December 31, 2010
Ministry is the Lord's work, in which we are helpers, facilitators, and collaborators. Therefore, the idea of any particular ministry we might have is not the same thing as God's idea of it. Indeed, in any successful ministry, what God is up to is greater than either what we care to or even can imagine. Anyone who has ever preached has had a plain and amusing experience of this: after the service someone comes up to you and thanks you for having said some beautiful or insightful thing that you don't remember ever saying, or even meaning to say. The devout soul heard not what you thought you were saying, but what she needed to hear from God. Indeed, to pray for such graces is a humble and helpful way to pray before preaching.
In the same way, I must remember that this blog is a ministry greater than my idea of it. Because of the particularity of my own state in life and the questions and issues that preoccupy me in the current moment of my life, I may be more conscious of parts of the audience that share some of these characteristics. But that doesn't mean that the blog is only for them or even primarily for them. The blog is what God wants it to be. It's for whoever God inspires to visit. Any fruit that comes of my little rants and reflections is God's work, accomplished in the economies of grace so expansive and wonderful that they can even work through the meager and self-indulgent efforts of a lukewarm and distracted little religious priest like me.
So, enjoy the blog. Or better, appreciate and be grateful to the God who is so marvelously humble as to shine his gentle loving kindness through our little web-based communion.
December 29, 2010
It's as if the whole world--and me in it--is at a grand hinge, and just might (if the moment is right) take the chance to become un-hinged. Not to fall into the dreaded abyss of non-being which we all imitate and flirt with in our sins, but to slip into the final Rest that is beyond becoming. And I know, or at least glimpse, that this Rest is the endless and smooth fullness of Activity that we clumsily give the un-name of 'God.'
It isn't like the solitude of being out walking at dawn, full as it is with freshness and promise and eager but peaceful energy. No, this solitude is one of resignation, a little melancholy but not really sad, as it lets go of the day that has been. What it was, for better or for worse, was what it was, and there's no changing it now.
Thus it's a solitude that imitates the moment and limit toward which all of our days and moments tend: that final limit when our little lives are no longer subject to any revision, when we have been who we were and for whom we were, because there's no more changing any of it, because we're dead. And we let ourselves go, grief, gratitude, distraction and all the rest of the be-blessed mess, out of the becoming into the Limit and Eternity out of which we all came in the first place, and which we kind of remember, but not quite.
Over Christmas an old friend reminded me that this is a ministry. As I've thought about it anew, I've noticed that some of my best and most fruitful writing here has been in the form of direct answers to questions or indirect responses to conversations from younger religious or those considering a religious or priestly vocation.
So I'm wondering if my incidental writing energies might be better spent in a more sustained and directed--and perhaps more anonymous--project toward a spiritual book on how deal with, and benefit most fruitfully from religious or seminary formation.
It seems to me that such a spiritual book is badly needed to make up for two lacks.
First, the generational differences in religious life and the priesthood can be debilitating for a new religious or seminarian. Formation programs are generally operated and controlled by older religious, so-called 'liberals' for whom the liberation of dismantling a previous, more constricting style of religious life has become a controlling norm and interpretive key. Younger religious, many of whom are converts or reverts to the faith, often emerge from a very different place: they are children of the relativistic vertigo and moral chaos of our age, seeking refuge in something solid to stand on. Form and structure are things they are liberated to, whereas their parents in religion found their freedom in liberation from them. Such is the impasse at the most basic level of spiritual attitude and vocation.
These differences have been rehearsed many times, and by those better at it than me. Each side has its virtues and dangers. My point here is that this can be very difficult world to navigate without being driven to distraction or losing one's mind, much less survive with faith, charity, and sense of humor intact (and all of these are critical to religious life.) As someone who has survived it, and continues to do so as finally professed and ordained, though not without sins and near-catastrophic falls along the way, I think I might be in a good position to share some wisdom about how one might succeed in the funny and conflicted world of religious life.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, entering religious life and trying daily to consent to the grace to be formed in religion requires many ordinary and expected spiritual trials. They aren't the interior struggles you imagine for yourself (in vanity) before you enter. But they are normal and are documented in the spiritual tradition. The trouble is, I don't think many formation programs say much about the interior life, and still less the temptations and trials required to grow in it. In religious life there is just as much--if not more--opportunity to medicate oneself against or distract oneself from these salutary struggles and trials. Unless you have a really good spiritual director--or someone else to help God dig you out from under your defenses--it's possible to miss all of this, especially if your own temperament and that of your community tends to an activist mentality that concentrates on 'doing.' The more I think about it, I think this is a serious deficit and, at the risk of being grandiose, I wonder if I am being called to do something about it.
