jesus tries to get His listeners to look at their lives and circumstances differently. "You think you want an honored position, so you elbow your way closer to the head table? That's a path to humiliation; think about taking the lower place and waiting for your Host to honor you." "You think you have to scrabble and scramble for the basics of life? You're forgetting your Father in heaven, who clothes the grass and feeds the birds. Be about His business, and trust Him to care for you." Much of what Jesus is trying to get across seems to involve not so much learning a lesson as changing our perspective, and looking at things as God looks at them.

Which got me thinking about the miners and the rescue effort, and how that in some ways represents our condition. It's easy for us in the peaceful, affluent West to be deluded about our true circumstances. Because our bodies are safe and our minds engaged, or at least amused, we think we're in pretty good shape. We harbor a lot of illusions about our condition.

But if Christ is to be believed, our situation is much more desperate. In our sinful condition, we're just like those miners trapped thousands of feet beneath the surface. We're cut off from the Light of God and the life with Him that we were made for. Being entombed alive is a good image, because that's exactly what we are: walking dead men. We're still animate and active for a while, but it's only a matter of time before our brief, miserable lives come to an end, and we're as dead as the rocks around us.

But just as the miners had people on the surface working to save them, we sinful ones had a loving God working for us. His rescue shaft is Jesus Christ, promised through the ages and finally breaking through at the Incarnation. His escape capsule is His Church, and the means of grace which He has provided for us. There is One Way out of our desperate predicament, a Way that has been provided by heroic effort and at terrible cost. Against all odds, a path has been opened from our tomb back to Life and Light, and a way to travel that path has been given us.

Yet how often do we scorn this Way, and the means that have been provided for our rescue? "Jesus? But are there not surely several ways to God?" "The Church, with all those burdensome rules and formalities? I don't think those necessary to draw close to God."

It's all about perspective. As beautiful as this life can be, and as wondrous as the Creation is, we need to take our predicament seriously. We live in the shadow of death. Sin is serious, and the possibility of damnation all too real. If we're not careful, we might be trapped in this mine forever. Yes, our God is a loving God - which is why we need to take His plan of salvation seriously. The shaft is drilled and the capsule is ready. It's no good continuing to poke about in the dark to find another exit that better suits our fancies. It's futile to hang back because we don't like the look of the capsule, or the procedures for using it. We need to believe what Jesus tells us about our condition, and do what He says for getting out of it. We need to help our fellow "trapped miners" to understand that we really are in a dark, dingy hole, and that we need to escape or we'll die down here.

The Chilean mine collapse gave us just a glimpse of heaven's perspective on our human condition. We were watching from "upstairs", hoping that the efforts would be successful, anxious until every trapped miner was safely rescued. Right now, the saints and angels await our decision. Will we climb in the capsule and be lifted to safety? Or will we hang back, thinking the dark hole is normal and hoping for a better deal?

It's all in how we choose look at things, and Who we choose to believe.

Institutional Thinking

2010-09-22T20:08:00.002-04:00

Our culture seems enamored of the achievements of youth. We see them hailed in newspaper articles and human interest featurettes, written up everywhere from websites to snack food bags. The basic framework of the story is fairly standard, with particulars mutable: some young man or woman sees or experiences a medical tragedy, or a community problem, or some other lamentable circumstance, and decides to Take Action. The Action taken might be raising funds, or directly assisting, or making some personal heroic effort (though it inevitably involves that most precious of modern activities: Raising Awareness.)

These Actions are lauded, since everyone agrees that Young People should be encouraged to do Good Things, but I've noticed that the actions by themselves are never enough. What garners most applause and attention is that the young person starts some group, or foundation, or initiative through which the Good Things take place. So it's not enough that young Johnny Smith wanted to help poor downtown youth so he went down and organized a weekend basketball tournament. What really matters is that Johnny founded the Poor Downtown Youths Basketball Organization to organize tournaments. Questions of how many others are involved with the PDYBO, or how effective its efforts are in addressing the problems of PDYs, are secondary to the fact that the organization was started, and its intentions were Very Good.

I've pondered this phenomenon and what it says about our day and age. To begin with, I'm sure I'm not the only one who wonders how long these organizations survive the departure or loss of interest of their founders. But to me the question of enduring effectiveness is less interesting than that of the initial interest, indeed almost obsession, with the founding of organizations. This seems to say much about where we place our trust these days.

It wasn't all that long ago that heroic people were held up for emulation. Young people were told of athletes or pioneers or scientists or whoever that accomplished notable feats. The young were assured that they, too, could attain greatness with enough effort, learning, courage, or whatever. But now that seems passé. In our time, The Hero seems to be mistrusted, almost deprecated. People are not to be trusted, for they will inevitably fail in some way.

In what, then, should we trust? The ready answer offered by our culture seems to be The Institution. Institutions are the essential entities, so it is the founding of them which is the Best Thing. Regardless of how compassionate Johnny might be, or how motivated he might be to help, that won't really matter until Johnny subordinates his compassion and motivation to an institution, with its boards and bylaws and policies. Only then will Johnny have done something truly notable.

Of course this is pure folly. Anyone with a shred of life experience knows that any institution is only as good as the people running it. At best an institution is a formalized wrapper to focus and coordinate the efforts of individuals. Why would anyone consider the wrapper more important than the contents?

I think part of it springs from the "leveling" mindset which C.S. Lewis describes so well in works such as Screwtape Proposes a Toast. Heroes are not just suspect because they might have feet of clay, but also (and probably primarily) because they show up everyone else. They are to be torn down, or encouraged to tear themselves down, in favor of impersonal entities which are nonthreatening and, above all, Fair.

While that's part of the answer, I think there's more. Another aspect seems to be the inversion of thinking expected from a materialistic culture. Again, Lewis - drawing on others - observed that the materialist sees the individual as the temporary and transient thing, while governments, corporations, and other institutions are more enduring. Those trusting God's revelation understand that everything of this world will pass away while human souls endure eternally.

While these are certainly major factors, I'm coming to believe that there's yet another motive behind this cultural attitude - a motive so subtle as to pass nearly unnoticed but more sinister than any. It is the oldest and most tempting of perversions: that of bowing down before the works of our own hands. Yes, the same phenomenon so wickedly denounced in the Bible - idolatry. But as Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger pointed out in his book Introduction to Christianity, since the Incarnation the temptation to idolatry seems to have turned away from that of physical images such as described in Isaiah 44 and Wisdom 13 and more toward the worship of ideas. This can be seen from the heresies that threatened early Christianity to the varied forms of statism that plague modern times. The core is the same: man subjugating himself to something he has created, either a work of the hand or of the mind.

Small wonder the Hero himself is set aside in favor of the institution, to the point where the founding of the institution becomes the truly heroic work. In our hearts, we know that to honor a man is to honor something that was made by God. To make it worse, truly heroic men have this irritating habit of deprecating themselves, instead thanking all those who assisted and encouraged them, giving credit to other people, and even (gasp!) God Himself. It is far less embarrassing and humbling to honor an institution, and its founders indirectly through that.

Does this mean that to recognize Johnny and the PYDBO is to commit idolatry? Of course not - but I do think the obsession with the founding of organizations reflects an interesting and disturbing change in our mindset. To me, this change seems to have largely happened during my lifetime, which makes me wonder where things will go in the next 50 years.

Wisdom from two fathers

2010-08-11T09:45:00.000-04:00

My father taught me many good things, but one of the most valuable was the day he sat me down and explained that he wasn't really my father.

He was just my biological father, he explained, and that didn't count for much. My real Father was my Father in Heaven, and it was His love that gave the life that really mattered. The biological life my earthly father gave me would run out in at most 80 or 90 years, possibly much less, while the life that my Heavenly Father could bestow would last forever. My Heavenly Father was the source and supply of all good things in my life, and the most loving thing my earthly father could do was put me in touch with my Heavenly Father.

(For the record, my mother totally agreed with this, and reinforced what my father said.)

This is a lesson I remembered, and passed along to my children in turn. And helpful as the lesson was to me when I was young (once I eventually learned it), the it was even more helpful when I had children of my own. It helped me keep my task in perspective: my role as father was important, but ultimately I was merely their earthly father, and the most important thing I could do was put my children in touch with their heavenly father.

Another bit of fatherly advice I got was from a kind evangelical gentleman with whom I became acquainted toward the end of my Coast Guard years. I hung out with his two sons, so he sort of took me under his fatherly wing. One time he was talking about principles that guided his raising of his sons, and I've never forgotten it.

He told me that when he had to discipline his sons, especially as they approached adulthood, he made clear to them that they were only under his authority for a short period. As their earthly father he had responsibility for them for a while, but in time they would pass out from under his authority and be directly responsible to their Heavenly Father. His tutelage over them was like "training wheels", to get them accustomed to fatherly discipline, but the day would come when it would end.

Because of this, his discipline was not arbitrary: he didn't just order them to do this or not do that because of what he felt like, but because he wanted them to get used to being responsible to their Real Father. He also made clear that even just because he, the father, didn't have an earthly father ordering him around, that didn't mean that he could just do as he pleased - he was directly responsible to his Heavenly Father, as his sons soon would be.

This helped me clarify my task as a parent. When we have children under our control, it can be very tempting to exercise power arbitrarily. Raising children is troublesome, and sometimes the easiest immediate path is to say "no". Also, life can be difficult and even abusive, and it's tempting to lash out in frustration. Since we can't lash out at our boss or the grocery store clerk, we're tempted to lash out at those over whom we have power: our children. Whenever those responses tempted me, I remembered my friend's lesson that his fatherly authority was not arbitrary, but entrusted to him by Someone Else, to whom he would be responsible for its use. It was useful ballast to keep in mind that my parental authority was temporary and provisional, and the goal of its exercise was to get my children to a point where they could step out from beneath it and be directly responsible to their Real Father.

I'm immensely grateful for the wisdom of the fathers in my life, both my biological father and my fathers in the Church. Their advice helped me, and I only hope it helps others.

A part of me I don't like

2010-06-27T20:36:00.002-04:00

I've never thought of myself as covetous person. I've been aware of my struggles with sins "further up the list" - especially in light of Jesus' warning in Matt 5:21-32 - but coveting? I knew the commandment was there, but never thought it applied much to me.

Then again, I suppose fish don't know they're wet.

I've been getting a lesson recently in my own pettiness and covetousness thanks to reconnecting with a high school friend through a social networking site. We don't interact much, but she uses her presence there mostly as a personal blog, with lengthy posts about her life and circumstances. Through these posts I learned that shortly after high school she married a man who worked for an auto company. They raised three children, and he is now retired.

RETIRED?

I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to pay for next month. I have a paltry retirement fund into which I haven't been able to put a cent in over two years. I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to retire, and here one of my high school classmates ALREADY IS! On top of that, one of the hobbies she and her husband enjoy is taking cruises. That's right - cruises on liners to places like the Caribbean and Alaska and Spain. They do at least two of these a year, and sometimes more if they catch a good deal. I've never been on a cruise, and consider myself lucky if someone asks me out for a ride on their boat.

How does she rate? That's what the covetous part of me growls - that covetous part that I wasn't aware of.

Of course, her posts also intimate that she has experienced a good deal of relational turmoil in her life. She's still happily married, but apparently there have been problems with the children, and painful rifts with siblings and cousins.

Ahh, so that's it! She might be retired and enjoying ocean cruises, but she's paying for it with relational pain of the sort I haven't had! At least that's how the covetous Roger reasons, with an outlook that would do credit to an author of Greek tragedies. The great cosmic pan-scales will be balanced, so though she's retired while I have to work for the living into the foreseeable future, she's having to PAY for that!

Pretty ugly stuff, eh?

Of course, I don't really wish any of that on her. She's an old friend and sister in Christ, and I pray that her family relationships heal and bring her no more pain. What I really want, when I give the Redeemed Roger a chance, is that she enjoy the blessings of the life God has for her - the retirement, the cruises, the seemingly good relationship with her husband, and God's grace in the places which aren't what they should be. I don't want her to suffer as some kind of metaphysical payment for marrying a guy who got a retirement package.

So I guess I'm not as free from covetousness as I thought. In fact, it seems I'm shot through with it, waiting just below the surface, waiting to emerge in the proper circumstances. I covet her early retirement and ocean cruises, and it's astonishing how quickly that covetousness eclipses all the blessings God has given me. When I'm coveting, I don't think about the wonderful Stratford weeks that God has given us, or the generosity of friends, or the blessing of our children. I don't even think about the blessings in Heaven that I consciously and deliberately chose to build up, over blessings on this earth. I just think about what I don't have. And the next step beyond that is envy - the part that would gloat if she had to post "my husband's retirement has been impacted by changes in the auto industry, and it looks like he'll have to go back to work." It shames me to admit that there is part of me that would be gratified to see that.

Clearly, I need a lot more work. I don't want those covetous and envious parts. I want all of me to be generous and rejoicing when good happens to others. How can I reflect Christ to the world if I'm full of covetousness and envy?

A different Father's Day post

2010-06-22T20:48:00.011-04:00

Many people have written thoughtful pieces on Father's Day, mostly in praise of fathers (understandably). I'd like to write one from a slightly different angle. (I have an excuse for being a couple days late for this - I was out of state for a wedding over Father's Day weekend, and only returned to my computer today.)

As a father, I'd like to express my appreciation for my children. Father's Day is usually when children express appreciation for the guidance and counsel of their fathers. This is appropriate, but I also want to take a minute to express how much I appreciate my children: their character and integrity, and the soundness of the choices they've made. If I deserve any credit for raising them well, then they deserve at least as much credit for letting themselves be raised, and for making good choices in the long haul of their lives. They are all now adults, and I'm proud of them all.

Since correction is part of parenthood, especially fatherhood, parents can be prone to focus on the shortcomings of their children. They are (or should be) naturally attuned to when they make poor choices, in order to guide them in the right direction. I know full well that my children made some poor choices while growing up, sometimes directly contrary to instructions and advice meant to head off just those choices. But here's the important thing: they didn't make many poor choices, and they didn't keep making them. They learned from them, and corrected their choices to be ones that honoured God, themselves, and their fellow men. And that's what really mattered: the choices they made once they'd left home.

Some years ago, in the midst of trying to teach my children important life lessons, it was very liberating for me to realize that it didn't really matter how poorly my children learned them while they lived at home. The important thing was that they remembered the lessons once they left. Sure, it could be trying if they didn't learn earlier, but the critical goal was prepare them for what happened when they walked out the door. Fortunately, I had a handy example of someone who "learned late": myself. My father and mother tried to teach me a lot of things while I still lived at home, but I wasn't learning. When I got out into the real world, I remembered very quickly, and then I was extremely glad that they'd been so persistent. My children were wiser than I, and mostly made good choices even while they lived at home. By the time they reached adulthood, I can say without reservation that they've made choices that have made me proud to be their father.

So here's my Father's Day meditation: I have wonderful children who have made good choices. Sure, sound parenting has its place, but lots of better parents than I have had children who have turned away and chosen folly. If I deserve credit for my work in raising my children, they deserve at least as much credit for making good choices in life. God bless you, my precious children. I'm so proud of you.

The unexpected messenger

2010-04-20T21:00:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking a lot recently about the Church. My thoughts weren't engendered by the media-fanned abuse scandal that flared up just before Holy Week, but those events played into my train of thought.

I wasn't thinking about the Church as an institution, or as a social phenomenon, or even as a spiritual entity. We take the Church for granted, assuming its presence and going on from there. But my recent Scripture study and meditation have had me considering the question at a more fundamental level: specifically, why would God entrust such a vital thing as His entire plan of salvation to such frail and untrustworthy messengers? Why did He involve the Church at all? From a purely practical standpoint, wouldn't angels have been at least more reliable messengers?

To the modern skeptic, and certain Christians, the answer seems obvious: God didn't. The Church is a man-made institution, constructed to exert political power and best understood when viewed through that lens. Many interpretations of history presume that understanding. But over against that are Jesus' words: "Whoever listens to you listens to me, and whoever rejects you rejects me, and whoever rejects me rejects the one who sent me." (Luke 10:16), or "Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you." (Matt 28:19,20a) The connection between the Lord's message and the messengers is clear, firm, and even frightening.

To those with a more modern humanist outlook, the answer also seems obvious: we're such Wonderful People, why wouldn't God choose us? But all anyone has to do is look at themselves realistically to see the folly of this. We may bear the image of God even after the Fall, and still be loved by Him, but that's despite what we are, not because of it. Sober self-examination of our own behaviour, especially under difficult life circumstances, betrays the truth: within each of us lies the potential to do horrible, despicable things, and usually it doesn't take much to bring that part of us to the surface. We don't have to go reaching for tyrants or sadists to use as examples. An honest evaluation of our own hearts will reveal that we are the most faulty and unreliable of materials for anyone to build with.

That being the case, why would God choose to build His Church with us? With salvation and damnation of eternal souls at stake, one would think He'd want a more secure foundation. Yet He does choose us, and the more I ponder it the more mysterious it seems. I know there are plenty of glib answers to this, and all of them contain some truth, but to me it seems a deep mystery.

One aspect I'm pondering that I've never considered before: I wonder if part of this has to do with humility? Pride is our deepest sin, our greatest enemy, and the surest path to hell - and we've all got far too much of it. I can't help but wonder if having salvation ministered to us by means of other weak, sinful humans isn't the first dose of the "humility prescription" which we all need. After all, wouldn't it be a nice salve to our vanity if we were all knocked to the ground, Damascus-road style? Or at least had the message of salvation delivered by a noble and impressive messenger? (It's worth noting that two of the most prominent and dangerous heresies of our time, Mormonism and Islam, were both started by men who claimed to receive revelation directly from angels.)

I know this urge from my own experience. I know of two parishes: at one, the pastor is devout, inspiring, liturgically careful, and even funny. I love going to his Masses, because I feel uplifted and blessed. At the other parish, one of the assistant priests is rambling, repetitive, sloppy with the liturgy, and forgetful. I tend to heave a little sigh when I see him processing in as celebrant. I'd much rather be ministered to by the first priest. I feel like I deserve better than what the assistant priest provides - and therein lie the problem.

What I deserve from God is damnation. That's what my actions and attitudes have earned me. His saving grace is a free gift, and I should be thankful to get it on any terms. If I have even a shred of humility, I'll thank God for the gift of Himself which comes through the hands of that assistant priest. If I have more, I'll pray for him. A bit more humility, and I'll be rejoicing in that servant of God and appreciating him, quirks and all.

I know someone who is filled with sputtering indignation at the Church, dogmatically proclaiming that the bishops forfeited all claim to moral authority when any of them allowed any sexual abuse to continue under their leadership. Leaving aside sacramental theology of how it's always Christ who administers grace, or the question of balancing the good done by Church members against the evil done by them, the thing that strikes me most about this person's blanket indictment of the Church is the inherent pride. What he is saying is: "I will not be served by such as those! I deserve better!" And though it's sure that all of us who minister in Christ's name should seek to live in such a way to bring honor to the noble message we bear, it's also certain that being who we are, we will fail in that trust at some point. I wonder what this person would say if the Lord were to reply to him, "Those are the ministers I have sent to you. You take My saving grace from them, or from nobody." Would he be too proud to accept it?

And, perhaps, might that be the very strategy?

No going back

2010-04-12T19:51:00.002-04:00

Well, our good old house on Scott Avenue was finally demolished. It happened on Holy Thursday - April 1st, 2010. The poor place had been empty since we moved out on December 19th, 2009, and had been looking more and more derelict with each passing week. First the scavengers hit it for what they could, and then the state-contracted salvage crews moved in and took everything of value. We'd drive by it once in a while, maybe every couple of weeks, just to have a look and see if there was any progress. I knew the end was near when I saw the windows had been removed (only the newer vinyl ones, though) - that was always a sign that the cranes would be moving in any day.

The last time I drove by, when I saw the windows were out, I stopped and walked around the old place one last time. The siding had been stripped, leaving the charcoal gray asphalt shingles that had lay under the siding. The rooms were open to the elements, window frames gaping holes and the back door missing. Even the lovely deck had been sawn off and taken away. I resisted the temptation to walk up the outside steps and enter by the upper back door for a last walk-through, reasoning that it might be unsafe with the house in the condition it was in. I did peek in one of the ground floor windows into what had once been a bedroom, in which the kids had slept and played, and the ordinary days of ordinary life had unfolded in that good old house. I felt a pang of loss then, a bit of the nostalgia that I'd been expecting much more of much sooner.

Perhaps expectably, along with it came flitting through my head something that hadn't even enough coherence to be called a thought -- an imaginative impulse, if you will. It cried as it passed, "Wait! We could still do something! We could... we could make some arrangements with the state, and get the house back, and fix all this up, and move back in, and live here again! This could be home once more!" The impulse turned my head, but only for a moment, before I shook myself and turned away, returning to the car to drive back to the lovely new home which was a gift from God and our children. But I thought as I drove, and I've been thinking ever since: from what part of me did that impulse come, and what does it say about me?

Needless to say, such an impulse hadn't the slightest connection to any kind of reality, but it's easy to understand why it would occur. After all, the house had been our home for over two decades, and we'd lived a lot of life within those walls. It's only reasonable to expect an emotional tie to the place, and the accompanying urges to preserve it, no matter how irrational. But the extremity of the circumstances, and resulting absurdity of the impulse, got me wondering: are there other things in this life which I cling to long after I should be letting them go?

One of the clearest things Jesus has to say is that this life is transient, full of temporary goods, and we shouldn't let things here distract us from the greater and more permanent goods of heaven. In a way, our lives on this earth, in which we invest so much, are like our family's last months on Scott Avenue: we knew we were moving, we even knew where we'd be going, we knew the old place would be coming down, that not only our days there but the days of its very existence were numbered. There was nothing further for us there, it wasn't even worth fixing the dripping faucets, it was time to move on to a better, more suitable house. Yet if I can feel an urge to try to cling to something like the old house, in the teeth of all reason, what other earthly things might I be holding on to long past the time God would have me move on from them? If my instincts to cling to the the passing good can make themselves heard even under such extreme circumstances, where else might they be governing my thoughts without my even knowing?

My spiritual reading lately has been an excellent book* summarizing and distilling the teachings of great saints like Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross. One common thread in all their teachings is that the things of this world, even the very good things like familial love, pale in comparison to the goods which God offers us when we devote our entire life to Him. The writings of these spiritual giants makes me long for these great spiritual goods - or at least to long to long for them. Perhaps little incidents like the irrational impulse to try to resuscitate the stripped hulk of an old house to try to make it a home again are reminders to me of just how attached I am to worldly goods, and how far I have to go to attain true detachment.

I don't know - perhaps the days are coming when I'll be asked to give up all earthly goods to gain heavenly ones. Perhaps those days are sooner than I think. Perhaps I'm just being offered an opportunity for a little warm-up.

* The Fulfilment of All Desire, by Ralph Martin

A long hiatus - with some reason.

2010-03-30T20:19:00.001-04:00

I may be many things, but a regular blogger is not one of them. Here it is, two full months since my last post, and lots of changes, but nary a word from me in this forum. My apologies, but more important things kept coming up, and posting here fell way down my list.

But I'm not going to give up on it - I have a bookmark on my browser, and I check my own blog from time to time, if only to remind me that I haven't done anything with it. I do get ideas for posts from time to time, but am rarely near a keyboard to take for action on them. Also, I've this compulsion to try to make posts perfect: thoroughly considered, completely addressed, and well written. It's a tall order to do that all the time.

One of the major things that has happened since I last posted has been the death of a dear friend. Fr. Paul Higdon was close to many in our community here, and he finally passed away at age 90 on Feb 20th, 2010. I was not only his financial power of attorney prior to his death but am the executor of his will. He was a dear friend whom I miss.

Though Fr. Paul had a lot of friends, a good measure of his practical care fell to me after he stopped driving in 2007. He'd call me for runs to the doctors office or drugstore, most of the time ending up with a good coffee at the cafe in the local bookstore. At the beginning, when he started calling me regularly for rides, I bridled a bit, wondering, "doesn't he have anyone else to call?" (Particularly because he'd call on very short notice.) I was careful to hide any hint of resentment, since he was hypersensitive to such things and would stop calling altogether if he thought he was imposing, but I did wonder. Then the Lord spoke quietly to me, informing me that this servant of His had sacrificed his entire life to the Kingdom, including a wife and the possibility of sons of his own. Now, in his waning days, I was to be the son he'd never had. I was to attend to his practical needs and insure he was never alone and ease the burden of his old age and close his eyes in death.

I didn't know that God meant that quite literally.

With that understanding, I welcomed the minor inconveniences that came with being Fr. Paul's surrogate son. Not that I was the only person who cared for him - far from it. He had scores of close friends who loved him dearly, and many would take him places and enjoy time with him. But nearly all of the others were women, and as dear as their friendship was, I think he appreciated masculine company at times. For one thing, he didn't like being fussed over, and unfortunately, even the most well-intended women can have mother hen tendencies. As a guy I instinctively understood that still being able to do a little bit for himself was important to him - so I let him do it as long as he was able.

His decline really began in late January. His care facility called me to give him a ride to the doctor's office for a respiratory condition. Though he was in touchy condition - gasping for breath and barely able to walk - he wanted to return to his apartment anyway. But it was too much for him, and the next day he was in the hospital. That stay lasted only the weekend (and, amazingly, he shook the respiratory infection), but then the doctor sent him home. The rationale was that he could get care of equal or better quality at the assisted living home as at the hospital. That was a message right there.

Fr. Paul stopped eating in the hospital - food just lost its taste for him - and never picked it up again. Despite encouragement, cajoling, badgering, and pleading, he didn't resume regular meals. He'd sip water and Ensure, and occasionally some bites of broth, but he didn't even eat the blueberry pie my wife and daughter made for him. Naturally, nobody can survive long under such conditions, least of all a sickly 90-year-old. He declined steadily, and was put under hospice care in mid February.

Two of his nieces came during his final week - one from Kalamazoo for the early part and one from Houston for the last days. We were keeping a nearly constant vigil with him during the last part of the week, only having a caregiver come in during the deepest midnight hours. Finally on the afternoon of Feb 20th, with myself and his niece Diane at his side, he breathed his last.

The archbishop said his funeral Mass and many of the community turned out to send him off. It was an honour and a privilege for me to be chosen to attend to him in his final hours. Now I'm attending to the disposition of his modest estate. He was a dear friend, and I look forward with hope to the day I might see his face again - this time unlined by care and unburdened by the long years of a hard life. Pray for me, Fr. Paul.

Where the heart is

2010-01-31T16:26:00.003-05:00

As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the Big Changes in life recently was moving out of our home of 25 years just before Christmas 2009. This was facilitated by the heroic efforts of our wonderful children, many of whom essentially gave up their own Advent time and Christmas preparations in order to get the new house ready and us moved into it. But that effort is now well over, and though the books need to be put back on the shelves and I've a list of petty tasks to polish off, we've been settled into the new place for over a month now.

Here's the odd thing: I consider myself a sentimental guy, with deep and lasting attachments to people, places, and things that have meant a lot to me. As such, I was bracing for a lot more emotional trauma as we moved out of the old house. It fell to me to make the final visits, to call to shut off the utilities and to be present when the workers arrived, and to make the final walk-through with MDOT agent to sign over the house. I was the last one in the family to see the rooms that were once filled with family life now empty, cold, and littered with debris.

Emotional impact on me thus far? Zero, as far as I can tell. Getting out of the old house, including those last sweeps for anything left behind and the final walk-through, were just items to be checked off the list. It's not like I was callous about the change, but there was so much to do, and closing out of the house meant we could get the ball rolling with MDOT for the moving payments, and I've still got that list of tasks on the new house, and so forth. Closing the door and walking away wasn't difficult in the least.

Oddly, part of me feels like a traitor to admit this. After all these years, and all that house has meant to us, I feel like I should feel more loss at leaving. Ellen hasn't been back, or even past the house, since we left in mid-December. A couple of my daughters have told me they don't want to go back at all, so they can preserve their memories of the house as a home, a live and welcoming abode of love. I can understand why they'd feel that way - I just can't figure why I don't. I've even driven past the old place a couple of times, and haven't felt a twinge of regret or homesickness. It stands empty in the middle of its empty neighbors, awaiting the spring when they will all be leveled. I certainly don't want to be around to watch that happening, but it surprises me that I don't feel more now.

Maybe I'm getting cold- or hard-hearted in my old age. Or maybe I'm maturing. I've always acknowledged that places and things are not as important as people and relationships, yet I've had this almost maudlin connection to things that carry significance from my past. Maybe my emotional responses are finally catching up to my understanding of things, and I'm able to detach from the things I should be detaching from so I can better cling to the things to which I should be clinging. Jesus is still the same at the new house as the old house. Not only is my wonderful family present in the new house, but they had a significant hand in turning it into our new home. At a practical level, the new house is a much better place. My reason recognizes this, and this time it seems my emotions are agreeing.

I don't know what the future will hold. Perhaps times will come when I'm swept with waves of nostalgia for the old place, especially after it is no more. Maybe part of me will yearn to come down the old steps and prepare coffee in the old kitchen just like I did thousands of times across the years. But maybe not - and if that does happen, maybe I'll have the wisdom not to nurture those feelings, wallowing in them as if that were something noble. The old house was a place, given to us for a time by God for His purposes. Now in His grace He's given us a new home. We were thankful for the old one in its time, and we're thankful for this new one as well. I hope that my thanks do not turn back in a perverse clinging to a mere thing after its time has passed.

Now, if I can only remember this lesson when it comes time to let go of the old "house" of my earthly life and move on to the "new home" the Lord has for me - whenever that move may be.

For Amelia, whom I never met

2010-01-12T19:27:00.008-05:00

O Happy Interruption, O Beloved Intruder -
was it because you were so tiny that you were able to slip through
the barriers we had erected around our hearts?

How was it that your little hands, with grasp so weak,
were able to grip our hearts so tightly?

How was it that your quiet sighs and gentle laughter
could cut through the clamor of our lives
and bring us to a place of stillness?

How is it that one so small
could leave such a huge void by her departure?

You brought with you obligations and responsibilities,
chaining our lives to yours.
How then is it that your absence weighs so heavily,
and without you our days seem gray and leaden?

Had we known how things would end, would we have welcomed you?
Would we have opened our arms so wide
if we'd known they would be empty again so soon?
Would we have had the courage to love so deeply
if we'd known we would lose so much?

It must have been crucial, what you were sent to teach us,
for you were given so little time to say it;
a lifetime of love packed into three short months.

What can we learn from your brief time in our midst?
What can we learn from the severe lesson of your death?

Can love live again?
Is it worth the risk of loss?
Will we again retreat behind our barriers?
What will come into the vacuum left by your departure?

May love be your legacy, little Amelia.
May we grow in love,
and make you proud,
that you will not be ashamed to say of us:

“Those are the ones who love me.”

Three Deaths

2010-01-12T19:26:00.000-05:00

My days since my last post have been incredibly busy and full of responsibilities, so I make no apologies for not posting. The holy days have come and gone, and brought with them much joy and many changes. Another thing the brought was an unusual (for me) number of deaths. These will make them memorable if nothing else does. I'll probably be writing at more length about each of them, but here's an overview.

One “death” was symbolic and sentimental, but a small death nonetheless: we moved out of the house in which we have dwelt for 25 years, the house in which we raised our family. This was not unexpected – in fact, it was so long overdue that we were getting a bit impatient for it to happen – but it was nonetheless a little death to close the door on the empty, emptied home and leave it forlorn, awaiting the crane and bulldozer. A couple of my daughters wrote their own eulogies here and here, and being the sentimental slob that I am, I'll probably have more to say about it in a later post, but for now it's enough to say that the end of 2009 brought with it the end of the Scott Avenue years, the main years of raising our family.

Another death was an acutal one, and though it was somewhat expected it was nonetheless a loss. An old friend and fellow pro-life worker passed away on January 2nd, 2010 and was buried on the Feast of the Epiphany, January 6th. His name was Dan, and he was 90 years old and had suffered from several chronic health troubles over the years to which he finally succumbed. He was a hale and cheerful fellow, and while his health let him was a vigorous member of our Right to Life chapter. Even while his health failed he would still participate in whatever he could - daily Mass, Bible study, pro-life activities. He was a regular attendee at our banquets, and even this summer and fall I would at times see him with his rolling gait ambling along up the sidewalk near his home, getting his exercise. There was plenty of warning before his death, so his family had time to gather around him. His funeral was a true celebration of life - the life of Christian witness that he had lived, and the new life he entered into. My final impression of Dan Bradley is what I want said of me when I draw my last breath: he was found faithful at his post. God bless you, Dan.

But what cast a shadow over the whole holiday was the unexpected and tragic death of my grand-niece Amelia. I received a frantic call from my hysterical sister, Amelia's grandmother, on the morning of December 21st, just after we'd spent a busy and exhausting weekend moving into our new house. My sister had been called by her daughter, Amelia's mother, who'd gone in to get the baby for her morning feeding to find her lifeless in her crib.

Amelia was a precious child, dearly loved by her parents and relatives. Though I never had the chance to meet her, Ellen and I had plans to visit my sister that would have included visiting Amelia and her family. She was born in September and was to be baptized on Christmas day. Apparently the Lord wanted to take care of that personally, but her death left all of us devastated. Our prayers were with my sister and her family as they mourned their loss during the season which is usually full of joy.

So for me, this year's holiday season was marked by these deaths. I did a lot of thinking and praying, and will surely have more to say about them. But I did want to post a tribute to my little grand-niece, which follows:

Third Sunday - Rejoice!

2009-12-13T09:15:00.001-05:00

The Third Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete is Latin for “Rejoice!”, and this is the Sunday we light the more festive rose candle.

Long periods of preparation can be draining. If you've ever prepared a field for a crop, or a house for painting, you know that preparatory work can be tedious and discouraging. Jobs like stripping paint aren't the “real” work, so aren't directly rewarding, but they have to be done if the final job is going to succeed.

It must have felt that way for the Israelites. They were promised a Redeemer, and as more prophecies came in a clearer picture of Him emerged. This wouldn't just be the Savior of Israel, this would be the Savior of the whole world! What a high and noble calling! But as the centuries dragged on, and the Jewish people suffered many setbacks, it probably got discouraging.

Advent can feel like that for us, too. It seems to be all about discipline and preparation, and can feel like it drags on and on (especially for children!) It's like spiritual paint-scraping: no fun at all, and just when you think you're making progress, you spot another patch that needs cleaning.

This is why the Church says to take a break. The Third Sunday of Advent reminds us to rejoice – to step back, relax, and refocus on the goal. Spiritual life isn't only about discipline and reform. Those things are necessary, but only as preparation for The Main Event: the redemption, joy, the full spiritual life that Christmas celebrates. The cheery rose candle brightens the array of somber purple. The halfway point is passed, and our vigil will soon be at an end.

From this point on, the burning rose candle will remind us that we've turned the corner and the goal is in sight. Like runners in a race coming within sight of the goal, let's not slow down, or stumble, or give up. Let's redouble our efforts – the very image used in Scripture several places, like Hebrews 12:1. Let's get even more serious about cleaning spiritual house in preparation for the Coming Lord.

The most significant way to do this is to accept the grace of the Sacrament of Confession. Don't pass up this opportunity for grace! Rejoice, your sins can be forgiven in Christ!

Second Sunday

2009-12-11T01:13:00.001-05:00

Second Sunday of Advent – 6 December 2009 – The Centuries of Anticipation

Jesus once assured His disciples that “many kings and prophets longed to see what you see, and did not see it, and to hear the things that you hear, and did not hear them.” (Luke 10:24) These words are as true for us as they were for the disciples. We can easily take the Sacraments, Scriptures, Church teachings, and our rich Catholic heritage for granted. We forget that for thousands of years all mankind, especially the Jews, anticipated and longed for the promised Redeemer.

Prophecies of the Messiah are found throughout the Old Testament. These are important for many reasons, such as reassuring us that God is in charge no matter how badly we humans stray from His way. Here are some of the Old Testament prophecies that spoke of Christ:

Toward the end of his life, Moses spoke of “a prophet” that would come after him, whom all Israel should obey (Deuteronomy 18:15-18). The prophet Nathan promised that King David would have a son whose throne would be established forever (2 Samuel 7:12-14). Both these prophecies were partially fulfilled by other prophets and kings descended from David, but only Jesus perfectly fulfilled them both.

As the time of Jesus' coming drew nearer, the prophetic “focus” became sharper. The Holy Spirit spoke extensively through the prophet Isaiah about the coming Messiah: that He would be born of a virgin (Is 7:14), that He would come from the line of David, walk in the power and wisdom of God's Spirit, and govern a worldwide Kingdom of Peace (Is 11:1-14), that He would destroy oppression (Is 16:5), that He would be called from His mother's womb to not only restore Israel but save all nations (Is 49:1-6), and that He would be abused and suffer to redeem mankind (Is 52:13 – 53:12).

Prophecies regarding the Messiah also came to Daniel, who saw a vision of one “like a Son of Man” being brought before the Father to receive everlasting worldwide dominion (Dan 7:13-14), and to Zechariah, who foresaw that the Messiah would come to His people riding a donkey (Zech 9:9-10) – symbolic of His humility and gentleness, and fulfilled on Palm Sunday. Zechariah was also told of One who would be known as The Branch, who would build the Temple and reign over Jerusalem (Zech 6:12-13). The last prophet of the Old Testament, Malachi, spoke of the Messenger of the Covenant who would come to His Temple to purify it, that true worship might be offered there (Mal 3:1).

These are but a few of the prophecies regarding the Messiah that can be found in the Old Testament. It is important to know them because they shed light on Jesus' mission, and further explain what He came to accomplish. They also make clear that human history has always been in God's control; a control that continues to this day.

This Advent, let us study these Scriptures, so we can grow to appreciate the gift that we have been given: Immanuel, the God who dwells in our midst. We do not have to wait and wonder, anticipating the far-off day when the Messiah would be revealed. He has been revealed – at Bethlehem, at Calvary, at the Empty Tomb, and in every Mass we attend. Truly kings and prophets long to see and hear what is freely given to us every week – let's appreciate it.

I wrote these myself - honest!

2009-12-11T01:05:00.002-05:00

Of late, my life has been consumed by the effort of finding, purchasing, fixing up, and moving into a new house - all in the span of just over three months. This while trying to make a living (with the emphasis on "trying"), stay involved in my parish, and keep the Right to Life involvement going. Needless to say, this has left little spare time for sharing thoughts here, though there has been no lack of subject matter.

So I won't let this effort totally languish, I'm posting a few articles that I threw together for a series on Advent which we're running in our parish paper. Though these weren't originally written as blog posts, I did write them, so I hope they count as content until I can get back to a more dedicated effort.

First Sunday of Advent – 29 November 2009 – The (nearly) Forgotten Season

Advent is a season which is easily be forgotten in our modern culture. It has largely been eclipsed by the commercial “Christmas Season”, which seems to start earlier and earlier each year. While Christmas music is heard everywhere and television is flooded with Christmas specials, all we might notice at Mass is different colored vestments and a wreath with colored candles. Some of us may remember Advent wreaths at home, and perhaps even “giving up” things for Advent, but even those practices have largely faded.

Meanwhile, many are concerned with “putting Christ back in Christmas”. One way to do this is by observing Advent, particularly in homes trying to raise Catholic children. In the Church Calendar, the Christmas season follows Christmas (the “Twelve Days of Christmas” begins on December 25th and ends on January 6th, the Epiphany.) The four-week season leading up to Christmas is Advent, which has its own rites and focus. One way to “put Christ back in Christmas” is to put Advent back into our lives

Advent is a major season in the Christian calendar. In fact, the Church Year begins with Advent, making the First Sunday the liturgical “New Year's Day”. The focus of Advent is not as much fasting (more appropriate for Lent), but simplifying and refocusing. While penance and self-examination is part of this, the themes of Advent are solemn but joyous anticipation and preparation. This can be hard to do amidst the press and bustle of the commercial “Christmas Season”, but it is worth the effort!

We'll be running a series of articles throughout Advent to assist with this effort. Here are some practical hints for families seeking to more fully celebrate this holy season:

Get a home Advent wreath. These come with four candles – three purple ones and one pink (rose). These can be lit during dinner or other family times – one additional candle for each week celebrated, with the pink one lit on the Third Sunday. This simple observance can help the whole family focus on this special season.
Another classic devotional tool is the Advent calendar. These colorful pieces of art count down through the days of Advent (usually beginning on December 1), with little doors that open and provide Scripture passages for the day. Some versions even have a little treat for each day! These are especially helpful with young children, but the whole family can enjoy them.
Simplify and focus your life by setting aside perhaps 15 minutes of television, Internet, or video game time to read Scripture and pray. Readings for each day are found in the bulletin – perhaps you could clip them out and use them all week.
Attend a parish or neighborhood Bible Study. Most area parishes sponsor them.
Do something “devotionally different” - perhaps a family Rosary or after-dinner Scripture reading, or have a brief family prayer time in the evening.
Encourage everyone in the family to attend Confession at least once in Advent.

As a parish, let's try to make Advent 2009 a special time of preparing for the joy of Christmas!

A national conundrum

2009-11-10T17:50:00.002-05:00

America is having its national nose rubbed in the issue that it never wants to look at for very long. The issue of publicly funding abortion is forcing the injustice and moral contradiction of the question back into the public conscience - and people are already starting to squirm.

So long as abortion was privately funded, it could remain under most people's radar. If people wanted to pay for one - well, that was their business. Tossing a bone to pro-lifers in the form of the Hyde Amendment that prohibited any Health & Human Services (i.e. welfare) funds being used for abortion was pretty safe: abortions for welfare recipients was a bit of a touchy topic anyway (though some states still fund abortions with their own Medicaid funds).

But now the spectre of getting Federal funds involved in health care payment at every level is once again forcing the issue. When flat-out asked, most Americans - even those who have no objection to the procedure - don't want public funds paying for abortion. But public funding for abortions has long been the Holy Grail of radical gender feminists like NOW, NARAL, and Planned Parenthood. After all, as the largest for-profit abortion provider in the nation, PP could make a lot of money billing taxpaying American citizens for killing unborn American citizens. Pro-abortion forces are not going to easily surrender their long-sought goal, but pro-life legislators such as Rep. Bart Stupak of Michigan and Sen. Ben Nelson of Nebraska have dug in their heels and refuse to violate their consciences by voting for public funding for abortion.

So the House and Senate face a Mexican standoff. Though the Stupak amendment made it through the House, knowledgeable observers of both sides say that advocates will not back down. Pro-abortion representatives who may have swallowed hard to vote for the health care funding bill with the Stupak amendment are determined to strip out that wording in conference. Pro-life legislators in both houses are determined to keep it in, or add equivalent wording to the Senate version. Without both parties on board, the bill can't pass.