So, should I quit the blog and try to write this book?
December 28, 2010
For the Mass of Christmas Day, I wanted to visit the adjacent residence for our senior brothers. When I asked if I could attend the Mass there, the guardian invited me to be the principal celebrant! I was anxious about how it would go, but everything was smooth, and I even got away with preaching (two sentences). I was also grateful that I didn't have to remind anyone to genuflect during the creed, since they all sit for the Mass anyway.
The gift of the moment really struck me during the Eucharistic Prayer. The voices accompanying mine in the great prayer represented almost five hundred years of religious life and four hundred of priesthood, of which my contribution was only about two and three percent, respectively. The next youngest friar in the chapel was nearly thirty years older than me, and the oldest was fifty years my senior.
In all of these things--years on earth, age in religion, and years of priesthood, I felt like an untested child with these men around me. But there I was, the principal celebrant at the beautiful Mass in aurora on Christmas morning. I felt in those voices the presence of my fathers in the spiritual order, begetting my priesthood through the communion of our sacrificial prayer.
Later on I thought, as I sometimes do, of the words of my formation director in a hallway on the morning of my ordination: "Remember the Communion of Saints. It's the only way this makes sense."
December 27, 2010
When I was first ordained, this used to annoy me very much, no matter what sort of thought it was. I was trying to concentrate, to speak the words of institution distincte et aperte and with a clearly formed intention to do what the Church intends, and I was bothered by the idea of being distracted at this most sacred moment. But as anyone who has tried to practice interior asceticism knows, we only make our situation worse when we add an emotional charge or self-conscious judgment to any sort of arising thought.
I've come to accept the phenomenon. If, as my ordaining bishop recently reminded us, my speaking of the words of consecration is the center of each of my days, why shouldn't this be the moment of special graces of spiritual insight? In the same way, why should this not be the moment when the devil sometimes attacks me with his most desperate tactics?
December 26, 2010
There were several of us on the pilgrimage who were there at some kind of juncture in life, or in celebration of some particular moment. One devout couple was there in celebration of a wedding anniversary. For someone else it was retirement. There were a couple of religious celebrating jubilees, and one priest having an anniversary of ordination. Me, I was the kid of the trip, and my thing was that I was about to enter religious life. At the end of our trip, the group wanted to do something to recognize these moments in the lives of us various pilgrims--I think we were at Tiberias--and so there was a little prayer service, and there were souvenir gifts. I received an olive wood statue of the Holy Family on the Flight into Egypt. When Father handed it to me he said, "Whenever you see this, remember that it's a journey."
"The journey" is such an apt metaphor for the spiritual life, and so deep and full of resonance and meaning that it hardly seems worthwhile to try to write about it per se. Nevertheless, one aspect of the journey of which I have become increasingly aware over the years is that the journey itself is formative. The places and people, the joys and the losses, and in some ways most of all the insults and misfortunes, the meaninglessnesses and apparent absences of God by which the Cross is revealed in our individual lives, all of these conspire together to make us who we are before God and one another as Christian souls, or at least souls who desire God through the only Way of cruciformity.
When I'm at my best, the suffering and emptiness of the Cross as it has been revealed to me in my own life has made me grow in patience, compassion, and the sort of true peace that comes from perspective, from wideness of ultimate horizon. At my worst, some of my sufferings have left me damaged, skittish, dismissive, and prejudiced. One of the deep challenges of the journey, at least as I have experienced it thus far, is to accept that these two aspects of who I have become, of how I have been both formed and deformed along the way, are like the wheat and weeds of the Lord's parable. They are so intertwined in their growth together that it would be impossible to uproot the weeds without also taking the wheat along with them. Therefore, in everything I do in my prayer and in my life with the brethren and everybody else, I must remember that I have been graced for prayer and service through my journey, but that I also have dark spots that can come out in hurtful and unhelpful ways.