Meanwhile, people are beginning to see through President Obama's smokescreen statements about how Federal law prohibits funding abortions. They're noticing that the Hyde Amendment was just that - an amendment, not a statute, that was tacked onto the HHS budget every year. There's no guarantee that it would continue to be tacked on - in fact, nobody was expecting the Pelosi House to do so. And it only applied to the HHS budget, which would not be the budget funding health care payments. (Of course, nobody knows what budget that would be, or where the money would come from, but that's another post.) And the proposed health funding reforms would reach far further than Medicaid payments. Also, Obama's on record as saying that paying for "reproductive health services" - industry code for abortion - is central to his plans for health care payments.

How this all plays out will be high drama. The longer it drags out, the more the media will be forced to talk about abortion - something they're very skilled at not doing. The more they talk, the more people will think. A man who doesn't want to look at the gross injustice of abortion can look the other way so long as it's "a personal choice". But when he is forced to pay for that "personal choice", he tends to look a bit harder. And perhaps this time he'll notice that abortion slaughters 1.2 million children each year. And maybe, just maybe, he'll ask his legislator to vote against funding that.

And maybe, just maybe, his conscience will move him to do a little bit more.

Seduced by illusion

2009-11-01T13:13:00.001-05:00

Two interesting things happened recently. They seemed unrelated, but seem to me to share a common thread.

One was the selection of President Barack Obama as the recipient of the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize. There was much comment from many quarters on this, especially when someone put together that the nominations for the prize closed just two weeks after Obama's inauguration - far too brief a period in office for him to have done anything to warrant such an accolade.

The other thing was the results of a rather out-of-the way online contest sponsored by the online magazine AskMen.com, which is a digital phenomenon in the GQ/Esquire/Maxim mold (think Playboy lite). Apparently their annual online survey of "Most Influential Men" turned up an interesting result: the man in question was imaginary. That's right, according to those who voted in the poll, the most influential man was the character Don Draper of the television show Mad Men. This surprising result was so intriguing that Rabbi Yonason Goldson wrote a superb column for Jewish World Review that makes several excellent points far better than I could.

To me, the connection between the two events was obvious: in both cases, those making the selection had voted for appearance, not substance. That Don Draper didn't exist and had never done anything in the real world was irrelevant; the important point was that he appeared to be the kind of man that the voters wished to emulate. The same criteria influenced Obama's selection for the Peace Prize: at the time he was nominated, he'd done nothing but run a campaign (and had done a masterful job of it) - an event which is pure image in America's media-dominated culture. Even following the nomination announcement, the media was abuzz with commentary such as this column, which gushes about Obama's acceptance comments.

The gap here between image and substance is frightening. What is even more frightening is that few think it remarkable. Anyone who knows history is aware that a sharp intrusion of actual events can shred even the most artful and well-constructed image (just ask the builders of the Maginot Line). One has to wonder how a culture who elects illusory images as their leaders will respond when they are faced with an actual challenge - because it is at times like that that illusion will shred and evaporate.

Thinning out

2009-10-04T17:19:00.001-04:00

This weekend I pulled a file folder from my drawer and threw most of the contents away. I kept only one sheet, which I signed and handed over to my son. The sheet was the title to an old car which we inherited and he was taking away to fix up and sell. The other papers were various records on the vehicle - repairs, transfers of ownership, registration, etc. (Yes, I'm one of those compulsive types who keeps those things, because from time to time they really come in handy.) Of course, it made sense to throw it all away now, because my son wouldn't need them, nor would whoever he sells the car to. But the act got me thinking about the fact that I'm probably going to be doing a lot of that over the upcoming months.

We've sold our house to the state and are currently within the 90-day window we're given to find another house. Moving is going to happen within the next couple of months, and when it does, I imagine we're going to be startled at just how deep our roots have sunk into this place we've inhabited for the past quarter century. Of course there'll be the emotional component, but I'm currently facing the simple physical challenge of clearing out every nook and cranny of this place. There will be a lot of dumping of things which at one time I thought were or might someday prove valuable (or I wouldn't have kept them).

That's going to be a challenge to my cautionary mentality. Some people relish throwing things out, but I'm not one of them. I'm not as bad as my late mother-in-law (who is in a class by herself), but I like holding onto things that may still have some value. But moving is going to make me face some hard realities about just how much value some things still have. I'll have to face facts like (for example) if I squirreled something away five years ago in the chance I might need it, and I haven't needed it at all in that time, I'll probably never need it.

I imagine there's some profound life lesson awaiting me as I sort through closets and throw out years accumulated things which I once thought might have value but time has proven do not. I may even post some of what I learn here. But right now, the prospect leaves me feeling drab and desolate. I'm not looking forward to this impending thinning of my life - which is a little odd. My patron is St. Francis - whose feast is today, incidentally - and though I chose him in an moment of adolescent indecision, his example has had a surprisingly strong impact on my life. I admired and sought to emulate his example of owning little in this world in order to focus on the next. As a family we've tried not to focus on accumulating material goods. We've lived in this old home which has served our needs (pretty much), driven cars until they stopped working, not sought to have the biggest or best or newest anything unless there was a practical justification. "Franciscan" well describes the way we've sought to live and raise our family. So perhaps the thinning out of our lives which we currently face is an opportunity to see how Franciscan I really am.

Of Grapes and other thoughts.

2009-09-27T11:26:00.002-04:00

We're currently in the process of looking for a house. We've sold our current one to the state and have 90 days (now 80 and counting) to find a new place. All we've done is view some houses and submit a couple of bids. Currently we're waiting to hear back on a couple of them.

One of the houses we visited is a vacant foreclosure with a somewhat unkempt yard. Actually the state of the foliage around the back and side of the yard indicates that it was once tended, perhaps by longtime occupants, but has not been properly maintained in recent years - possibly by the immediately prior tenants, the ones who were evicted. None of the overgrowth was unreasonable, and we were delighted to find that some of it was concord grape vines. Somewhere in the house's history someone kept a small grape arbor, and the fruit on the untended vines was just ripening.

Since the house seemed suitable in other ways, we are currently bidding on it, and thus may end up buying it. But in the meantime, I was loath to see the grapes simply rot on the vine, so I went out to the vacant house and picked several pounds. While doing so, I noticed something about the bunches that I'd never seen before: a tremendous variation in the maturity of the grapes. Most of the bunches had everything from plump, sweet grapes of rich purple to tiny green bumps the size and shape of nonpareils. This struck me as odd - most grape bunches I'd seen in the store, and even on the vine at the local orchards, were of reasonably uniform maturity even if they varied in size.

This got me wondering about the vine. These were grapes from undressed vines - the arbor hadn't been tended for years, and the branches were twisting and sprawling all over the place. I'm just speculating, and I'd happily hear from someone who knows more about growing grapes, but I wondered if the irregularity of the grape maturity could be traced to the fact that they grew untended.

If this is true, it would illuminate another teaching of Jesus' that would make perfect sense to His immediate audience but be opaque to we non-agricultural moderns. I'm referring to His statement at the start of John 15: ""I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful." I've always appreciated this passage as an encouragement not to be one of the branches that bears no fruit (i.e. good works), as well as an encouragement to persevere in times of difficulty (pruning). While both these understandings are good and appropriate, if I'm correct in my speculation about the kind of fruit borne by undressed vines, there would be yet another reason.

We all know that one of the struggles of following Christ is bearing fruit in all aspects of our lives. We all know people (perhaps ourselves) who might excel at one or two areas of discipleship but fail in others. You know - the man who might have a disciplined intellect and superb teaching ability but is emotionally immature and inconsistent, or the man who can be counted on to show up for every charitable work but can't be bothered to study Scripture or advance his understanding of God's truth. Might this inconsistency be like the fruit of untended vines, where you might pluck a bunch and only be able to use half the grapes because the others aren't suitable?

Again, I don't know if these phenomena are related, but if they are, the example of the vine dresser and the fruit would speak clearly to an audience familiar with agriculture. The intent of the pruning (trials of life) would be to produce not only more fruit (good works), but more consistent fruit. Saints and spiritual advisors have often spoken of the desirability of a consistent spiritual life - that one who is faithful in prayer should also be knowledgeable of God's ways, patient in demeanor, abundant in charitable deeds, and so forth. Could this consistency be the result of careful pruning by the Father, even as consistent clusters of grapes may be the result of well-dressed vines?

I'd love to know for certain, but I suspect there's a connection. I hope that makes me more patient the next time hardship or humiliation or struggle comes my way. I want to be a branch that bears consistent clusters of grapes, every one ripe in its time, succulent, and suitable for nourishment.

For the record, I picked several clusters and culled through them. About 1/3 of the grapes were unsuitable, but those that could be used were turned into a delicious batch of homemade grape jam. We'll enjoy the jam all autumn - but part of me can't help but think of the bunches that bore only one or two suitable grapes, and were judged unsuitable and cast into the garbage.

I don't want to be one of those bunches.

A shift in vision

2009-09-13T20:03:00.001-04:00

I was driving along the lake shore road recently, and I found myself looking a bit enviously at the magnificent mansions people had erected along the lake. The towering brick homes communicated grandeur and stability; the well-appointed grounds bespoke tranquility and order. I sighed, perhaps with a bit of covetousness - I knew families who lived in some of those homes, and some of my kids had friends who lived in some of those them. I look at places like that as I drove past, but knew I'd never be able to provide a home like that for my family - they were well beyond anything I could afford.

But still, but still, it would be nice, my frantic imagination protested as I backed into the driveway of the old, weed-beset two-story that had been our home for 25 years. The siding was faded and the chimney was chipping and the front window was cracked. It was anything but a mansion, but it was what we'd been able to afford while raising our six children. With another sigh, I glanced back in the direction of the magnificent lake shore homes which contrasted so starkly with mine.

Then my vision blurred a bit, and my sight took on a new perspective. The miles seemed to drop away, and the intervening houses and trees stepped aside, and again I saw the houses along the lake as if I were standing just in front of them. But this time my eyes showed a different picture. Gone were the clean new bricks and grand picture windows; instead I saw leaning and tumbling piles of bricks shored up with broken and rotting timbers. Tattered curtains blew in and out through broken windows, and gaping holes yawned in poorly shingled roofs. In place of well-tended lawns there were patches of weeds amidst untended sand. Where polished oak doors had stood now splintered shards hung from broken hinges, and the garages were littered with debris.

Aghast, I looked back at my home. But standing there was no longer the simple house I expected; instead there stood a stone castle of six towers. The towers were anchored into solid bedrock, and stood high and strong, their stones solidly joined and well-mortared. The towers were connected by high walls also made of stone, so that each tower not only stood strong but supported, and was supported by, its brethren. The towers and walls were topped by strong battlements, and above them all fluttered a white banner. On the sides stood two other towers, joined to the structure by more walls, and those in turn were joined to other towers fading away into the distance.

Now, this was a mansion, I thought. Not something thrown together to please the eye or impress visitors, but a solid, lasting structure that would serve a purpose and last for generations, one that could be built upon and expanded in the years to come. I wondered what had happened to the houses along the lake, and why they had fallen so quickly.

Then my vision blurred again, and before me I again saw our simple home, and was content.

A very odd feeling

2009-08-29T14:46:00.002-04:00

I'm not a big home handyman. Ellen doesn't keep a "Job Jar" of the type Blondie kept for Dagwood, and if I'm doing pick-up work, it's most likely to be on the keyboard rather than with wood boards.

Not that I can't do what's needed about the house (though I need to psych myself up for it at times) - I can plumb and drywall and nail and lay flooring if necessary. I might let the earliest signs of a problem slip for a while, but eventually a little voice in my head nags me with, "You can't let that go on!" So I'll eventually drag out the toolkit and reseat the toilet or nail down the loose boards or whatever, if for no other reason than I don't want the house deteriorating over the years. This custodial instinct was taught me by my dad, and though it isn't as strong in me as it was in him, it's still there.

Which is why that drip in the bathroom sink is annoying me so much.

You see, we're the last residents of our house, and we won't be residing here much longer. We've lived here for 24 years, raised our six children here, and will be moving out before Christmas, possibly before Thanksgiving. Our property lies within the footprint of a major public works project, so the state is buying up our home under eminent domain. It will eventually be demolished, along with every other home along our stretch of street. We received the state's offer earlier this month, signed the acceptance papers this week, and will be closing on the sale sometime in September. We'll have 90 days from the closing to move out, at which point the utilities will be shut off and the house will stand vacant until the bulldozers come to raze it.

This being the case, it makes no sense to do any long-term maintenance on the property. Sprucing anything up, or even patching something that's deteriorating, won't make a bit of difference to the state (much less the bulldozers.) We've known this for years, and haven't done any major improvements for years (which explains the state of our garage). But it's now at the point that even the most trivial of repairs aren't even worth it.

Like the bathroom faucet I mentioned. It's dripping again, and I know just how to fix it. The parts cost less than $3 at Home Depot, and it's ten minutes with screwdrivers and pliers. Nothing to it.

But it's not even worth burning the gas to drive to the store for the parts. In the brief amount of time we have left in the house, the amount of water that'll drip out that faucet is so trivial that it's not worth any effort to repair.

That's the odd feeling. That custodial instinct keeps yammering, "yes, but over time that problem will...", but my reason knows that "over time" doesn't matter in these unusual circumstances. Thus I find myself looking at the slowly dripping water, or the weeds in the yard, or the posts of the garage porch, and realizing that there's no point in doing anything about any of it. In a matter of weeks, the property will be vacant and shut down, the lawns mowed by state contractors. The state of the siding or the weeds in the driveway cracks won't matter to anyone.

In a way it's relieving not have to worry about these small matters, and I'm sure my custodial instinct will have plenty to work with once we move into whatever house we end up with. But for now, it's odd to be enduring this little contest between my subconscious and my reason.

I think I'll go shut the bathroom door.

Two important phrases

2009-08-08T20:52:00.000-04:00

One of my daughters has a job abroad this summer as a nanny. With her kind and outgoing personality, not to mention lots of experience with nieces and nephews, she's a natural for child care.

But she's found out something interesting with her little charges, a seven year old boy and a three year old girl. Being children of a well-to-do family (the sort that can afford a foreign nanny for the summer), they've been raised with pretty much everything handed to them. My daughter, who is supposed to expose them to English, is finding that another vital part of her job is exposing them to the two critical phrases that make so much difference in human interaction:

Please and Thank You.

When I was young, my mother and father drilled into us the importance of saying “please” and “thank you” asking things of others. I always thought of it as good manners, and continued the habit with my own children. As soon as they were able to understand, requests had to be accompanied by “please”, and “thank you” was demanded whenever something was done for them. They learned, because they had no option – and now they are teaching those same manners to their children (or nieces and nephews, as the case may be.)

Perhaps it's the distance of grandparenting, but as I watch this habit of courtesy being inculcated into the next generation, I'm appreciating that this simple habit is more than just a social habit, a mannerly convention. I'm seeing that making these simple phrases part of our basic human interaction radically affects how we view and deal with others.

I've heard it said that we humans are at a sensory disadvantage when it comes to how we perceive the world. From our earliest days, our senses tell us that we're at the center of the universe. What we see, hear, feel, and so on gives us the impression that the world does revolve around us. Only what others tell us, how they treat us, and how we're taught to treat them, can disabuse us of that notion.

Learning to ask “please” is an important tool in that effort. When we use that phrase, we acknowledge the humanity of the other person. We're not treating them as a means to an end, but as an equal, of whom we are making a request. I think this is particularly important for children to learn toward parents, because parents actually are de facto slaves to their children when they are young and dependent. Even young children are not stupid, and can realize that those big people are pretty much at their beck and call. But when they get old enough to realize that they can exploit this, they can begin to learn that important phrase that forces them to realize that Mom & Dad – and everyone else – are to be treated with dignity.

Thanks are what we offer when we appreciate something that has been done for us. It is a simple expression of gratitude – but gratitude does not come naturally. Those under the illusion that the universe revolves around them do not express gratitude. Only those who have learned that it doesn't realize that grace is part of existence, and gifts should be appreciated. Interestingly, learning to express thanks cultivates the realization that the universe doesn't revolve around us. Learning thanks is not only an expression of maturity, but a path to it.

It is to my parent's credit that I was grown and out into the world before I learned what the phrase “treating someone like an object” even meant. I'd heard it, but it mystified me. I only came to understand it when I encountered people who did that. Oddly, those were the very people who so rarely said “please” and “thank you”.

I wonder if there was a connection?

Books you need to read

2009-07-27T10:11:00.003-04:00

I don't often give orders to my readers, but this time I'll make an exception...

One of the most difficult things about living in an information-dense culture like ours is getting out of it. We are inundated by images, noises, publications, and the new phenomena of web content, all of which sweep us along like a great tide. The attitudes, presuppositions, and outlooks that dominate this flood of information are rarely examined, and the power of this tidal surge makes it difficult to rise above it, to understand it critically from a detached point of view.

Of course, this is the goal of a true liberal education - to anchor one's understanding and conceptual framework in a foundation that lies deeper than the transient intellectual trends of any particular time. And though my formal education wasn't broad enough to be considered truly liberal, I've tried to deepen my informal education to be liberal in the classical sense.

That has meant a lot of reading over the years, and I wanted to pass along some of the books that have helped me most. Those who know me will hear me constantly recommending them. A couple I've loved for years, one I just finished recently, but all three are invaluable. They all help the reader rise above the rhetoric and assumptions of our culture and examine things from a different perspective. There are many books that help do that, but these three address particular challenges facing our culture. If you want superb analysis of critical modern problems, and are brave enough to have your presuppositions challenged, I cannot recommend these works too highly.

The Flight from Woman by Karl Stern
Psychiatrist Karl Stern offers a keen insight into one of the central intellectual imbalances of our age: the exultation of the discursive intellect at the expense of the intuitive intellect. He explains how the triumph of rationalism following the Enlightenment led to a neurotic imbalance of thought and perception in the modern mind. This work is a rigorous intellectual workout but well worth the time.

Family and Civilization by Carle Zimmerman, as abridged by James Kurth
I'd heard of this scholarly tour de force years ago, but understood that the multi-volume work had gone out of print. Fortunately, ISI Books undertook the task of re-releasing it, in the process abridging it for the lay reader. This is not just another "family values are deteriorating" screed - Harvard sociologist Zimmerman prepares a sweeping survey of civilizations throughout history and how they relate to the family structures that underly them. Of course, his analysis of where our culture stands in light of historical patterns is not cheering, but he backs up his conclusions with firm research. If you want to understand the relations of the family to civilization, this book is a must-read.

Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman
An NYU professor and student of Marshall McLuhan, Postman was a keen thinker and critic of modern culture. This book is considered his masterpiece, but don't expect another "there's nothing but trash on TV" rant. Postman begins his critique with epistemology - the understanding of how we know what we know - and takes the reader through the history of oral and written cultures to set the framework for understanding how a video epistemology changes a society.

I recommend that anyone who seriously wishes to understand our culture, the challenges we face, and possible solutions, should study these books carefully. You'll be rewarded.

Things I learn from my pets

2009-07-21T17:07:00.001-04:00

Last week we were forced to give our pets flea shampoos. Neither the cat nor the dog enjoy baths, and they really don't enjoy getting wet, lathered, and then being forced to sit there in that state for five minutes or so to give the pesticidal wash a chance to do its job. The cat, who has sharp claws and is not averse to using them, took two of us, while I was able to mostly manage the dog by myself - at least until it came time to rinse off. At that point he decided he'd had enough, and kept pulling away from the rinse water. I had no way of explaining that if I didn't rinse the soap off him, he'd be in much worse shape. Finally Ellen had to step in and rinse while I held him. It was an hour-long effort that I did in my swim trunks and followed with a shower.

The ordeal probably mystified the pets. They know nothing of parasites or their long-term dangers, much less of human aversion to sharing living spaces with infested animals. We could see from their itching that they didn't enjoy their little guests, but they couldn't even make the cause-and-effect connection between the discomfort and the small insects, much less between the remedy and relief. To them it must have seemed that their loving masters, who provide food and water and affection and walks, had suddenly gone berserk. They were pinioned, soaked, covered with smelly stuff, thoroughly drenched, and then rubbed with towels. And then they weren't even allowed back inside for an hour or so! No amount of soothing talk and reassurance could make up for this bizarre behaviour on our part.

All this got me thinking of how God must have to deal with us humans at times. His understanding stands much further above ours than ours does above our pets. What spiritual and personal problems does He understand of which we have no comprehension? Maybe there are times we need the spiritual equivalent of a flea bath - how do we respond when we're suddenly pinioned, drenched, lathered, immobilized, and thoroughly rinsed?

I know I have a tendency to howl and struggle and fight what I'm being put through. Most of all, I begin to wonder about the One who is subjecting me to all this. What did I do wrong? Am I being punished? Have I been forgotten? What happened to the love and comfort and consolation? I forget that God may have reasons that He can't explain to me because I have no framework for comprehending them, any more than my pets have a framework for understanding flea baths.

For my pets, the matter ultimately had to come down to their trust in us. We were their masters, who had a long history of caring for them. Though they balked and fussed, they submitted to our care. It took a bit of brute force at times, but had they wished to really fight, we wouldn't have been able to help them. As it was, their familiarity with us, and the history of care we had with them, mollified them enough. Their trust in us helped them through the ordeal, after which they were in much better shape.

I hope I remember that next time God subjects me to something difficult in my life. When He pinions me in some difficult circumstances and starts doing things that are troublesome and inexplicable, I hope I fall back on trusting Him. Maybe He's cleaning up some spiritual parasites I didn't know I have, or working on some personality problem or besetting sin that has troubled me all my life. Maybe someday I'll be able to understand why I'm being put through this, or maybe I never will. But I hope I'll have the trust to sit still and let Him do whatever His wisdom deems necessary, and not doubt His love and care for me.

Movies I love, and why (#1)

2009-07-05T21:32:00.002-04:00

I'm proving terrible at consistently blogging. I think part of the problem is one I share with my daughter - if I fire up the text editor to write something, I want to write something worth reading. To me, that means writing thoughtfully, and well, on a meaningful topic. In other words, I have to voluntarily do the sort of thing that was a dreaded assignment to most of you back in your school days.

I don't mind much - it wasn't nearly as hard for me in my school days, and it's not a crushing load now - but it is still labor, and I have things crowding out my time these days. So when I sit down to the keyboard and think, "maybe I'll write a blog post", another part of my brain says, "no, you've another responsibility you should discharge first." So blog posting keeps getting put off.

This despite ideas for posts that keep flitting through my mind. Thoughts on current events, thoughts on things I read, thoughts on life in general, all act like sparks on the tinder of my mind, generating flares of thought that make me think, "I should write a few paragraphs about that!" I even keep a list of potential post topics, because more than once I've found myself getting home from a lengthy drive (or whatever) and realizing that I'd clean forgotten the superb topic that had occurred to me. But because of the aforementioned factors, few of these superb ideas see the light of day.

So I'm going to try something my daughter is trying: lowering my standards a bit. I'll try to rein in the perfectionism, and sit on the urge to turn every post into a masterpiece. I'll try jotting less deeply, more often, and we'll see how that works. One of my bright ideas for generating posts is to write about movies that I like that nobody who knows me would think I'd like, so I think I'll start with that.

I remember reading somewhere that there is really only one story in all human history - the heroic tale of the Redeemer and the redemption He brings. All other human stories are extractions from, or portions of, the Great Story. (I could swear I read this somewhere in Neuhaus' Death on a Friday Afternoon, but I haven't been able to find the reference.) I find this statement compelling, and since hearing it tend to view stories through this lens. When I read a book or see a movie, I tend to ask, "What part of the Great Story does this convey?"

However, even with such an outlook, those who know me might find it unusual that one of the movies I really enjoy is Man on Fire, starring Denzel Washington and Dakota Fanning. From the trailers and marketing, one gets the impression it is nothing more than another blow-'em-up, shoot-'em-up vengeance flick of the type I typically avoid. And though it has its share of shooting and explosions, the reason this movie appeals to me is that the story is much more subtle and complex than mere "action".

To a lover of the raw vengeance flick, the film gets off to a very slow start. A morose, depressed, and introspective agent named John Creasy (Washington) can't escape either his horrible memories or the bottle. A well-meaning friend gets him a job as a bodyguard for the daughter of a wealthy Mexican family. This duty seems about equal to his current abilities, but his perky, vivacious charge Pita (Fanning) won't let him curl up within his responsibilities. With trust and charm she draws him out of himself until he is once again reengaged with life.

Then happens the very thing Creasy was hired to prevent: Pita is kidnapped. Creasy nearly gets himself killed trying to prevent it, and does some killing of his own, but is left for dead as the girl is swept away. While he lies in a hospital bed, things go very wrong with the ransom. A brutal kidnapping ring, dark family secrets, crooked cops, and crooked lawyers all collide in a terrible mess that apparently gets Pita killed by the kidnappers because of a botched ransom drop. By the time Creasy is well enough to stand, it's all over.

Then he decides to "do what I do best" - visit destruction on those who destroyed little Pita. A bit more of his murky past comes into focus: he had been a counterinsurgency agent around the globe, and as his friend and onetime coworker puts it, "Creasy's art is death - and he's about to paint his masterpiece." And paint it he does, with laser focus and unflinching determination. He takes on a powerful circle of corrupt police officials, ferrets out the dirty secret of Pita's father, and hunts down those who run the brutal kidnapping ring that took Pita and so many others. I won't tell the final ending, except to say that it involves Creasy making a final and heroic sacrifice.

So what about such a film could reflect part of the Great Story? To me, Creasy's single minded determination to repay everyone who profited from Pita's kidnapping reminded me of the ultimate Judgment of God. The criminals, their hands red with the blood of their victims, are themselves brought to judgment. One man tries to intimidate Creasy with his connections to the powerful. That earns a calm and brutal response which makes clear that his connections are useless against this judge. Another tries to wheedle, yet another promises favors, another offers bribes. They all fall, because they are all out of their reckoning. None of what they offer carries any weight with Creasy, who is trying to extract justice for the murder of the little girl he loved. It is grimly gratifying to see this justice roll on, unstoppable as a tidal wave, sweeping before it every barrier until the ultimate perpetrators are brought to the light.

For me, it is helpful to be reminded that a day like this will come for the world as well. In this day we struggle with injustice on all sides, and the powerful oppressing and destroying the weak. We struggle against it as best we can, but seem to have little effect. Part of our burden as God's people is to bear, and struggle, and pray, but at times it seems like the injustice is too great.

But we've been promised the day will come when the Just Judge will come, and visit on all of us that which we deserve. There will be those who try to impress, or wheedle, or bribe - but nothing will avail. The consequences of their sin will be visited upon them, unrelentingly, implacably, and there will be no escape. Injustice will end because Christ will put an end to the unjust.

I think this is what makes Man on Fire so gratifying for me despite the violent and brutal parts - it is a distant, murky glimpse of the ultimate justice that we will one day see. After all, the injustice of the world is violent and brutal, and the Scriptural descriptions of the Day of the Lord are no less so. May that day be hastened, that the innocent may no longer suffer death and oppression at the hands of the powerful and uncaring.

The Name we most need to hear

2009-06-15T21:10:00.001-04:00

The recent situation with the "internet sensation" Susan Boyle highlights an interesting aspect of human nature that's worth considering. If you're one of the few people on the planet who hasn't heard of Miss Boyle, she was an unknown Scottish spinster with an incredible voice who got her big break on the talent search show Britain's Got Talent - her debut performance can be heard here. Once on the internet, this snippet garnered an amazing number of views, and soon the hitherto unknown singer was talked about everywhere. It seems the recognition for her tremendous singing talents was finally at hand.

The rest of the story, so far as it can be understood through the media filter, is not so pleasant. As the show's season progressed and she was increasingly lionized by the public, her composure began to crack. Reports of public outbursts, breakdowns, and erratic behaviour began to surface. Shortly after the final show in the competitive Talent season, she was hospitalized for exhaustion. Whether she'll participate in a post-season live tour is currently in question.

My point here is not to laud or demonize Miss Boyle. Her vocal talent is beyond question, and I wish her the very best as a person and as a Christian sister. But without speculating on motives or internal factors - about which we know nothing, regardless of what the media may say - there's one lesson that can be drawn from this incident.

We humans like to hear our own names. It's part of our fallen condition - our overweening egos crave feeding, and hearing our names in the mouths of others is rich fare for them. We like seeing our names in the papers, and the thought that people we don't know could be discussing us gives a bit of a thrill.

The problem is, this isn't healthy. Especially for we fallen ones, the name we most need to hear is Jesus. Great saints and spiritual masters stress that the more we hear His name and the less we hear our name, the better - and the most blessed state of all is self-forgetfulness. When we are so caught up in Jesus that we forget ourselves, then we're getting close to where we should be.

Granted that none of us know anything about Miss Boyle, and that speculation from a distance on data obtained through the media is very dangerous, I'll still venture a guess that some of her struggles arise from suddenly hearing her name far too much. By all accounts she was a quiet, retiring homebody, little known outside her immediate circle. To be abruptly catapulted into international notoriety, with her name showing up in television broadcasts and on the lips of millions of strangers, seems a recipe for an overdose of attention. Suddenly she was hearing her own name almost everywhere. Could that have knocked her emotional equilibrium off balance? Only God knows, but it wouldn't surprise me.

Interestingly, this state of fame, of wanting to hear our own name in our ears, is a powerful attraction to many of us, including myself. In the economy of the fallen world, fame is a powerful currency. People will work hard and suffer deprivation and humiliation for the prospect of being famous. Yet Miss Boyle's experience, as well as many others through history, indicates this currency is as false as any other found in the world.

For twenty years now, part of my daily discipline has been saying morning and evening prayers - lauds and vespers in the classic cycle. There's definitely something about opening a day and closing it with the name of Jesus on your lips. The more we work on making that Name part of our daily life, the healthier our spirits will be.

So the next time you hunger to hear your own name - maybe when you feel slighted or unrecognized - try whispering the Name above all Names for a while. That's the Name our fallen ears most need to hear.

Stealth Propagandists in the Culture of Death

2009-05-31T20:31:00.002-04:00

Those seeking to form the attitudes and outlooks of this culture had better be careful. There's a stealth propagandist working against their post-modern agenda, and it is not only subtly effective but charming and profitable as well.

I'm speaking of Pixar Studios.

First we had the unapologetically pro-family blockbuster The Incredibles, a fun and fast-paced tale of fidelity, parenthood, and right vs. wrong.

Then we had WALL·E, a celebration of the nobility of duty, diligence, and hard work. It not only exulted the lowly and simple - not an uncommon theme these days, but still refreshing to see - but took a Swiftian satirical swipe at consumerism and self-indulgence that made some of us quite uncomfortable.

And now we have Up.

If you didn't see this animated wonder on its opening weekend, I don't want to spoil your fun. You can stop reading now and go see it (the 3-D version is worth it). But if you don't mind hearing a few "spoilers", or you've seen it, feel free to continue.

The movie's protagonist is Carl, whose shares with his life-love Ellie a longing for adventure and excitement. But after their childhood meeting, the story of their adult lives from marriage to widowhood is told in poignant silent form, nothing but vivid visual vignettes of their life together. (There is a similar "silent" stretch in WALL·E - could the world of masterful computer animation be resurrecting the art of silent film?) When the story resumes with dialog, Carl is an old curmudgeon who picks up the earnest young scout Russell, and the main portion of the film progresses.

The first bit of stealth propaganda lies in the scenes that summarize Carl and Ellie's life together. First, their married life is portrayed as a rich and joyous union. Second, children are seen as a complete blessing - envisioned in the clouds, lovingly prepared for, and eagerly anticipated. The brief but heartwrenching scene in which a doctor delivers the news that there would be no children for them causes Ellie to dissolve into tears - and some of the audience as well. The remainder of their story is still good, but clearly only as good as they can make it, living as they are under the shadow of infertility. Ellie's eventual passing leaves Carl with an emptiness which he has no idea how to fill.

Young Russell is simply a kid looking to get his badge requirements signed off, but as he and Carl end up on their adventure and get to know one another, it slowly emerges that Russell's home is broken. His father used to come with him to scout meetings, and they used to sit on the curb outside the ice cream shop and count cars - but now there's Phyllis, and dad isn't around much, and doesn't have time for doing things with his son. Not much is said because not much needs to be said. The topic is not just painful, but shameful, and one can feel Carl's shame that any fellow adult would treat a child so.

So first the movie portrays not just marriage but childbearing in a completely positive, healthy light - so much so that the loss of the childbearing component hits the viewers as the tragedy it is. Then it goes and shows divorce from the child's perspective, laying bare the brutal damage it does to the innocent. Then the film has the audacity to go and get critically acclaimed, even earning raves and a top rating from our local liberal movie reviewer. See what I mean about stealth propaganda?

It's clear from such stories that we humans are hardwired to just know that certain things align with the order of creation. It is right and good for men and women to marry, and to accept children as the incarnation of their love. It is a tragedy, not a blessing, when those children are denied. No boy should ever have to explain to a stranger that his father's companion is not his mother. No matter what excuses our minds and tongues make, our hearts know better, which is why they respond to tales such as this.

Which is why I say that the propagandists of this culture had better watch out. If they're not careful, all the work they've done with their nihilistic comedians and anti-heros will be undone by the story writers and animation wizards of Pixar, who put out stories echoing themes that people just know are right. Stories about lifelong love and fidelity. Stories about the challenges and blessings of raising children. Stories that speak of things like divorce as they should be spoken of - in hushed and shamed voices. Stories that resonate with the human heart, and will be unconsciously absorbed and made part of the viewer's attitudes.

And furthermore, Pixar will make a tidy profit doing it.

The Opportunity Notre Dame Missed

2009-05-25T15:02:00.002-04:00

Again, waaay overdue here, but life keeps intruding. Blog posting is something I do when other responsibilities allow.

This is dead news - the president has returned to the White House, the protesters are gone, and the crucifix covers have been stowed away. In the judgment of the media, Obama suffered no serious political setback, and since that's what really matters, all is well.

But the fact that the Obama Notre Dame Commencement Address / Honorary Degree controversy is history gives me a chance to look back on it, and consider things that matter more. The thing that stuck out most was the opportunity that Notre Dame had, but forewent. Of course, anyone who knew anything about them would have been able to predict that they would have done so, but it was still an opportunity they could have seized, had they the will.

When the controversy about Obama being invited to give the Notre Dame Commencement address broke, the ND administration was swift to point out that inviting seated presidents to speak at their commencements was a university tradition. They had invited pro-abortion (Clinton) and pro-life (Bush) presidents, and they had come to speak. This was not only an appeal to tradition, but a subtle boast about the University's stature (how many other universities can claim a tradition of having the sitting president accept their invitation to speak?) Notre Dame's claim seemed to be that since inviting presidents was tradition, how could they violate that tradition just because Barack Obama was so fiercely pro-abortion?

But therein lay their opportunity, had they wished to truly bear witness as a Catholic university. It was a tradition, and furthermore, everyone knew it. It was expected that Notre Dame would extend an invitation to Obama, since that's what they did with presidents.

All they would have had to do was not extend that invitation.

There were any number of other parties they could have invited to speak. They wouldn't even have had to make a big fuss about it. ("Here is the President of Notre Dame, standing on the steps beneath the Golden Dome, burning the invitation he would have sent to President Obama.") All they would have had do do, ever so quietly and discreetly, was nothing. To those who knew, that non-extension of the invitation would have said what was necessary. Everyone knew that Notre Dame invited sitting presidents to speak at their commencements, why not this year? The intelligent would have been able to connect the dots, and see that Obama's fierce and vocal pro-abortion stand was in discord with the University's Catholic identity.

But that non-invitation would have come at a cost. To take a stand against the Culture of Death, to send a message from the heart of their identity as a Catholic university, Notre Dame would have had to take a blow to its stature as university who can get sitting presidents to come speak. The non-extension of an invitation this year would have surely meant that any subsequent invitations would be discarded, and Obama would never come to speak at Notre Dame. Their string of presidential commencement speakers would be broken, perhaps permanently, and their prestige as a university would have suffered.

Anyone who knows anything about Notre Dame understands that if presented with a choice between speaking the truth as a Catholic institution and bolstering their prestige as a university, the outcome is foregone. This is why I mentioned earlier that anyone who knew anything about them would be able to predict what would happen. But this is the opportunity they forewent. It is truly a pity, since by not inviting Barack Obama they would have been implicitly extending an invitation to an even more prestigious Speaker - one who may not have stood behind the lectern, but whose Presence would have made far more difference.

What a shame they settled for so little.

The New Priesthood

2009-04-30T19:46:00.002-04:00

One of the vilest monsters in the modernist bestiary is The Exploitative Priest. This character is abhorred because he preys on ignorance and superstition, holding the simple enthralled by his claim to be able to interpret signs and omens, and even to foretell the future. His wickedness is exhibited in his swiftness to command compliance or risk ostracism and excommunication. To those who are pliant to his will and learn his doctrine, he holds out the hope of clemency and salvation, but those who doubt his word or question his teachings are damned as infidels or heretics.

Human nature being what it is, there have certainly been such clerics in history, though not as many as the modernists would like to believe. Furthermore, the Gospel of Christ, when properly understood and preached, is quite different than most religions in human history. The Exploitative Priest is found more widely in paganism, as Daniel 14:1-21 testifies.

Modernists assume that the presence of The Exploitative Priest is due solely to the conniving, scheming, and political skulduggery of The Religious Party. If they'd just leave the simple people alone, they could live their lives in peace. But I think the situation is more complex than that. In fact, looking around this postmodern world, it seems to me that people need a priest figure, even if all he does is exploit them. Furthermore, if there isn't one, they'll seek until they find one.

I don't know why this is. Maybe it is because people want to be connected to something greater than themselves. Maybe it is because they cannot escape the guilt within their breasts, and if they deny the path that God has provided to excise that, they'll find some other path to assuage it. But whatever the reason, it seems that people clamor for a guilt trip, and won't settle until they get one.

As Exhibit A of this hypothesis, I offer the modern Global Warming / Climate Change hysteria. It has all the trappings of the Exploitative Priest scenario: the prophets of doom (led by their Elijah, Al Gore), the guilt, the apocalyptic vision, the path to salvation, the sacrifices and offerings, the interpretation of the omens and foretelling of the future, damnation - the whole smash is there. There's even the transcendent reality of The Earth - a semi-mystical concept that differs quite sharply from the physical reality. A true scientist would be amazed that this unproven mythology has seized the popular imagination so strongly on the basis of such threadbare and contradictory evidence. The fact that it has seems to me strong evidence that people need to feel guilty, and if they deny guilt in one arena of life, they'll have to expiate it somewhere else.

The real mystery is why people not only tolerate exploitation, but seek it out. Perhaps their hearts know that justice will demand something of them for their sins, and want to pay it in the way they prefer. Whatever the reason, I find it cruelly ironic that the modern world that went to such pains to demonize all religion as being simply the product of the Exploitative Priest has turned around and created an even more exploitative priesthood of their own.

C'mon back, guys. It's much simpler than that.

The Fourth Last Thing

2009-04-19T16:10:00.002-04:00

I'm waaay overdue on a post here, for which I apologize to anyone who happens to follow my musings. I've had several ideas for topics, but have felt that I needed to "wrap up" the posts regarding the Four Last Things before continuing. Here goes with the final, and most difficult topic:

If people rarely consider or discuss hell, then they almost never consider heaven - at least, not seriously. To the modern mind heaven seems to be either an assumed state or a distant irrelevancy - or both. Questions about who will get to heaven, and under what conditions, are considered gauche. Admission is assumed, even for those who disregarded anything to do with God or salvation in this life. To see this in action, just try suggesting to a family member that such a dear departed is anywhere but "at peace", and you will be castigated for being insensitive and judgmental.

Another more subtle attitude sounds more altruistic: that we shouldn't worry ourselves about heaven because it cheapens any good we do on earth. The idea is that we should want to do good for its own sake, not because it would qualify one for some long-term payoff. A more jaded extension of this view sneers at "pie in the sky bye and bye", or disparages some as being "so heavenly minded that they're no earthly good."

The result of these casual attitudes has been a culture full of people so earthly minded that they're no heavenly good. If there was someone who was heavenly minded, it was Jesus. He even did some scoffing of His own - at those who would consider any good of this world to begin to compare to the blisses of eternal life. If you read Jesus' words - His actual words, mind you, not His words interpreted by some socially-conscious preacher - you find two overriding themes: first, that the purpose of His entire mission, the telos of all the pain and suffering, was to open for mankind the door to heaven. The second is that this admission to heaven was far from foregone. He often warned His disciples most severely that the way was narrow and difficult, and that few would obtain it.

Two major influences helped form my perception of heaven: my father, and the writings of C.S. Lewis. My dad (the one who kept warning me about divine judgment) kept echoing Jesus' words to me - about how nothing in this world even began to compare with the glories of life with Christ. But it was Lewis who helped me see that the beautiful, wonderful things of this life were only beautiful and wonderful because they were little glimpses of heaven. This helped me see beyond the cultural cartoon mythology of heaven as this not-particularly-exciting place where people in robes wandered around on clouds. I've known plenty of beautiful things in my life: stunning sunrises and joyous Christmas mornings and touching homecomings and majestic concerts and quiet evenings at home with my family and so, so many other things. Lewis helped me understand that the only reason those things were beautiful and meaning-full was that through them, I touched eternity - or eternity touched me, as the case may be.

This has become how I think of heaven: not simply as an ultimate goal to be reached beyond the grave, but as something that is seeking to break into this world, to burst forth with a superabundance of life and joy and beauty. That seems to be what you find in Scripture as well. Our parish Bible study is going through the Book of Acts, and in every sermon from Pentecost to the end, there's an undertone of something seeking to burst into our world. That's our role as Christians: to "infect" this drab, drear, monotone world with the color and symphony of heavenly glory. I loved Lewis' image of the Incarnation as like an invasion, a reconquista by the rightful King of the world, and we are His partisans, receiving His supplies and working to expand His reign on this earth. That's the Church's mission, and our mission as members of His Body. Every good deed we do, every act of charity and work of mercy, is an infusion of heavenly glory into this sin-damaged world.

This is not to denigrate the ultimate place of heaven, true union with God and a New Creation. But it is not something we just have to mope around and wait for, putting up with burdens and sorrows here in hopes of an ultimate payoff. Of course, we won't see the full payoff until all creation is redeemed, but we can be a conduit of heavenly grace to the world even amidst our trials and struggles. If we focus on that goal, and strive for it, we bring it closer, and a little more of our world comes under Christ's dominion. That's what being "heavenly minded" really is - and nobody has ever done more good for this earth than those who think like that.

The Third Last Thing

2009-04-03T11:22:00.004-04:00

In the classical meditation on the Four Last Things, the third is the unpleasant one, the one the modern world doesn't wish to mention or even think about.

Hell.

Hell here means the place of final damnation, eternal separation from God, the place prepared for Satan and those who followed him, both spiritual and human. No second chances, no rescues, no escape hatches. Hell is the destination for those who want nothing to do with God.