So I make it my prayer, that as I journey on to the moment of my own death, and groan along with every other member of the Church Universal for the final fulfillment of the creation (and along with the world, which in some ways groans harder, but ignorant of why or for what), God will harvest from me all the good he has worked in me, and let the rest fall into the pointless non-being it imitates in me each day.
December 24, 2010
May the dawn of the new creation draw us in and be the refreshment and renovation of our hearts and minds! I'm on the road for Christmas and Holy Family weekend, but I left this post to publish itself in my absence. I've posted this text before, but I remain happy with it. It's a homily for the Christmas Mass in nocte that I wrote as part of the final exam for a course on the Blessed Trinity:
Rejoice, friends, for the mystery of Christmas is the revelation of God’s loving plan for our salvation. “The grace of God has appeared,” as Paul tells us. The human birth of the Son of God reveals the mystery that God indeed has a son. Our God is a perfect love, and what is love that does not love someone? Therefore from all eternity there is lover and beloved in God, the Father and the Son.
Be assured that this Son of God whose human birth we adore tonight is God himself, “light from light,” and “true God from true God” as we shall soon pray in the creed. Paul himself calls him “our great God and savior.”
While contemplating the poor and simple birth of the Lord, let us pay attention to our attitude toward the mystery. Is it just that we have awe for the humility of the God who was willing to accept not only the poverty of our nature but to be born among simple parents in an obscure nation? Is Christmas here to teach us to be humble too? I assure you that the Son of God is much more than a role model, though he is surely that as well. Paul tells us that this appearance of the grace of God will, in fact, “deliver us from all lawlessness” and “cleanse” us, making us into God’s own people.
This is the great good news of Christmas: the Son of God is born in our human nature and thus provides our human nature a path to the divine life of God that he himself has been from all eternity. By becoming one of us, the infinite love that the Son has always received is now extended to us through the human nature of Jesus Christ.
The Incarnation connects the divine with the human, extending God’s life to us. This sacred exchange is voiced in the preface to tonight’s Eucharist prayer when it says that in Christ we see “our God made visible and so are caught up in love of the God we cannot see.” This stretching forth, as it were, of the eternal love of Father and Son to us is what we call the Holy Spirit. The Incarnation of God establishes a path for our human nature to be brought back to God, and God’s Spirit draws us in. This is what we mean when we say that Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy Spirit; the Spirit of God, God’s desire to be known, works in the Incarnation so that God’s saving plan may be known.
This is good news! The birth of Jesus Christ reveals the new availability of the infinitely beautiful and satisfying love that is the personal life of God himself. This is our adoption into the eternal Sonship of Christ himself, through which we become the true children of God. We rejoice tonight for, through the human birth of Christ, the Holy Spirit includes us in the eternal and perfect relationship of the Lover whom we call Father and the Beloved whom we call the Son. And this is the grand and mysterious reality that we call God.
December 22, 2010
December 21, 2010
Now that I was going to be a Catholic, I wanted to do Catholic stuff. One thing I was especially interested to learn about was the rosary. It seemed eminently Catholic. So I went to the local religious article shop and bought a cheap rosary and a little pamphlet that taught you how to use it. I didn't know that one usually gets a rosary blessed, so I just went ahead and used it. I have such a visual memory of the pamphlet. On one side was the text of the prayers and an explanation of the order in which they were to be said, and on the other was a chart of the mysteries. It's was a tri-fold sort of pamphlet, and had three columns for the three sets of mysteries. (This was before the Luminous Mysteries.) For each of the mysteries there was a little picture of the corresponding scene, and underneath something called 'the fruit of the mystery,' which was usually one of the virtues.