Hell has to be one of the least meditated-upon topics in modern society. If we think about it at all, we consider that it was for the Middle Ages, we think, or for Puritans – narrow, superstitious, uneducated folk who were dominated by cruel overlords and driven by fear. In these more enlightened times we understand that God is Love, and would never be so cruel as to send someone to such a terrible place as hell. Well – maybe the Jeffrey Dahmers and Josef Fritzls of the world, but not somebody like me.

Would He?

From what I've seen, modern consideration of hell goes no deeper than a hare-brained pseudo-syllogism that runs something like this: I'm too nice a person to damn anyone to eternal suffering, and God's far nicer than I am, therefore God won't damn anyone either, and thus we don't have to worry about hell.

Besides (continues the modern argument), of what benefit would it be to meditate on such a downer concept as eternal damnation? Why ponder hell if nobody's going there (except perhaps a few really bad people)? That's hardly enlightening or uplifting, and isn't religion all about being enlightened and uplifted?

There are so many ways to respond to the modern attitude toward hell that one hardly knows where to begin. But I'll try by starting with this last attitude, that hell is a downer not only unworthy of meditation, but deserving to be consigned to the bin of relics next to hair shirts and penance pilgrimages. Obviously, I believe that to be false, and that hell is very worthy of meditation, but for a reason that sounds incongruous.

We should meditate on hell as a demonstration of God's love for us demonstrated in His respect for us.

That's right – respect. The existence of hell is required by the existence of free will. A being that can choose, can choose to be somewhere other than with God. That may be a foolish and self-destructive option, but if free will exists, it needs to be there. And if a being is truly loved, it is truly respected, and if it is truly respected, it is permitted to make its own choices, even if those choices are foolish and self-destructive. In fact, to preclude certain choices is an expression of disrespect – and ultimately of something less than love.

Here's an example: in Hayao Miyazaki's classic Spirited Away, the slave driving witch Yubaba has no mercy on anyone – except a giant baby who she keeps in a posh and well-furnished nursery. (By “giant” here I mean just that – the infant is as tall as two men. Anything is possible in the spirit world in which Spirited takes place!) Yubaba prattles baby talk to this spoiled “infant”, cleaning up after it and pacifying its tantrums. By appearances, she loves this baby more than anything. But appearances can be deceiving, as demonstrated by the witch's smothering “love”. The titanic infant is, essentially, imprisoned in his nursery, stifled and stunted by the very thing that has provided for him. In reality, the baby is a pet – doted upon and looked after, but not respected. Only a strange alignment of circumstances permits the baby to escape into the real world, where he meets challenge, difficulty, and ultimately maturity.

God is no Yubaba. He's not interested in slaves or pets, but free beings capable of receiving and returning charity. That means He has to permit us to make choices and take risks, and yes, that includes the ability to choose an existence without God.

But why would any one choose that? The answer lies all around us, in a culture that is increasingly making clear that it wants nothing to do with God. Oh, we'll take the good parts – intellect and senses and a beautiful world to enjoy and other people to love and relate to. Just leave behind those rules about how we should treat each other, and certainly don't mention returning gratitude and worship to the Being who made all this goodness.

The problem is, we can't. God and the good things He creates are a package deal. If you take one, you have to take both. Reject one and you reject the other. That's ultimately what hell is: the rejection of God, and with that the rejection of all the good that God brings. That means puppies and sunsets and vacations and beaches – and, for that matter, creativity and beauty and love.

I can hear the whining already: “But why is God so vindictive? Why deny those goods just because we want nothing to do with Him? Is God like a child who scoops up his marbles and storms off just because things aren't going his way?”

A couple of points about that. I'm not up enough on the metaphysics of it all, but I suspect that is an impossibility. Good without God is probably one of those logical contradictions which C.S. Lewis so thoroughly skewered in Mere Christianity. But let's presume for a moment that if someone doesn't want anything to do with God, God will depart, and leave behind the goods of sense, intellect, and even a physical world in which to live. What kind of existence might that be?

Poets have speculated on that very possibility. One of the more famous exercises was the play No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre, wherein hell for three vicious, sinful people is simply being locked in a room together. No racks, no fires, no demons – just sinful human natures clawing at each other unmitigated by any compassion or charity. The effect is quite chilling. And mystics through the ages have speculated that hell might be nothing more than sinners repeating for a bleak and dreary eternity the sins which damned them: endless conversations consisting of nothing but bitter gossip, perhaps, or ceaseless banquets at which gluttons have nothing to do but stuff more and more food down their gullets. Even with our limited imaginations, the prospects of such eternities make us shudder – or should.

But why would anyone choose such an existence? If offered the option between such a bleak and empty existence and everlasting joy, why would any rational being choose bleak emptiness?

Well – we are being offered the option. From the perspective of eternity, that's what our lives are: one long question about which we'd choose. But simple mental assent isn't enough. Everyone wants good – the question is whether we want the God from which the good comes. Our lives are a long opportunity to answer the question. God gives most of us a chance to enjoy the goods while pondering the question and its terms. If we look hard enough, we can even see that the lesser goods are just signposts pointing to the greatest Good, the one thing we should really want. If we want that greatest Good, or even to still have the lesser goods that come with Him, He's opened a door to permit that to happen. But if by our lives and actions we prove that we don't want the greatest Good – well, He'll respect that decision. That will be hell.

The thing is that none of us knows exactly when the question is going to be closed. That's why it's good to meditate on hell, and to examine the kind of answer that our lives are giving to the most important question of all.

The Path of Humility

2009-03-25T20:08:00.002-04:00

Those who ponder the significance of Christmas quickly come to realize that once you get beyond the presents and carols, the Feast of the Incarnation is a celebration of humility. The Son of God, the second person of the Trinity, came to be born into obscurity and poverty - even, as Chesterton observed, in a cave beneath the earth. This is the far deeper and more profound meaning of the Feast that invokes worship long after the crèche is packed away.

If this is true of Christmas, it is far more true of today, the Feast of the Annunciation. This is when the Church celebrates the visit of the angel Gabriel to the Virgin Mary as recorded in Luke 1, when she gave her fiat to the Lord's wish that she bear His Son. When she assented to be used in God's plan of salvation and the Holy Spirit overshadowed her, the Divine Son was incarnated in her womb first as an embryo.

That's an abasement so deep that some were literally scandalized. God Himself dwelling within the sexual organs of a human woman? The concept was so outrageous that the Greek philosophers just scoffed, and the Gnostics were offended. It was even too much for certain Christians, such as Bishop Nestorious, who taught that it was the human Jesus who dwelt in the Virgin's womb, not the divine Christ. It was in condemning this heresy that the Church brought into common usage the term Theotokos, Mother of God, to affirm that both Jesus human and divine natures were present prenatally.

That's what strikes me: the humiliation which the Son of God voluntarily endured for our sake. As Scripture says, "Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men." (Phil 2:5-7) When I was younger and my blood ran hotter, I relished the martial imagery of Christ triumphing over evil with a mighty victory, His enemies scattered on the ground at His feet. But the older I get, the more I appreciate the manner of that victory: it was gotten through humility and weakness, by Christ not only deigning to come as a man (which would have been humiliation enough), but to put Himself into our hands to be cruelly and unjustly mistreated and executed.

It's that humility that's the surprise. We men think in terms of mighty conquerors because that's how we like to rule: the strong overcoming the weak by force of arms, the greater will overcoming the lesser ones by strong and persuasive words. But here was the greatest Will of all choosing not to conquer and rule like that. His arms were the ones He stretched out to be nailed to the wood, and His words were those of forgiveness. No wonder the people of the day couldn't understand this manner of conquest - it didn't look at all familiar.

This ideal of strength in humility, of conquering through weakness, is a hidden truth, but it is found in the most obscure and mystical of wisdom through human history. For example, the Chinese sage Lao Tzu recognized it, and used the image of water to illustrate the power of humility ("The highest goodness, water-like, does good to everything and goes unmurmuring to places men despise; but so, it is close in nature to Tao" - Chapter 8, Tao Te Ching.) In another place he recognizes that lowliness and humility is usually the lot of those who love wisdom ("But honor comes to me when least I'm known: The Wise Man, with a jewel in his breast, goes clad in garments made of shoddy stuff." - Chapter 70, Tao Te Ching.) These cryptic images hint at the ultimate humility of the Incarnation and the Passion.

The lesson I'm coming to learn in my old(er) age is that the Path of Humility that Jesus walked is not only something He did to make my salvation possible, but the model for my own growth in Christ-likeness. When I was younger I got excited about mastering demons - now I understand that it's a struggle for me just to master my own weaknesses and disordered appetites. Decades of trying to overpower them through main strength has only proven that they'll pin me every time. If I'm going to be a blessing to the world like I want to be - heck, if I'm even going to make myself a proper disciple - the Path is clear. My Master has already walked it, and He calls me to follow. It leads down, down, down to the depths of humility and self-abnegation. I don't like it - in fact, I hate it, and the Old Man within me screams in protest for he knows that his tomb lies that way. But if I'm going to reflect Christ to a world that needs it, I'm going to have to walk the trail He blazed.

Maybe that's something that can mark the Feast of the Annunciation. If Christmas is marked by gratitude, and Good Friday by sorrow and repentance, and Easter by joy, then maybe the Annunciation is the true feast of humility. The Blessed Mother models perfect human humility in her assent to God's plan – a plan that brought her no end of difficulty and pain. Jesus Himself demonstrates infinite humility in coming into her womb as an insensate embryo, there to grow in the same manner as the humans He came to save. I need to take that mission just as seriously, and embrace the humility Christ has for me.

The Fritzls of California

2009-03-23T08:35:00.002-04:00

The trial of Josef Fritzl in Austria, with all its sordid detail and dramatic developments, has captured the imagination of the world. It has all the necessary components to rivet our attention: brutality, imprisonment, deviant sexual behaviour, murder, enslavement. Surely, we think, this is true evil in our midst, and it isn't a good thing we're not like that.

Right?

Before we get too smug about how righteous we seem by comparison to a lustful, dictatorial sadist who enslaves and murders his own offspring, let's consider the root of this evil. Essentially, Fritzl disregarded any authority that would restrain his appetites. He decided that his own judgment overruled religious teaching, moral law, civil law, social custom, family tradition – anything that would stay his hand. Of course, this brought about what it always brings about: the Law of the Fist – might makes right. Those within the small scope of his power were ruled by brutal force and exploited for his gratification.

Despite what we'd prefer to think, the root of this wickedness is not lust, or greed, or desire for power. It is pride. The pivotal movement, the essential choice that led to all those other horrors, was Fritzl's exultation of his own will as the ultimate authority in his life. From the moment he discarded the Law of God – or even of human law, which reflects God's Law – as having any authority over him, those terrible results were predictable. It all began with his pride.

This is what should disturb us. While not many of us will have the opportunity to lock our daughters in a dungeon to be raped at our leisure, we are all faced with the temptation to set aside moral laws and exult our wills as the ultimate authority. Every morning when we put our feet out of bed, we risk putting them on the first steps of the path that leads to that kind of perverted depravity.

Which brings us to the subject of California. Amidst the media-stirred frenzy following the passage of Proposal 8 last autumn, one of the responses has been a ballot initiative that would eliminate state recognition of marriage and replace it with “domestic partnerships”, which could be between any two people for any reason. This initiative will certainly be surrounded by a flurry of commentary from all sides, but I doubt that any of it will attend to the foundational premise of the effort: the idea that society has the authority to redefine what marriage is. The parties circulating these petitions are assuming without question the principle that marriage was created by society, instead of the other way around.

That's pride. Though it is expressed in a different manner and in a different venue, that's the same sort of pride that Josef Fritzl exhibited when he decided to discard morals and customs in order to remake his “family” in the form that pleased him. It is dethroning any authority that would tell them they couldn't do something they wanted to do, and enthroning their own egos in its place.

I've little doubt that this initiative will make it to the ballot in California. It may lose, but it will be there, and will be debated and discussed ad nauseum. Through it all, the subtle message will spread that customs, morals, and laws that are inconvenient can be set aside. A certain number of people will come to realize, as Fritzl did, that they don't have to wait for any laws to change. If they can set up their own little kingdoms, they can define their own laws and impose them on people within their power.

That's why I fear that we've only seen the beginning of the Josef Fritzls of the world. May God help the innocent.

Truly fighting evil

2009-03-20T19:59:00.002-04:00

Our culture loves comic book heroes. For many years now, one of the surest ways to make big money on a movie has been to base it on some superhero. Not only do we like the idea of someone having some kind of special edge such as the ability to climb walls or a super-capable suit of armour, but we like the idea that these advantages can be used for "good". We get a visceral kick out of seeing the mob bosses or the cruel warlords or the sadistic psychopaths get their comeuppance at the hands of the the hero. It's nice to see the scales tipped toward good for a change, given how often they're tipped the other way.

This is hardly a new idea - it's just the latest incarnation of a theme as old as mankind. The image of The Hero kicking the stuffing out of the Bad Guys and rescuing the victims is a thread that runs from Beowulf to Iron Man and will presumably continue as long as men tell stories. The Evil is always over the top: excessive, egregious, and crying out for action. The response is inevitably force in some form, be it sophisticated intelligence or technology or simply superior strength. The Evil is vanquished and life can return to normal.

The drawback of this view is how it treats Good, Evil, and the conflict between them. For one thing, something as blatant as warlords terrorizing villages or psychopaths blowing up hospitals is but an extreme manifestation of evil. It is like a big, bright dandelion flower in the middle of a green lawn. It's obvious, and for that reason the most offensive, but it's only the most visible aspect of the problem. The Superhero Solution is the equivalent of firing up the John Deere and mowing off all the dandelion flowers. Swift, decisive action with dramatic results - there you go, all green again, problem solved.

Any groundskeeper knows that mowing off the flowers doesn't solve the dandelion problem - you have to dig them out by the roots. Similarly, the problem of evil cannot truly be dealt with by simply blasting away the most obvious manifestations. To eradicate evil, you have to dig it out by the root. But that simply moves the question: what is the root of evil?

If Scriptures is to be believed, then the answer is as simple as it is intractable. The root of evil is the unsubmitted will - a will that chooses its own way over God's way. This is a problem we all share, great and small, superheroes and supervillans. The solution is conceptually simple but practically impossible: perfect submission of our will to God's. There's only One Man who has pulled that off, and He's the true superhero.

This is where our superhero paradigm breaks down. We envision the Good Guy showing up and imposing his will on the Bad Guy, usually by exercise of extreme force. There's no submission - it's all subjection. It's human will against human will, and the one with the most strength wins. We hope it'll be the guy with the good intentions, but sometimes that's where our knuckles get white gripping the theater seat. The idea is that one human will overcoming another human will is sufficient to address the problem.

But that's never sufficient. I'm not saying that there aren't men with good and noble wills as well as men with corrupt and depraved wills. What I am saying is that someone with a good and noble will recognizes that it takes all the effort he can muster to submit that will. Truly conquering evil within another will is beyond his ability. Efforts to subdue other wills may be necessary to prevent complete chaos in human society, but in the long haul they can only bind evil for a time - it's just like mowing the heads off dandelions.

As long as we're enamored of the Superhero Model, we won't truly conquer evil in ourselves or anyone else. It perpetuates the myth that evil is something obvious, dramatic, and (most of all) Out There. The true path for conquering evil has been modeled for us: perfect submission of will. That's the only real example we've been given, and our only way of truly battling evil, because our own will is the only one we can really conquer. The problem is that submitting our will is far less excitement - and far less entertainment - than watching the Bad Guys get thrown around or blown away or outsmarted by the Good Guy. But we have to decide whether we want illusion or reality.

Part of the impact of the recent movie Gran Torino lies in this very tension. The gruff, profane hero Walt has to deal with some real evil threatening those he cares for. He tries the Superhero approach, directly confronting the evil mano a mano. It backfires horribly, and he realizes that direct confrontation is useless. The young lad he befriends wants to respond with more superhero tactics, but Walt takes another path that involves submitting his will - and that ultimately conquers. (I won't spoil it - but be sure to see the movie.)

We love the idea of fighting evil. Are we willing to do what it takes to really do so?

Rev. Walter Barnes

2009-03-19T12:23:00.002-04:00

Last night the world lost another light. His name was Rev. Walter Barnes, and he was a seemingly obscure Anglican priest who lived and ministered in southeastern Ontario and southeastern Michigan. I only knew him briefly through my association with the Cursillo movement in Sarnia, and because he was interim pastor of the small Episcopal church in a neighboring town. I know he served as a WWII chaplain, and pastored churches in Sarnia, Stratford, and I believe London as well.

By the time I first met him he was either approaching or just past 80 years of age, and though his mind was still sharp, his hearing was going. But that didn't dampen his commitment to Christ, his enthusiasm for the Gospel, or his love of everyone that he met. Walter treated everyone with courtesy and charity, and always listened completely to whoever he was conversing with (though by the time I knew him, he had a tendency to cock his head slightly to get the best advantage from his hearing aid!) My only regret was that I knew that circumstances would prevent me from truly getting to know this unique and precious saint. I made a couple of Cursillos with him, and attended his church a few times, but was never truly in his flock. I do not begrudge those to whom he was able to truly minister! I have a friend who considers Walter to have been his spiritual father, and I'm sure there are many who share that opinion. He was that kind of man and that kind of minister.

He had retired from the pastorate well before I met him, but was still plenty active (including coming out of retirement to act as an interim for the neighboring church. When he finally had to leave, the church sputtered for a while then closed completely.) Once he "really" retired, I didn't have a chance to speak to him except when he ran into a computer problem. I gather he was just quietly declining at his home, but around the turn of the year he suffered a stroke. I just heard today that he died sometime last night.

I have no fear for Walter. He presents before the Throne of Christ a set of credentials that no man would be ashamed of. If I can be half the minister he was, if I could touch a quarter of the lives he did, if I could reflect Christ's light to a darkened world with a fraction of the brilliance he did, I would consider myself a success. But we who where illuminated through his sacrifice and ministry now live in a world rendered darker by his absence.

But I know what Walter would say. He'd tell us to work harder to scrub away the sin in our own lives, so that we could better reflect Christ's glory ourselves. He'd tell us that if we thought things were dark, we had only to step closer to Jesus, where it was brighter. I'll try, Walter. For your sake, I'll try. I know you'll be praying for me, for all of us who considered ourselves your sons.

It'll just be a little harder without you here.

Policy By Mythology

2009-03-09T17:00:00.001-04:00

Well, as expected, Barack Obama signed an executive order today lifting Bush's executive order banning federal funding of embryonic stem cell research. Spouting the media fueled hype about all the medical miracles that can be expected, hope for the future, blah, blah, blah, the president did as he was told and signed the paper authorizing our taxes to be used to kill human beings in hopes of using their tissue for medical treatment.

There are several frightening things about this, but to me the greatest seems to be that this guy, who is supposedly steering an effort to mend a collapsing economy, can't see the plainest economic fact about this whole matter. If killing embryonic humans to harvest their tissue hold such promise, then why aren't private investors lining up to fund it? That way they'd own the patents and have a corner on the wonder cures, and would make a killing as they are rolled out. Not only should federal funding not be needed, it wouldn't be wanted, since that would cloud the issues of ownership and royalties.

Yet, strangely, the private investors are nowhere to be found, so the hue and cry from the universities and research firms is that federal funds are necessary to unlock this fountain of youth. Nobody, least of all this supposed wunderkind of a president, seems to question this mysterious lack of investors. The answer is right there to see: the private investors did line up to fund it. They have already flushed their billions to no avail. For over a decade, heavily funded ESC research has been going on in venues like Singapore and Korea, which have no restrictive laws. This research has failed to turn up even a single laboratory success, much less a reproducible cure. In fact, the only success in research has been the discovery of more and more roadblocks to progress, causing some ESC researchers to speculate that workable ESC therapies will never be found. Investors are out billions, and are forcing firms like ESC International to back off their ESC research and pursue other paths.

You'd think the president and his advisors would have done a little research before making this policy change - but no. They're beholden to the cultural mythology regarding stem cells. I've written elsewhere about the counter-rational faith in embryonic stem cells, and how impervious it is to facts and logic (we won't even mention moral considerations). So we end up with policy guided by mythology, excused by press releases, and (of course) not missing a chance to take a shot at the despised, reviled prior president.

We humans excel at telling ourselves stories to insulate ourselves from realities we'd rather not face. But as my father liked to point out, there will come a day when the those stories will be stripped away, and we face the unvarnished reality of what we did, why we did it, and how we deceived ourselves about it. On that day, I think I'd rather be the president who put into place a policy protecting embryonic humans, rather than the one who removed that policy.

The Second Last Thing

2009-03-07T15:41:00.001-05:00

When raising me, one of the kindest things that my father did was to repeatedly remind me that one day I would stand before the Throne of Judgment and answer for everything I had done in my life. This was something he kept constantly before his own eyes, and I remember him recounting more than once how he'd faced some occasion for sin, and the knowlege of his ultimate judgment deflected him from sinning.

The concept of final judgment is so unpopular these days that it's barely mentioned. Were it not for the enforced cycle of Scriptural readings for the Liturgy, I suspect that passages pertaining to judgment would barely be heard. The image of a God who judges doesn't fit well with the preferred modern image. (This is predictable, given that "judgmentalism" is one of the few mortal sins in the modern consciousness.) Since we see ourselves as all basically good people with good intentions, what's to judge? We far prefer the image of a friendly, welcoming God who awaits us on the other side of death with a pair of spiritual slippers, a big hug, and a hearty welcome. As far as all those passages in the Old and New Testament regarding a glorious Throne, and having to answer for every casual word, and being judged according to what we have done - well, we can just interpret those away as applying to others, or maybe just avoid reading them.

This tacit avoidance speaks louder than we imagine. If we are truly so noble and guiltless - "good person" being the popular term, as in "I'm not a bad person - I'm a good person, aren't I?" - then what have we to fear from judgment? The fact that it's not an image that we find comfortable looking at or pondering makes clear that deep down we suspect that maybe we aren't such "good people" after all.

That's why one of the classic Christian meditations has been on the Four Last Things: death, judgment, heaven, and hell. Thinking about judgment forces us to face the gritty reality that maybe we aren't as good as we'd like to think. My father's consistent injunction to remember the judgment had to be a fruit of this habit, and it's been helpful to me through my life. I wish I could say it had kept me nearly sinless, but that isn't true. However, when I've struggled with sin, the knowledge that I would someday answer for my actions has strengthened my resolve to fight it. I'm sure that was part of my father's intention in teaching me as he did, and I hope I did as well with my children.

One thing that does stand out about The Judgment, if you think about accounts like Matthew 25: damnation was pronounced on the basis of what wasn't done. The sins of the condemned are sins of omission - not feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, comforting the sick, and so forth. This flies in the face of our cultural fixation on being "good people" - which is defined as not doing overtly evil actions. Apparently avoiding evil isn't good enough for a holy God - the practice of charity is what's important. The sins of the rejected in Matthew 25 - as well as the rich man who let Lazarus die at his door and earned punishment for it - was the not doing the acts which charity demanded. That really makes me think. Just when I'm patting myself on the back because I think I'm disobeying less than I was last month, the reality of judgment smacks me in the face. How well am I doing in what really counts?

That's what pondering judgment does for us, or at least for me: it helps me to judge myself, so I might make necessary changes before it's too late. That seems to be the intent of the meditation - not to create fear-paralyzed peons trembling at the imminent prospect of standing before the Throne, but to help us consider our state soberly, and adjust our lives accordingly. That's what my father did. He didn't go about each day trembling in his boots at the prospect of facing the Throne of Christ. He trusted in God's love and forgiveness. But he never forgot what he'd have to answer for, and tried to live so as to have to answer for as little as possible.

I'm trying to do the same.

Something at which I never wish to excel

2009-03-03T09:29:00.002-05:00

There is someone close to me with whom I have a cordial, if not affectionate, relationship. We exchange notes and other pleasantries, but there's one thing she does that keeps the relationship on edge, at least from my vantage point. Despite her friendly and generally optimistic nature, she has a habit that keeps me at a distance.

She sneers.

Not usually at me, though there have been a couple of instances. But when discussing anyone who doesn't think like her, or whose outlook she cannot understand, you can almost hear her lip start to curl. The comments take on a sarcastic, condescending edge which is a sharp dissonance with what should be a charitable and sympathetic personality. The effect is grating - after even the briefest exchange with her I feel like I have to go scrape something off myself.

The tragedy is that she was not always this way. I remember when she was a bubbly, joyous girl who refreshed all she met. I don't know what happened - perhaps it was her college years at a prominent liberal university, or her graduate studies, or her self-identification with the coastal liberal culture. I'm of the opinion that it has something to do with her deep and uncritical acceptance of the output of the mainstream media, for in that environment the supercilious sneer is the universal response to anyone who deviates from their rigid orthodoxy. But whatever the cause, this unfortunate tendency mars an otherwise delightful personality.

Pondering this got me wondering about the sneer, and what is repulsive about it. There's no question that it is almost a mark of our culture. The media of all stripes practice it and train their disciples to do likewise. It expresses an attitude of superiority, of condescension toward others. At its heart lies a separation, a dissociation. The party at which the sneer is directed is no longer a fellow human, worthy of dignity and respect, but an object – and furthermore, an object of scorn and derision. One who sneers sees the other as beneath him in some manner – socially, intellectually, culturally, or whatever. To be sneered at is to be told that you are deficient, lacking something of worth and despised for that. A sneer says, “How could anyone think (or believe, or admire, or act like) that?” At least an overt challenge recognizes the other position as having some validity; a sneer implies that the other is beneath consideration, unworthy of any response beyond scorn.

To any who might think this nothing more than an unpleasant personal habit, I ask you to consider what kind of person usually doesn't sneer: children. A sneering child is one of those discordant images that seems to violate the basic order of the universe. Children may laugh, cry, wail, plead, and connive, but if a child is sneering, something is badly wrong. And yet – didn't Jesus tell us to be like children? Whatever that injunction meant, and how childlikeness differs from childishness, one thing should be obvious: the children of the Kingdom should not be sneering. No human should ever treat another as an object, and certainly not an object of contempt and ridicule. The sneer is the antithesis of sympathy and compassion.

Throughout the Wisdom Literature are warnings for the young to keep clear of the “mocker” - the one who sneers and holds others in contempt. One reason for this is that sneering is contagious. If you hang around with those who sneer, you learn to sneer. This is why it's all the more disturbing that sneering has become almost the language of the reporting media in our culture. Reporters sneer, hosts sneer, guests sneer. As we immerse ourselves in their world, we find ourselves sneering as well. Of course, we don't call it that – we call it being in the know, or becoming more sophisticated in our outlook, or whatever. The effect is the same: when we hear something that contradicts what we think we know, our eyebrow arches, our lip curls, and without knowing it, we've separated ourselves from some person or group of people. That's one reason I try to avoid much exposure to the news media of any type. Whatever response I might give another, I hope it is never a sneer.

The Swift Path to Despotism

2009-02-28T15:36:00.001-05:00

Editor Mort Zuckerman often writes the editorials for U.S. News & World Report. Sometimes I agree with him and sometimes I don't, but they're always well-expressed and worth reading.

His editorial in the March 2009 issue is entitled No Time To Lose. He refers to the need for swift action by the federal government to get the credit system working again, and his call is for massive fiscal intervention. The truly telling line is in the middle of the piece: "Speed is crucial. Ideology has to be junked. The question is simply pragmatic."

That theme is being heard more and more in the public discussion of the nation's economic troubles, and it is frightening. Those pushing it are saying in essence that guiding principles of government can be bundled up as "ideology" and thrown in the trash in the name of economic expediency. Hard won ideals which were rigorously debated, and for which people strove and sacrificed and died, should simply be dismissed as a hindrance to preserving material prosperity.

There is no swifter way to despotism than this.

There was a time in this country when everyone knew our founding principles, and valued the importance of adhering to them. Economic trends were deemed less important that being true to our Constitution and heritage. The reason was that the principles of our government were the key to our freedoms, which were the key to all other goods in our society. This included, but was not limited to, economic freedom - which included the freedom to fail as well as succeed. Those principles did not include the idea that the government was responsible for insuring the economy worked a certain way (at least, not until FDR's New Deal, the success of which is under serious debate.)

But it seems that Mr. Zuckerman is willing to throw over these principles in the name of getting the economy "working again" - by which he specifically means lenders lending and borrowers borrowing. The idea that there might be good economic reasons that lenders aren't lending or borrowers borrowing seems to be dismissed as simply "ideology" that must be "junked". Perpetuation of the economic standards to which we must become accustomed is the important thing - anything that hinders that should be thrown overboard, or at least stashed deep in the hold until it can safely be brought out again.

Those who join this chorus are forgetting their history. Time and again through the ages people have handed over their freedoms to those who promised safety from some catastrophe, be it economic or military or social. There are big, dramatic examples such as the Nazi takeover of the Wiemar Republic in the 1930's, but there are far more little ones where some village or county or nation succumbs to the promises of some demagogue and hands over their rights in return for some safeguard. Of course, the tragic lesson is that they rarely get handed back.

Ironically, many of those now clamoring the loudest for massive government intervention in the economy are the same ones who raised so many concerns about the provisions of the Patriot Act and how it would lead to the erosion of our liberties and excessive government intrusion in our lives. If those concerns were valid, then there should be much more concern about “junking” our basic principles in the name of economic expediency. The freedoms which will be ultimately demanded in exchange for this temporary economic patch will far exceed anything the Patriot Act ever threatened.

Sadly, this is just whistling in the desert. The intervention of which Mr. Zuckerman speaks is a done deal. The American public has already been told from so many sources that it is necessary that they have given in and permitted it. The only question is how much more will be permitted, and how many more freedoms sacrificed, in the name of economics.

Our forefathers had an opportunity for economic security. Remaining in the British Empire and participating in the mercantile system would have been a certain way of increasing the wealth in the colonies. But they chose the risky path of founding a new country because they valued freedom more than economic security.

What a shame Mr. Zuckerman and those like him would “junk” their principles to step back into the clammy embrace of government-assured economic salvation.

The fate of us all

2009-02-26T09:34:00.001-05:00

Most Christian traditions observe Ash Wednesday as the beginning of Lent. At Masses, services, and even as individuals Christians receive a smudge of ashes on their forehead along with an invocation. This is the only Christian ceremony that leaves a notably visible sign on a person.

Why ashes? Ashes aren't a sacrament, and there's no record of Jesus or the apostles either using ashes or commanding their use. But ashes are an ancient sign of repentance in both Jewish and pagan cultures. Deliberately making oneself dirty was a sign of distress, mourning, or lament.

This is the case with their usage on Ash Wednesday. The ashes are applied with an invocation, a command. The ancient formula is, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust you shall return." This is taken directly from Genesis 3:19, where God curses Adam for his disobedience, telling him that instead of the glorious immortality he was meant to enjoy with God, his immediate fate would be physical death. His body would return to the inanimate earth from which he was drawn. His inescapable fate, and the fate of all his descendants, would be death.

This is worth pondering. Ours is a culture that doesn't want to look at death. I've been at funerals where death wasn't mentioned once. We were there to "celebrate the life" of the deceased, and there were references to her "being at peace" and having "gone on". Even with the coffin right there in their midst, people didn't want to face the fact that they had been visited by death, and certainly didn't want to consider that the same fate awaited all attending.

Yet there is no more certain fate. Whatever will happen to any of us, we will all die. I may or may not ever touch the Eiffel Tower, see the Himalayas, play the violin, or skydive. It's even possible that I'll never pay any more taxes. But I will know death. It may be swift or it may be slow. I may have time to prepare for it, or it may take me unexpectedly. But death is the one experience we're all guaranteed. The day will come when my breath will shorten, my vision will darken, and I will die to this world.

This is worth pondering all by itself, without dragging in other considerations. Death will happen to us all. We will return to dust. Whether we received a smudge of ceremonial ashes on our forehead yesterday or not, stop today and ponder the fact that someday you will die. Your days on earth are numbered - and you don't know the number.

Not a real post

2009-02-26T09:31:00.002-05:00

If anyone would like to read one of my stories, one is being serialized over at the Catholic Blog Fiction site. Check in often to sample works from a variety of authors!

1910

2009-02-20T10:03:00.002-05:00

The passage of this year is already picking up steam, and before we turn around it will be halfway gone. The next year turn will be into 2010, and the first decade of this century will be over.

As one who remembers the "Year 2000" problem that faced the computer industry, this almost stuns me. It's also startling to realize that there are children now in school who weren't even alive on September 11th, and youngsters in middles school for whom that day is a historical event they were told about, not an experience that is recalled. 2010. How quickly the years pass.

As a student of history, I'm fond of casting back and wondering about how things looked in other times. For instance, the approach of 2010 makes me wonder how things looked a century ago, in 1910. In that august year, the world's leading - and arguably sole - superpower was Britain. Their empire spanned the globe, their wealth outstripped anything before seen in history, their navy ruled the oceans, and their military was superior to anything on earth. They were (finally) at peace with their rebellious child the United States, which was still suffering growing pains. The civil war that had nearly torn that country in half was still within living memory, and they were struggling to digest the massive acquisition of land and immigrant population that had marked the 19th century. Though their feisty president Roosevelt had made a show of power and presence with his "Great White Fleet", it consisted of a mere 16 battleships. The United States was decades, probably generations, from being a world power even close to what Britain was.

Imagine if someone had stood in Trafalgar Square in 1910 and foretold that a mere 30 years hence, Britain would be suffering direct and devastating attacks on its own soil - something that had not happened for nearly a millennium - and would be scrambling to deflect the imminent danger of invasion. Imagine if that prophet had gone on to predict that within 40 years, Britain would be stripped of most of its empire, have its wealth severely depleted, and see its military so badly beaten that it would have had to appeal to the United States for aid not once but again and again. Imagine if that person had said that by the middle of the century, the flower of two generations of Britons would have been shredded on battlefields and oceans around the globe, and though they would be ultimately victorious, it would be at terrible cost to their homeland. Who would have believed such fantastic predictions?

And yet, that was precisely what happened. The Britain of 1910 was battered and supplanted within two generations, going from dominant world superpower to needy recipient of international generosity. To be sure, her citizens showed heroic resilience and steadfast courage, and made tremendous sacrifices to preserve their freedom, but Britain's international stature was permanently shaken. She was replaced on the international stage by the United States, of all nations!

This lightning-swift reversal of fortune for Britain – most of which happened between 1915 to 1945 – makes me wonder about the fate of the our country at the dawn of this century. Even without bringing in issues of Divine judgment and cultures reaping what they have sown, this example illustrates how quickly change can happen, and severe a catastrophe can be. Anyone who looks at the international political and diplomatic landscape and presumes that this is how things will be for a while should take a lesson from this slice of history.

Where will America – and the entire West – stand in 2050? God alone knows, but it is folly to presume that He will respect what we consider Great Nations and Robust Economies. As the 20th century proves, such things can topple with startling swiftness. Thus has it always been with the kingdoms of men.

A Twisted Reality

2009-02-10T19:01:00.000-05:00

I remember an interview I heard during the most recent presidential campaign. The furor over Barack Obama's pastor Jeremiah Wright had brought to the fore the popular conspiracy theory circulating in some cultures that the CIA had created AIDS as a weapon to reduce the black population. The interviewer had contacted a black congressman to discuss the situation in general and this belief in particular.

The interviewer was incredulous that anyone could give credence to such an outrageous idea, but the congressman assured him that many blacks subscribed to that belief. The interviewer asked flat out if he, the congressman, believed that the CIA had created AIDS. The congressman deflected the question with the assurance that it was widely and sincerely believed by a good number of blacks and others. This exchange went futilely back and forth several times as the interviewer pressed his guest as to whether he believed the theory, and the guest kept referring to the quantity of people who sincerely did.

Pondering this later, I realized that I was hearing a textbook collision between the classical mindset and the postmodern outlook. To the classically trained host, the important thing was the objective reality: did the CIA actually create the AIDS virus and conspire to disseminate it among the black community? If that was believed (or not), that belief or unbelief could be addressed with facts, documents, and other objective measures to establish what, if anything, had happened. The host was focusing on what actually happened – the belief about it could (and should) be brought into line with that history through exposure and evaluation of the facts.

But his guest was working from a postmodern frame of reference. To him, facts and objective reality were, if not irrelevant, than a distant second. The critical thing was how many people believed the story, how firmly they believed it, and what that belief would motivate them to. Since what people believe governs where they direct their wills, the nature and magnitude of belief is of pivotal importance to those seeking power in the political arena. If enough wills can be aligned, that can translate into political clout, and that's what matters. Issues such as truth – in this sense the question of whether the CIA actually did create and disseminate AIDS – are unimportant in comparison to the acquisition and manipulation of political power. This explains why the congressman kept dismissing almost flippantly the hosts persistent questions about whether he believed the CIA/AIDS conspiracy theory. To him, it didn't matter whether it was true or not. The important thing was how many people believed it, and what action that belief would translate into.

To me, it seems that the election of Barack Obama is the ultimate expression of this postmodern thinking – at least so far. On an objective level, this is someone who has no public executive experience at all, whose only political experience was as a state senator, and who didn't even complete his first term as junior United States Senator before beginning his presidential campaign. The question of whether he was qualified for the Presidency of the United States would seem to answer itself. But that didn't matter to the media who obediently presented the polished image he wanted them to, and it made no difference to the adoring crowds who melted before his public persona. What mattered to them was what they believed about him. He was the embodiment of hope, the reassurance that “Yes, we can!” effect change of some sort. The nature of that change, and what costs might be associated with it, were questions left unasked. They had to do with objective reality, and that was secondary, if not irrelevant. The important thing was that his supporters believed in him, and believed in him firmly! They projected their beliefs onto him, and then voted for the reality they believed they saw. This also explained the gushing, over-the-top response to his election and inauguration, even from parties for whom the language of jaded cynicism had become a native tongue. They were adoring a nonexistent being. There was no such man – he was the creation of their collective imaginations.

I think this is why the facade is cracking so badly so quickly within his first couple of weeks in office. As President of a country which has pretty much exhausted its international credit, is generally seen on the global stage as a political and military power in decline, and whose banking and finance system is showing itself to be a house of cards, Obama is going to have to deal with many unpleasant objective realities. No amount of firm belief by any number of people is going to deflect them. It's already becoming clear that his thin experience isn't equal to the task. The question that remains is what will happen when someone who rode to power on a wave of collective belief discovers that the force which put him into office can't help him deal with the problems that face him there? And what will his followers do when their vision of him begins slipping in light of his responses to the realities he must face?

History bears witness to how those kind of disillusionments turn out. It isn't pretty. I only hope our political and social system will be able to bear the strain.

Kneeling Tall

2009-02-02T17:47:00.000-05:00

I recently had the privilege of attending a Catholic Men's Conference. There were about 1100 men, mostly from my archdiocese but also from surrounding ones. One of the speakers was a dedicated priest who had been one of the main drivers behind the Conferences for the seven years of their existence. We knew and loved this priest, deeply appreciating his wholehearted devotion to Christ and the example it set for us as men. When his talk was announced, the entire group of us sprang to our feet in a spontaneous ovation. He came forward and didn't even look at us, instead turning and kneeling, head bowed, toward the Tabernacle and the Crucifix above it. He stayed that way until the applause tapered off (which took some time), and when he rose, he pointed toward the Cross and reminded us, "If I've done anything good, it's been all Him."

Kneeling isn't done much these days. Our egos don't like it. But this brief, barely verbal sermon served as a reminder of what nobility and honor truly are, and how high a man stands when he kneels before the Throne of God and bows beneath His mighty sceptre. If that faithful priest perseveres, which I trust and pray he will, Christ Himself will raise him up and bestow on him the honor his fidelity deserves.

May we all grow in that kind of devotion and humility.

A Shadow Across Friendship

2009-01-31T19:21:00.000-05:00

Writing in the 1980's, Sheldon Vanauken (“Van” to his friends, which I was lucky enough to be) observed the increasingly militant partisans of the homosexual “movement” pushing for more and more social acceptance. As an orthodox Christian Van didn't condone unchastity of any type, but he also sympathized with the legitimate point that all people should be treated with dignity and respect – particularly because he knew people with homosexual tendencies who'd been mistreated.

But allowing for that basic charity with which all men should be treated, Van was opposed to the widespread acceptance of homosexual behaviour as a social norm. A major reason he offered was one that I have never seen anyone else advance, but have seen come true in my lifetime. He contended that once homosexual attitudes and behaviour became accepted as normal, it would spell the death of normal, healthy same-sex friendships that had no sexual component. And he was dead right about that – as homosexuality has become more “mainstream”, close friendships between two men, or even two women, have become increasingly rare, and where they do occur, they are suspected of being – ahem – something more.

This was driven home to me recently when watching the holiday classic White Christmas. Most people know the story, but this time I took special notice that the film's plot pivots around the friendship and business partnership of two men, Bob Wallace and Phil Davis. These guys were unmarried well into their '20s and possibly '30s, but nobody seems to question that, and romantic interests with women are a major driver of the plot. Their friendship is close, even intimate, but nobody thinks anything unusual about it.

Try telling me that a movie could be made these days with two male leads who were intimate friends, single well into their third or fourth decades (and in show business at that), that wouldn't have people assuming things about the nature of their relationship. This has been a poisonous side effect of the social push to mainstream homosexual behaviour – it has destroyed even the idea of simple friendship.

Van predicted this effect, and lamented it. Being classically educated he knew that close friendships between members of the same sex are not only healthy and normal, but the pinnacle of human relationships and one of the cornerstones of true civilization. In fact, there's something liberating about having the sexual dynamic removed entirely from a relationship – it enables partners to relate in perfect charity, without either seeking to exploit the other for anything. (This is one reason why cross-sexual friendships are more difficult – they always carry a germ, however small, of tension within them.) Van knew, because he had both seen them and experienced them, that solid friendships could exist alongside the most passionate love a man and woman could know, and the two would enrich each other.

I've had many good male friendships in my life. In fact, for a year before I was married, a friend and I shared an apartment just a few blocks from the college I was attending. We did almost everything together – attended church, went on outings, washed dishes, shared our problems, encouraged each other in our Christian walk. He even helped me through difficult times in my engagement, and was best man at my wedding. That was in the early '80s, before a shadow had fallen across such simple, generous friendship. These days, such closeness might still exist, but not without an occasional raised eyebrow or questioning glance. In generations past it was normal, common behaviour for men or women to share living quarters or close friendship with others of the same sex, for economy, companionship, and common goals. How many modern people will forego that enriching experience because they're afraid of what people will think?

What a loss that is! The highest and noblest of human relationships – simple friendship – is darkened by the political agenda of the radical homosexuals. They've even tried to stretch the shadow backward through history, suggesting (or presuming) that close friendships in past ages had to have had a sexual component. Van knew this was wrong, as do I. I pray that the deep reality of true friendship will survive the night which this culture is entering.

No change, little hope

2009-01-22T12:54:00.000-05:00

Kissing the – ah – ring of the pro-abortionists who worked so hard to elect him, one of Barack Obama's first actions as President was against unborn children. As a largely symbolic action, within hours of his inauguration his staff had stripped from the White House website the document published by President Bush proclaiming January 18th National Sanctity of Human Life Day. In a practical action with direct and deadly consequences for the unborn, Obama is expected to sign orders reversing the Mexico City Policy which forbid Federal funds from going to organizations that promote or provide abortions overseas. This policy was first promulgated by President Reagan, sustained by Bush 41, reversed by Clinton, then reinstated by Bush 43. Now it will be reversed again by Obama, and American taxpayer dollars will once again support the spread of abortions around the world.

There is a symbolic aspect to this, as well: Obama plans to sign the order on Thursday, January 22nd – the 36th anniversary of the publication of the infamous Roe vs. Wade and Doe vs. Bolton decisions which struck down all state-level protections for unborn children across America. While thousands of pro-life marchers clog the Mall for the annual March for Life, he will be signing his order putting the authority and resources of America behind the spread of the Culture of Death.

If this seems like a small thing, consider this: with increased federal funding, pro-abortion organizations will be able to hire counselors and clinic staffers, who will advise poor women in other countries that abortion is their best option. They will be able to hire lobbyists and policy advisors to guide lawmakers and bureaucrats on best ways to liberalize abortion laws. As they have here in America, they will work to undermine the authority of families, churches, and other protections for women. The resources of the country that is supposed to stand for liberty and justice will be used to further the cause of oppression and violence against the weakest in the world.

Those Christians who voted for Obama – especially Catholics – should take careful note. Those of us who listened beyond the “hope” and “change” mantras knew full well that Obama would do this – he promised his pro-abortion supporters several times that he would. If you voted for him despite this public promise, if you were so dazzled by the fawning media adulation and the glitzy aura built around him, I'd love to know how you think you're going to answer before the Throne of Christ for helping put this man in the Oval Office.

Because you will have to.

A look back at strategic thinking

2009-01-17T19:56:00.004-05:00

I'm not much into lifting blog posts from other sources, but in this case I couldn't resist. The Joint Operating Environment 2008 report is published by the Joint Chiefs of Staff as a high-level evaluation of global trends, and contains very high-level thinking about factors and scenarios facing the world. One thing they stress is that too much focus on "predicting the future" is unwise, since nobody can do so, and the important thing is to be flexible and agile in your thinking so as to be able to adapt to the inevitable unexpected.

As an object lesson in this principle, they had a sidebar in the report noting how strategic thinking looked at approximately 10-year intervals through the 20th century. It's instructive to note not only what changed, but how swiftly. This is a helpful exercise in a time when the media has everyone thinking that everybody has always thought the way we think, and will always think that way.

Strategic Estimates in the Twentieth Century:

1900 - If you had been a strategic analyst for the world’s leading power, you would have been British, looking warily at Britain’s age old enemy: France.

1910 - You would now be allied with France, and the enemy would now be Germany

1920 - Britain and its allies had won World War I, but now the British found themselves engaged in a naval race with its former allies the United States and Japan.

1930 - For the British, naval limitation treaties were in place, the Great Depression had started and defense planning for the next five years assumed a “ten year” rule -- no war in ten years. British planners posited the main threats to the Empire as the Soviet Union and Japan, while Germany and Italy were either friendly or no threat.

1936 - A British planner would now posit three great threats: Italy, Japan, and the worst, a resurgent Germany, while little help could be expected from the United States.

1940 - The collapse of France in June left Britain alone in a seemingly hopeless war with Germany and Italy with a Japanese threat looming in the Pacific. America had only recently begun to scramble to rearm its military forces.

1950 - The United States was now the world’s greatest power, the atomic age had dawned, and a “police action” began in June in Korea that was to kill over 36,500 Americans, 58,000 South Koreans, nearly 3,000 Allied soldiers, 215,000 North Koreans, 400,000 Chinese, and 2,000,000 Korean civilians before a cease-fire brought an end to the fighting in 1953. The main opponent in the conflict would be China, America’s ally in the war against Japan.

1960 - Politicians in the United States were focusing on a missile gap that did not exist; massive retaliation would soon give way to flexible response, while a small insurgency in South Vietnam hardly drew American attention.

1970 - The United States was beginning to withdraw from Vietnam, its military forces in shambles. The Soviet Union had just crushed incipient rebellion in the Warsaw Pact. Détente between the Soviets and Americans had begun, while the Chinese were waiting in the wing to create an informal alliance with the United States.

1980 - The Soviets had just invaded Afghanistan, while a theocratic revolution in Iran had overthrown the Shah’s regime. “Desert One” -- an attempt to free American hostages in Iran -- ended in a humiliating failure, another indication of what pundits were calling “the hollow force.” America was the greatest creditor nation the world had ever seen.

1990 - The Soviet Union collapses. The supposedly hollow force shreds the vaunted Iraqi Army in less than 100 hours. The United States had become the world’s greatest debtor nation. No one outside of the Department of Defense has heard of the internet.

2000 - Warsaw is the capital of a North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) nation. Terrorism is emerging as America’s greatest threat. Biotechnology, robotics, nanotechnology, HD energy, etc. are advancing so fast they are beyond forecasting

2010 - Take the above and plan accordingly! What will be the disruptions of the next 25 years?

Slavethink in action

2009-01-10T20:36:00.001-05:00

We recently rented The Lilies of the Field, which I hadn't seen since my youth. If you have never watched this 1963 classic starring Sidney Portier, you should, and if it's been a while since you've seen it, find it and watch it again. It's a beautiful, simple story with surprising depth to the characters and forthright expression of faith of the type that could not be found in a modern movie.

Though it's easy to focus on Portier's character, Homer Smith, I found myself paying more attention to the character of the Head Mother of the small convent, Mother Maria. Portrayed as a stiff and imperious dictator, Mother Maria is a severe contrast to the easygoing, down-to-earth Homer - something that causes much of the tension of the story. Their relationship of misunderstanding begins when she's convinced that God has sent her convent a good, strong workman while he's thinking of a pickup day job to earn some spare cash. Things go downhill from there, but somehow the essential goodness of everyone involved comes out and the chapel gets built.

The big question for most people watching the film is, why is Mother Maria so prickly? She's bossy, ungrateful, insensitive, and terribly demanding on those around her. She takes everything for granted, including Homer's generous help, which he is under no obligation to provide. As the story unfolds, it becomes clear that she has alienated everyone else who has tried to help the convent, and she does the same to Homer a couple of times.

When I saw the film in my youth, Mother Maria's rudeness was simply a mystery to me. Why was she, a nun, supposedly a minister of God's grace and love to the world, so mean to Homer and everyone else? I think I have the answer.

Mother Maria saw herself as a slave. God's slave, of course, but a slave nonetheless. She saw her only value to God as being what she did for Him. She did not see herself as a daughter belonging to a family, but rather as a worker whose only value was her function, her productivity. This comes through clearly toward the end of the movie when she brings to the chapel the itinerant priest who serves her region. He's speechless at what Homer and the local parishioners accomplished, and gazes around the humble chapel as if it were the Cathedral of Chartres, grateful that he doesn't have to say Mass out of the back of a pickup any more. But all Mother Maria can mutter is, “there is so much to do, so much to do...” She doesn't take time to appreciate what has been done, she just looks forward to the next task on her list.

She views everyone else through this perceptual lens as well. People are there to be put to work, and once Homer actually refers to her as a slave driver. She's very even-handed, of course – she doesn't treat anyone any better than she treats herself, but it's clear from the story that she treats herself brutally. Why should she show herself – or anyone else – courtesy, consideration, or compassion? She doesn't see herself getting any of that from anyone – especially God. For instance, she never thanks any human for anything. She'll thank God, but never another human, because she doesn't accept any thanks herself.

This story reconfirmed one of the most important lessons that God has taught me in my life – one that He's still teaching me: that He wants people who think like sons and daughters, not slaves. For me, the basis for this lesson is the elder son in the famous story of the Prodigal Son found in Luke 15. Reading the story, most people focus on the Younger Son, the Prodigal, who squanders his inheritance. But the Elder Son is also a critical player in the story, and his self-perception slips out in the furious monologue he unleashes on his father (v.29-30): "All these years I have slaved for you..."

I could (and probably will) unpack in much more detail all the things God has taught me over the years on this topic. It's the central theme of a story of that very name - I Have Slaved For You in my book, The Last Ugly Person. But to focus on Mother Maria as an example of the type, her stiff and prickly personality stems from her perception of herself as a creature valued solely for how much productivity she can pack into a workday. It also causes no end of conflict and misunderstanding with nearly every other character, especially poor Homer.

My biggest emotional memory of Lilies of the Field from my youth is how sad I felt to see Homer's wagon driving away down the road as the closing credits rolled. He'd done so much there, he was so beloved by the sisters and the community! He had an offer of a good job and nowhere better to go - why couldn't he stay? Sadly, the answer is Mother Maria. In the final scene of the film, it slowly becomes clear to him that no matter how fond he is of the little community, and how much he wants a home, he'll never get past the Mother's demanding and thankless personality. That same reality seems to be dawning on Mother Maria as well, as he starts the sisters singing the film's trademark "Amen!" spiritual while he backs out of the room and packs his station wagon. She's sitting at the table, slowly coming to the realization that her brusque ingratitude has driven this man from their lives. The saddest thing is that it didn't need to happen. Had Mother Maria been able to see herself as a beloved daughter in the household of God, she would have been able to view and treat others the same way. Instead, she viewed herself as a slave, an appliance with a pulse, only valued so long as it performed its function. Why should she view those around her any differently?

Am I any different? Do I understand how my self-perception affects my view and treatment of others? Do I see that I can love only to the degree that I understand that I am loved?

Showing Forth the Light

2009-01-05T19:39:00.003-05:00

“Arise, be enlightened, O Jerusalem: for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee. For behold darkness shall cover the earth, and a mist the people: but the Lord shall arise upon thee, and his glory shall be seen upon thee. And the Gentiles shall walk in thy light, and kings in the brightness of thy rising.”

Isaiah 60:1-3

The Old Testament passage for Epiphany is drawn from Isaiah 60, where the Lord speaks of the future glory of Israel, and how light will shine on Jerusalem while darkness and mist (or fog) covers the nations (goyim). Further into the chapter it speaks of the wealth of nations being brought by foreign kings, even naming gold and frankincense, and how camels would bring this abundance of wealth (hence the camel theme so common with the Wise Men).

The darkness and mist was the darkness of sin, and the light was the revelation of the Incarnate Son of God, which was to illuminate not only the people of Israel, but to dispel the darkness that covered the nations. Listening to that reading this year, it struck me as it never had before: I am of those nations, those goyim who dwelt in darkness, far from the revelation of God. My ancestors had no claim to the promise, to the covenant of God. At the time of Christ, and certainly at the time of Isaiah, they probably didn't know there was such a nation as Israel. Yet God's mercy is so great that the Light made its way to the land of my forebearers, and they responded, and laid at the feet of the manger their treasures: a will submitted to God, which is more precious than gold or frankincense, and the only thing we can really give Him. Because my fathers were drawn out of the darkness of sin into the light of salvation, I can know eternal light.

I sometimes wonder what it must have been like, living in that darkness. Dreary year after dreary year, no hope, no light, nothing but petty superstitions and legends, the dark maw of death ultimately swallowing all. Chesterton offers a glimpse, and studies can suggest some of it, but so long as I stand in the light, I'm only studying that from the outside.

What amazes me is how many people today want to turn their backs on the light and plunge back into the darkness. They think it's a better life, somehow. They forget how many stumbled about for centuries – millenia – in the darkness seeking the light. They don't think about the Wise Men, and why they took that long and arduous journey. What did the Wise Men expect to find, and why did they expect it to be any greater than what they had? They were magi, the wise – people came to them to get answers. Yet they undertook a dangerous journey to come before Wisdom Himself. Their spiritual forefathers, the Wise Men of all ages, had expended their lives in search of what the magi were given freely. No wonder they lay down their rich gifts – the Gift they got in return was of much greater value. Yet so many today want to turn their back on that Gift.

If anything, that makes me appreciate the Gift even more. I'm sorry that so many find the darkness enticing, and want to return there. My fathers waited long and worked hard and paid a high price to come to the light. I'm staying here.

New Year Profundity (or not)

2009-01-01T17:50:00.002-05:00

Expectations are that the first post on the first day of a new year should be profound. Perhaps a thoughtful retrospective on the year gone by, or meditations regarding the days to come. When the date rolls around to "1/1", such things are de rigueur.

I'll try not to disappoint, but no guarantees.

Things are rather low-key around home today - we had our New Year's Eve party last night, and today the kids are mostly recovering by sleeping. The day began on a chilly note when I rose to find that the furnace had been switched off the night before (fortunately it just needed to be switched back on). After that I dealt with balky tub drains and balky routers (for some of my household, the router is the greater of those problems), and then got some pizza and watched a movie we rented. After I post this, I'm going to get around to some thank-you notes. A quiet day all in all.

But morning prayers provided an opportunity to do some thinking. Every year as I swap out my old ordo (i.e. schedule of readings) with the new one, I look at the thick bulk of pages covering the upcoming year and wonder what those days and months will bring. I've done this for years, and it seems like just yesterday that I was looking at the pages for 2008, wondering what experiences would accompany those readings. Now I can look back on them and attest: the experience of God's goodness and provision. I honestly don't know how we made it through this past year financially (as my tax return can witness), yet somehow here we are. Of course, it's been this way for 2½ years or so now - maybe I'm supposed to get accustomed to it. I'd like to be able to stop fretting and sweating over financial matters, but that's very hard, even when the Lord is giving extensive practical lessons in His provision. Maybe that'll be something I can focus on in 2009 - being less fidgety about how or when God is going to provide and simply trusting that He'll keep doing so, as He's proven He can do (however He does it). Not that I'd be casual about any work He put before me, or ungrateful to friends and family who have helped us out, but I'd work on trying to be a bit less frenzied about living so close to the edge. It seems to be where the Lord wants me living.

Of course, looking at the pages of 2009 made me wonder about the year to come. Many are gravely concerned about the upcoming year - financially, politically, socially, and in many other ways it looks like a very challenging time. As someone whose small business has been struggling for nearly three years, living in a state that never emerged from the last recession and whose major industries are teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, it would seem that I have more cause for worry than most. As mentioned, I hope the lessons of the past years will help me be more trusting about God's provision - in fact, part of me wonders if these past years have been faith toning lessons, for my own sake and for the sake of others who I might encourage. But more than even this, I wondered what I'd like to accomplish in this upcoming year.

For me, the answer is simple: I'd like to reflect Christ better to those around me. I'll consider it progress if toward the end of the year, when others look at me, they can see Christ more clearly than they did at the beginning. My great example is St. John the Baptist - the man who knew that he was a herald, and that he didn't matter; that his message was everything. It was he who rejoiced to see Christ's coming, and trumpeted to his disciples, "He must become greater, and I must become less!" What total self-abandonment and unselfconsciousness! What abasement of pride and ego! What utter trust in his Master, that he didn't worry about his ministry or impact or résumé, but threw himself recklessly into his mission, leaving it to Jesus to sort out the final details. That's the attitude I'd like to have. Maybe I'll get more of it in the year to come.

My Wisest Words

2008-12-29T19:37:00.002-05:00

I try to put some thought into things I say and write, especially when those things are for public consumption. I try to study where I should, think through what I want to say, and craft my words precisely.

But sometimes things happen that remind me what true wisdom is, and where it can be found. For instance, for the week around Christmas Day we stayed with my daughters' families, and had a grand time with the grandchildren. One of my grandsons is only five months old, so there's not much conversing we can do, but he likes me and I enjoy bouncing him and singing him nonsense syllables. This babbling serves no functional purpose except perhaps as a source of amusement to those watching, and is hardly dignified, but that doesn't matter. My grandson enjoys it, and while I'm doing it, he's all that matters.

Therein lies the wisdom that discursive reason cannot grasp. At his age, the little guy is that curious combination of totally self-centered and utterly unselfconscious. He has not yet learned to be sly, or to work things to his own advantage (those days will come soon enough). He simply exists out of his own center, living life as it happens. That outlook seems contagious, for when I'm playing with him, I find myself doing the same thing. I'm not thinking of his education, or character formation, or any other such weighty things (those days, too, will come soon enough, albeit secondarily for me). I'm simply being grandpa, and enjoying our time together. I'm not planning, or executing, or evaluating, or pondering - I'm just being, and relating out of that being. It's a skill that babies and a few others possess, and we adults tend to lose along the way.

This isn't to say that there isn't virtue in contemplation, or carefully deliberated action. But there's also a place for simply being, and enjoying who you are and who you're with. Hopefully we'll all take some time to do that during this holy season.

The Payoff

2008-12-22T09:57:00.000-05:00

Temperamentally, I can look at life – particularly Christian discipleship – with a grim eye. I tend to relish themes like counting the cost, and not looking back once you've put your hand to the plow, and the sacrifices necessary to follow Christ. Highlighted in my Bible are verses pertaining to trials and difficulties and struggles. The past two posts on winnowing and smelting are typical of how I look at the Christian life and attendant struggles.

This outlook may be a helpful counterweight to a culture that focuses more on the comfort and benefits of the Gospel that the associated cost – when it pays attention to the Gospel at all. However, even useful counterweights can introduce imbalance if they are not kept in check.

That's why it's helpful for people like me to step back occasionally and remember that the struggle and trial and purification has a goal, and that goal is good. The winnowing ends, and you have good grain. The ore is finally smelted, and you have the pure metal. The trial brings the victory and the cost brings a payoff.

We are now into the Fourth Week of Advent. Four candles are burning in the wreath, and in days it will be Christmas, the Feast of the Incarnation, the celebration so festive that the Church taught a whole culture how to celebrate it. Every year the Feast comes around as a reminder that yes, we do have a Redeemer. The road to redemption may be long and trying and difficult, but there is a road where there was none before, and that road has an end.

Perhaps symbolically, this Christmas Ellen and I are away from home, at our children's homes, where all of us far-scattered ones are regathered. During the final countdown days of Advent we will be together. There will be conversations and good coffee and books to read to little ones and plenty of rest and fun and feasting. We will celebrate each other, and our Redeemer, and when the joyous morning comes we will exchange gifts as an expression of our love and esteem for each other, in commemoration of the Great Gift Who was given as the ultimate expression of love. Some days later, we will separate again (though we are never far out of touch), for we are still in this life.

But the day will come soon (very soon, in the grand timescale of things) when we won't have to separate any more. The Advent that is this life will come to an end. The purple will be put away, for the penance will be finished, and the white will come out forever. The True Feast will begin, and the full meaning of all the best Christmas mornings and weddings and reunions and family feasts will be realized. We will then taste the fullness of what all those joyous occasions only gave us the scent of.

So enjoy this Christmas, even in the midst of whatever trials you are enduring. May God bless you as you celebrate the Incarnation, the coming of hope beyond hope, and the opening of the road that had been utterly closed to us.

Refining by fire

2008-12-16T09:05:00.000-05:00

Smelting is another Scriptural image for purification. This is the process by which metal is extracted from ore. Most of us moderns have learned of it from diagrams or pictures of industrial processes performed in modern factories far removed from where we live. But to people of Biblical times, smelting was much more immediate and familiar. Large quantities of crushed ore were piled into ovens and heated with a charcoal fire while air was pumped in. The result was a lot of useless slag and a very small amount of more concentrated metal-bearing residue. Once you got enough residue, you did the whole process again to separate out more slag (or “dross"), and then typically again and again until you finally had something like workable metal (hence the reference in Psalm 12:6 to “silver...refined seven times").

Every aspect of smelting was dirty, hot, backbreaking work. From making the charcoal to mining and crushing the ore to working the bellows to digging out the furnace, there was nothing glamorous about it. Smelting was a lot of work for very little return, but it was the only way to get metal, which was necessary for survival. It also provided an immediate object lesson in spiritual growth and maturity.

Granite is good, solid rock. You can hew it, form it, polish it, even engrave it, and it will hold up. Likewise iron is good metal, suitable for forging and hammering. But ore is neither good rock nor good metal. It is too crumbly and weak to serve as building material, too brittle to be hammered and formed, and even too soft to be used as an abrasive. If it isn't refined, it's useless.

This refining process illustrates two things. One is similar to the lesson of grain and chaff: what looks like a lot is in fact very little of value. A large pile of even high quality iron ore might yield a pound of iron; a large pile of a more precious metal such as copper or silver might only yield an ounce or so – and that only after lots of hard labor.

Another lesson is one that is directly used in Scripture several times: that the trials and struggles of this life are like the fire of the smelting furnace, used by God to separate out the precious spiritual maturity from the slag of the natural life. Thus when God in Deuteronomy 4:20 referred to Egypt as “the iron furnace" out of which He had drawn His people, nobody missed the point. This was not only true personally, as individual Israelites could see how the struggles they'd endured had increased their dependence upon God, but also corporately. According to rabbinic legend, only about 20% of the children of Israel chose to make the Exodus – the remainder stayed behind in Egypt, and their identity and memory is lost to history.

God used this smelting image again and again throughout Scripture. “The wicked" were compared to slag in Psalm 119:119, in Isaiah 1:22-25 Isaiah states that the pure “silver" of obedience has become slag that needs to be purified by trial. God explains to Ezekiel in Ezekiel 22:18 that the nation of Israel has become like slag. God uses the image of refining in Daniel 11:35 to explain how "the wise" will be purified through difficulty, and in Zechariah 13:9 God uses the same image to explain how He will deal with all His people. One of the final prophecies in the Old Testament, Malachi 3:2-3 compares the Messiah to "a refiner's fire".

Which is an interesting thing to keep in mind during Advent. Excitement and anticipation builds as we prepare to celebrate the coming of the Messiah. A few of us even hope for the Second Coming. But then, the Jews were excited about the Messiah's coming, despite the stern warning of Malachi (read Chapter 3 again) and the nearly brutal words of John the Baptist in his day. The Jews (and we) hope for goodies and good times; what they (and we) are promised is smelting. Sure, the result is good, but it's very hard on the ore, and a lot of useless bulk gets thrown out along the way.

From this perspective, Advent looks less like a countdown to fun and more like a challenge to our courage and character. Do we have the cojones to stand up and ask for "the treatment", knowing that smelting is not only painful to endure, but embarassingly revealing? How will we feel when the furnace cools and we learn that what we thought was a lot going in was mostly useless slag? ("That little hunk at the bottom is it? The rest of this is just junk?") Yet that trial by fire is the only way we become what we're meant to be. Without it, we're nothing more than debris on a hillside.

The Chaff of Life

2008-12-15T17:04:00.002-05:00

When it comes to purifying things, there are two images that occur repeatedly in Scripture. One is winnowing, and the other is smelting. For most of us in the modern urban West, these examples lack the potency they had for the original hearers, so we tend to just skim over them. But especially in a season like Advent, where purification is a central theme, it's beneficial to look a little closer at both processes, and how they're used in Scripture, to see what we can learn.

When grain is harvested, you get more than just the grain. You get the husks (or hulls), bits of straw, dust, and other debris in there as well. The general term for this is “chaff”, and it's all waste. In order for the grain to be useful, the chaff has to go. In Biblical times, this was usually done by tossing the harvest on a round flat area, known as a threshing floor, and worked over with a stone something like a big rolling pin, or a wooden framework known as a threshing sledge. This broke the grain free from the chaff. Then workers would take things that looked something like leaf rakes, called winnowing fans (or forks), and with them scoop up the contents of the threshing floor and throw it into the air. The grain, being heavier, would fall back down, while the lighter chaff would be blown away.

Winnowing has a couple of effects. First, it substantially reduces the volume of the grain. A bushel of unwinnowed grain might look pretty full, but much of it is fluff. Once it is winnowed, there is a lot less of it, but it is a lot denser, and all of it is valuable. Another thing winnowing does is thin out the impostors. When viewed from the proper angle, an empty hull can look just like a kernel of grain. Only when you pick it up and it crumples between your fingers do you realize that you didn't have what you thought you did.

In the Old Testament, God frequently used the image of winnowing to drive home what He would do with those who ignored His law. One of the significant prophecies John the Baptist made about Jesus pertained to winnowing (“His winnowing fork is in His hand, to clear His threshing floor, and to gather the wheat into his granary, but the chaff He will burn with unquenchable fire.” Luke 3:17) The obedient and faithful were the grain, the hypocritical and superficial were the chaff. When the Pharisees heard that, you can be sure they thought of Jeremiah 15:6-9 – and trembled.

What does this do for us here in Advent? It seems to me that the important thing is to notice that chaff is not something harmful like poison ivy, but it is undesirable specifically because it is useless. Even though it is an expectable part of growth (grains cannot grow without hulls), ultimately the chaff is simply discarded. It is natural, it is even useful in its time, but when harvest comes around (which was the purpose of all that tilling and planting and cutting), it is cast aside.

It's also important to note that the chaff is the visible part of the growing. Look out over a field ripe for harvest and you see golden stalks swaying in the breeze, their rich heads rustling as they rub together. Y'know what? All that you can see is waste – ultimately chaff. The valuable part, the kernels of grain, are hidden away and have to be extracted, separated from the hulls and straw. A particular stalk might look robust and impressive, but only after the externals are removed does anyone know how much grain the stalk actually grew.

So it is with our natural life and all the accouterments that go with it. The work schedules and menu plans and home maintenance and retirement accounts are natural and sometimes necessary parts of our lives, but they are concerns that belong to this world. Like the hull that shelters the grain, their purpose is to nurture the spiritual life that is what the Sower really wants from the field of our lives. And if that's true for the productive aspects of our earthly lives, how much more is it true for the movies and the video games and the other idle things with which we fill our time. Again, not that any of those things are innately bad, any more than hulls and straw are, but they're not the goal of our existence.

Perhaps Advent is a time to ask the Harvester to do a little winnowing in our lives. See what harmless but useless distractions He could call to our attention and help us remove. We may not yet be able to experience the ultimate winnowing in our lives, but it may help us to have some of the chaff removed, if only so we can see that our baskets maybe aren't as full as we thought they were – and that much of what they're full of isn't worth all that much.

We aren't ready

2008-12-07T20:07:00.002-05:00

Advent is an interesting season. In the modern West it has been nearly eclipsed by the mercantile Christmas season (or “XMas”, as C.S. Lewis puts it in his classic essay.) Even for those who strive to observe Advent, such as our family, it can seem a season without depth. When I was growing up, Advent was sort of a “mini-Lent”, and we gave things up or made resolutions, but it never had the grim severity that accompanied the season approaching the Passion (for one thing, that steadily increasing sequence of lit candles was a promising countdown to the Big Day!) So the season tended to devolve into flat rituals, such as opening the doors of the Advent calendar and reading the specified verses. Even the Mass readings took on a predictable cant: “A voice cries out in the wilderness, 'Prepare the way of the Lord!'” “For unto us a Child is born...” The theme of sober preparation, of getting ourselves ready, gets lost in the merriment accompanying the approaching holiday, and lost along with it is the underlying statement implied in that theme.

Implied statement? What would that be?

That we're not ready.

Not ready? How can that be? Aren't we careful to follow all the Church instructions regarding Mass attendance? Do not many of us consecrate even common days to the Lord with Rosaries, or saying the Liturgy of the Hours, or Scripture study? Do we not pray and seek the Lord several times a day?

Perhaps we do. But the ancient cycle of the Church Year was drawn up by men who did those things as well, and in their wisdom they ordained that there should be such a Season, and its message should be: Prepare. It may profit us to examine their reasoning more closely.

In what ways might we be not prepared for Christ's coming? There's an interesting incident in Israel's history that gives a clue. It's in Joshua 24, in the same context as the famous “as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” passage (v. 15). In verse 23, Joshua instructs the people to “put away the foreign gods” and to make good on the repeated promises they make to follow the Lord alone (v. 16-24)

But what are these “foreign gods”, and why would this generation of Israelites have any? The literal word is teraphim, and scholars agree that these were household idols – we might call them talismans or good luck charm charms – that people tucked into nooks and crannies of their homes (or tents, as the case may be.) These weren't big, public idols – the last time the Israelites tried that, it was with a golden calf at the foot of Sinai, and the results were catastrophic – but petty little tokens intended to bring luck, or watch over some portion of the hearth or home. In the Israelites' eyes, they weren't so much blatant idolatrous rebellion as minor fetishes.

God didn't see them as minor. He wanted to be the only God the Israelites had, and have His law rule every corner of their lives. But neither did He see these petty godlings as the kind of gross offense the Golden Calf had been. The Israelites brought them out, renounced them, and buried them under a tree.

But you can bet that these petty distractions crept back in over time – as similar things do in our lives. That's why times like Advent are helpful. Perhaps that can be a focus for us: asking God to help us see the petty trinkets and tokens we've let creep in. What are we looking to besides God? What things might He want to clean out? If we did hear a knock on the door of our lives and knew it was Jesus, would we rush to open it for Him? Or would we call out, “just a second!” and scurry about tucking away things we wouldn't want out in plain sight when He walked in? If so, what are those things, and what can we do about them now?

Proverbs 31 for men

2008-11-30T16:50:00.001-05:00

The Sunday just before Christ the King Sunday, the Old Testament reading was Proverbs 31 - the account of the diligent wife. Though (sadly) few Catholics could peg this passage from the opening verses, most evangelicals can. It recounts the attributes of a faithful wife, and is often read at times like Mother's Day. I get a kick out of catching Ellen's eye when it's being read, for though she doesn't plant vineyards or spin her own yarn, she's diligent in tending to our house.

I've spoken to men who loved Proverbs 31 as kind of an ideal standard for women, but lamented that there was no equivalent for men. But actually, there is - though it's found in an unlikely place. The passage is Job 29, specifically verses 7-17. It reads thus:

When I went to the gate of the city
and took my seat in the public square,
the young men saw me and stepped aside
and the old men rose to their feet;
the chief men refrained from speaking
and covered their mouths with their hands;
the voices of the nobles were hushed,
and their tongues stuck to the roof of their mouths.
Whoever heard me spoke well of me,
and those who saw me commended me,
because I rescued the poor who cried for help,
and the fatherless who had none to assist him.
The man who was dying blessed me;
I made the widow's heart sing.
I put on righteousness as my clothing;
justice was my robe and my turban.
I was eyes to the blind
and feet to the lame.
I was a father to the needy;
I took up the case of the stranger.
I broke the fangs of the wicked
and snatched the victims from their jaws.
(New International Version)

Lest anyone think Job was simply blowing his own horn here, remember that God Himself referred to Job as "blameless and upright", which presumably involved a fair amount of humility. We can safely assume that Job exaggerated nothing, but was simply telling things as they were.

We guys tend to like the part where everybody stands and falls silent when we show up, but the thing to notice is why they do that: because Job aided the helpless, and took up the cause of the outcast and the victimized. He doesn't boast of his substantial wealth or community influence, but rather that he took the part of those who had nobody to help them.

Scripturally, this is the mark of a manly man: the willingness to put his strength at the disposal of the weak. This obviously requires sacrifice, and sometimes confrontation, as that last verse indicates. The confrontation part doesn't go down well in our culture, and to many pragmatic men may seem a dangerous step. After all, why alienate that guy? I may have to do business with him in the future, and maybe there's another side to the business about the rental units...(or whatever).

But Job didn't see it from the perspective of what he might gain from a situation - he only saw the victims and their plight. That was enough to move him to action. I can't count how many times this passage has given me comfort in the years I've been fighting the pro-life fight, because if there is any group that is in "the fangs of the wicked", it is unborn children.

It's interesting to note the difference in tenor between the two passages. In Proverbs 31, it is to a woman's credit to tend to her own home, while in Job 29, the noblest work for the man is to see that righteousness is established in the public arena.

I remember being at a men's retreat, and hearing an evangelical pastor for whom I had great respect interrupt his talk to state plainly, "Y'know, I've had it up to here with 'nice'. God doesn't need 'nice' men, he needs strong, courageous, and forthright men. Our culture puts such a high value on 'nice' that it turns us into wimps." Job would agree. Taking up the case of the stranger and breaking the fangs of the wicked are not the actions of a 'nice' man, but of a strong one. That's the kind of man I want to be.

So there you are, guys - that's our Scriptural equivalent. If we want our wives to be "Proverbs 31" women, we should strive to be "Job 29" men. Be warned: it isn't necessarily nice, but it is right. It will be costly, and may involve confronting people (particularly "the wicked", who can be quite intimidating). But that's the standard, and one that was exemplified by Our Lord Himself.

Being a Job 29 man can come naturally, if we let it. I had a glimpse of it this past weekend when we had our grandchildren stay the night - the first night away from their parents for both of them. It was a planned, deliberate step to get them accustomed to the idea, and it had the expected tears and calls for parents, particularly at bedtime. The morning went all right until my granddaughter bumped her head and Momma was not around to comfort her. Upon hearing her tears, her cousin brought her his teddy bear and consoled her, telling her not to cry and that her Momma would be here soon. He missed his mother every bit as much as my granddaughter did, and probably would have loved to commiserate with her. But her distress caused him to forget his, and he devoted his efforts to easing her burden. This is a two-year-old version of Job 29 in action - a very good start.

A Truly Scandalous Post

2008-11-20T07:58:00.002-05:00

Before proceeding, I advise you that you may find what I'm about to say offensive.

I'm serious. I intend to be almost brutal here. If you're easily scandalized, I recommend you skip this post.

Very well. If you're still reading, remember that you've been warned. Here goes:

I just turned 51 years old. My income this year has been just shy of $27,000. And oh, yes - I weigh about 240 pounds.

There. If you're a member of modern Western society, you are probably at least really surprised, maybe shocked, and perhaps truly scandalized (but I warned you!) But this response raises a question:

Why?

These are all simple facts, some well known and some easy to guess. They have no moral component, and revealing them harms nobody. This being the case, why is it that it is considered at least very unconventional, if not outright rude, to talk about personal details such as this?

There are many facets to that question, but I have a guess as to one reason: we humans are reticent to speak casually about that which we deeply honor. What we worship or revere, that which we perceive as bringing meaning and value to our lives, is not typically the topic of casual conversation. We may talk about these things under certain circumstances, but these are protected matters - hallowed ground, as it were.

Given that our culture reveres - if not worships - wealth, youth, and physical attractiveness, it stands to reason that income, age, and appearance would be protected topics. It has not always been this way. For instance, in literature from just a few decades back you can find quite casual descriptions of people as "pudgy" or "fat" - something that would be considered gravely insulting now, but at the time was merely a description of physique. Back then, different things were revered - two examples being personal religious belief and sexual behaviour. The personal details of those were not topics for casual banter.

Let me be clear about what I mean by this. I am not saying that in prior generations people did not know about someone's religion, or were unclear as to where babies came from. But the deeply personal aspects of these things, the most intimate details, were private. Everyone might know that a man was Catholic, and he might even be quite public about it - but what he discussed with his spiritual advisor, or pondered during his personal times with God, were not for public consumption. It might be public knowledge that a couple went away for a getaway weekend, but what they talked about (and where) would not be a water-cooler conversation topic - and it would have been considered gauche to ask.

This is one place where the purveyors of sexual license got things badly wrong - and were allowed to get away with it. I remember one of the catchphrases of the 1960s being that we needed to talk openly and frankly about sex, because it was nothing to be ashamed of. But shame wasn't the issue. Though some schoolmarms may have misunderstood this, the reason sex wasn't discussed casually was not because it was shameful, but because it was sacred.

In most corners of our culture, that has changed. Now, it is common to find intimate sexual details discussed on television, written up in newspaper columns, and even posted on weblogs. Even people's religious experiences - usually packaged under the category of "spirituality" - are often found in similar places. But have the effrontery to ask someone's age or weight, and you'll probably be stared down as a boor. In this day and age, such things are simply not discussed.

Socially and personally, we humans seem to be hard-wired this way. These matters rarely need to be outlined explicitly - social cues are usually enough. We pick up quickly on what is appropriate and what is inappropriate to discuss, what is acceptable and what is shameful. What topics fall into which categories says a lot about what kind of people we are, and what we value.

Why is this important? Because we can't change something if we don't recognize it. We catch more values from our cultural surroundings than we know. If we're going to cultivate particular values and reject others - particularly if we're going to be passing those values to the next generation - we need to be conscious of where we're getting those values, and their long-term import.

For my part, I don't care if my grandchildren know me as the pudgy grandpa, or know that we don't have enough money to get them elaborate presents this year. But I hope they notice that I spend special time with Jesus every morning, and that part of the reason their grandparents have such a stable and loving home is that we take care to spend time alone together. They won't need to hear every detail. The beneficial results should speak for themselves, and hopefully the message of what is not casually discussed around our home will communicate what is truly important.

Yo ho ho...

2008-11-18T16:28:00.000-05:00

I know this is off my usual blogging wavelength, but I couldn't resist. Being a Coast Guard veteran and a member of the Navy League, I'm a bit more attuned to the modern problem of piracy than most people. To many moderns whose only exposure to piracy has been books like Treasure Island and movies like Captain Blood and the recent Pirates of the Caribbean series, piracy seems somehow romantic, almost chivalrous.

The reality is both more prosaic and more brutal. Pirates have been the scourge of the seas as long as men have shipped goods by water, and if the term "scourge of the seas" conjures up images of Johnny Depp, you need to think again. Because a ship is a self-contained society, separated from the law and enforcement mechanisms of land, anyone who seizes control of a ship has absolute mastery of those aboard. When pirates take a vessel, they're usually interested in the cargo - the crew and any passengers are an inconvenience because they are an incentive to a rescue attempt. In a captured ship, anyone aboard is effectively under a death sentence. The best they can hope for is being held for ransom, and a more likely fate is savage execution. The fate of any women doesn't bear considering.

It doesn't take much for piracy to prosper - usually just a lawless country, what the modern media would call a rogue state. In the late 18th and early 19th centuries, the nations of the Barbary Coast of North Africa were such states. The famous line about "the shore of Tripoli" in the Marine Corps Hymn is a reference to the Marine Corps role in the taming of the Barbary Pirates which operated out of those states. There was nothing swashbuckling or romantic about them. The major world wars of the 20th century and the powerful navies that arose around them put piracy in abeyance, but with the dawn of the 21st century and the rise of various lawless areas around the world, piracy has returned. Particularly dangerous are the Straits of Malacca, along the remote western shores of Myanmar and Malaysia, and the waters around the Horn of Africa, hard by the lawless "nation" of Somalia.

The piracy near Somalia has been getting more attention of late. The most recent incident was a major score - the capturing of a supertanker carrying about $100,000,000 worth of crude oil - but piracy had been on the upswing in that area for some years. I find it interesting that following the seizure of the supertanker, the "government" of Somalia (such as it is) stepped forward to announce that it would rescue the vessel "by force if necessary.". Here's a hint, minister - these are pirates. Force will be necessary.

The impact it has on all of us is indirect but inevitable. The more piracy on the seas, the higher insurance rates are for shipping. Higher rates get passed on in the form of higher transport costs, which find their way into the prices we pay. Since one of the world's piracy hot spots is right by where much of the world's oil floats on its way to market, part of the higher oil prices will be a "piracy tax".

My bet? Another piracy incident or two like the taking of this supertanker, and you'll see a multinational coalition steaming toward Somalia to deal with the problem at its root. Navies came into existence to deal with pirates, and they've never forgotten that mission. Even ships from countries at war have been known to set aside their difference long enough to deal with pirates. So if you hear of such a thing, don't be surprised, and don't feel sympathetic toward the pirates. They deserve what they get.

Bishops Beware!

2008-11-16T19:30:00.003-05:00

Those Catholic bishops had better watch out. They're skating on thin ice, and could be letting themselves in for real trouble.

At least Chris Korzen thinks so.

Who is Chris Korzen? A lay political activist whose credentials include being a union organizer, software designer, and executive director of "Catholics United". This is a group who is far more in love with their '60s style activism than they are with Church teaching on matters like murdering people, so they set about to create their own magisterium to assuage their consciences. To nobody's surprise, they succeeded! They made a big push this past election to assure Catholics that they need not worry about voting for the vocally pro-abortion Barack Obama, because there were other issues that somehow counterbalanced his idea that slaughtering innocent children was acceptable public policy. One might guess that they were somewhat successful, given that about 54% of Catholics voted for Obama.

Then the bishops made their dangerous mistake. Following the election, the bishops voted "to forcefully confront the Obama administration over its support for abortion", and decried public figures like pro-abortion Kansas Governor Sebelius and Senator Joe Biden (they could have included our Governor Granholm) for continuing to come forward for Communion while publicly defying Church teaching.

All this inflammatory rhetoric alarmed Mr. Korzen. In his eyes, it was clear that the bishops don't know what side their bread is buttered on. Don't they watch CNN? Don't they realize who won the election? In the wake of the bishop's statement, Mr. Kozen laments, "What are the bishops going to do now? They have burned a lot of bridges with the Democrats and the new administration."

I'm sure the bishops are quaking in their loafers.

What are the bishops going to do now? It sounds to me like they've already started doing it. It's called "shepherding their flocks." Also "fulfilling their mission" and "being mindful of Him to whom they must answer." This is something that the Pax Christi types have forgotten in their push to align themselves with the political structures that they prefer: the ultimate answer isn't going to be given to a Senate subcommittee or in the Oval Office, but before the Throne of Christ.

Despite his education at a college "in the Jesuit tradition", Kozen clearly does not understand that there are times when it is wise to burn bridges. Specifically, when your land is in danger from invasion, and you have to deny the enemy access to your vital territories. For too long the Church has given moral ground to the likes of Pax Christi and politicians who want the benefit of being known as Catholic without having to burden themselves with obeying Catholic teaching. These spineless compromisers have grabbed control of seminaries, chanceries, and publications in dioceses across the land, watering down clear Church teaching and encouraging accommodation with the Spirit of the Age in order to get closer to the political power of the land. The Church has too long been plundered and ravaged by these worldlings, to the point where it's not surprising that a majority of Catholics bought their lies.

"Catholics United" and their ilk are clearly suffering from severe anthropocentrism . Focused on the words and the works of man, they think the political structures of this world are what really matter, and forget that there will be a moral judgment. I am thankful that the bishops are remembering that there will be, and are starting to take a stand on the topic. A lot of us Catholics have been waiting for them to speak out, and are praying that they have the courage to continue to do so. It could cost them on the cocktail circuit, and probably with some major donors, and certainly with compromisers like Kozen and Pax Christi - but it will be obedience to He who really matters.

Come to think of it, "Catholics United" is a suitable name. It leaves open the question of "united to what?" From their words and actions, it is clear that they wish to be united to the forces of this world, to the Spirit of the Age, and to political power that will give them temporal gains. In contrast, the bishops are choosing to be united to their Divine Head in obedience to Him and to their oaths and office. I am glad of that, and happily unite myself to the bishops rather than some transient worldly order that will perish quickly. If it means burning bridges with compromisers and worldlings, so be it.

God willing, this is only the beginning of what they will burn.