I was a little perplexed by the 'fruit of the mystery' business. For the Visitation the 'fruit' was charity. Was an increase in charity my prize for meditating on the mystery, or contemplating the little picture while I said the decade? Did particular meditations nurture certain virtues? In many cases I could see the obvious connections between the mysteries and the virtues that were called their fruits, but in the case of the Visitation I didn't really see it. Mary went to visit Elizabeth, Jesus and John had their first meeting, and it was all very beautiful and mysterious, but I didn't see how Mary's visit had something to do with charity.
Over the years of meditating on this mystery in the Joyful Mysteries and also in the Franciscan Crown, I've come to imagine that the charity comes out most clearly for me when I meditate on the Visitation from the other direction. It is the visit of Mary and Jesus, for sure, but the real charity is Elizabeth's. It is she who gives her care and her home to her young relative, assisting and supporting her in her pregnancy for those three months. And I think that each of us is called to a spiritual imitation of Elizabeth's charity.
We recall often enough the Marian spirituality of the Church and of her individual members; what Mary did historically, each of us--and the Church as a whole--is called to do spiritually: we are to hear the Word of God announced to us, give it a home in our hearts and lives, nurture it, and give it birth into the world. But we are also called to fulfill the charity of Elizabeth for the sake of one another's Marian vocation, to support and care for one another in our task of gestating and bearing the Word of God who is Christ incarnate.
Each Christian is called to the motherhood of Mary, to be a conceiver, nurturer, and bearer of the presence of Christ to the world. Each of us is also called to the charity of Elizabeth, to support and care for each other through all the dangers, fears, and unknowns of this vocation. With Elizabeth, when encountering another Christian, we say with wonder, "And how does this happen to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?"
December 20, 2010
Let's say I'm offering Mass. When it comes time for the communion of the faithful, in order to fulfill GIRM 281 and offer the "fuller form" of the sacramental sign (Formam ratione signi pleniorem) I want to offer communion under both kinds. To do this in a convenient way, I want to appoint someone to minister the Precious Blood. I have a choice of three persons assisting at the Mass:
1. A priest who is known to me but who, contra Redemptionis sacramentum 128,* is not concelebrating, but who chooses to assist "in the manner of the lay faithful."
2. A man whom I know is an instituted acolyte, but who is also not serving in his hierarchically ordered role. (Also, contra Redemptionis sacramentum 128, but more softly perhaps.)
3. Someone who is neither a cleric nor an instituted acolyte, but who could be impressed into competent service as an EMoHC for the occasion.
Which one is the correct choice to minister the Precious Blood? Why? What are the values at stake?
* Holy Mass and other liturgical celebrations, which are acts of Christ and of the people of God hierarchically constituted, are ordered in such a way that the sacred ministers and the lay faithful manifestly take part in them each according to his own condition. It is preferable therefore that “Priests who are present at a Eucharistic Celebration, unless excused for a good reason, should as a rule exercise the office proper to their Order and thus take part as concelebrants, wearing the sacred vestments. Otherwise, they wear their proper choir dress or a surplice over a cassock.” It is not fitting, except in rare and exceptional cases and with reasonable cause, for them to participate at Mass, as regards to externals, in the manner of the lay faithful.
Read the whole document here.
The liturgical space, however, offers some challenges. One of them for me has been where to begin the Mass. When I arrive, the sacramentary is paged up and neatly arranged on the altar. A missalette with a ribbon at the collect for the day is at the chair. The chair and altar are on opposite sides of the sanctuary, with the ambo and tabernacle between them. There is no server.
Thus, a dilemma arises and a choice must be made about which rubric to abandon. The opening rites of the Mass, from the sign of the cross to the collect, are to be made from the chair. (GIRM 124 ff.) However, with no server, this means that one is not able to observe the proper gesture for presidential prayer, the manibus extensis or "orans," due to having to hold the book (and even worse, a missallete, though at least it has a cover) oneself.
On the other hand, the Mass can be begun from the altar, which must be approached for the veneration during the introit anyway (Ah, the joy of hearing the introit instead of substituting some song for it!) Because the sacramentary is arranged on the altar, the 'hands extended' posture of prayer is no problem. This possibility, however, slights the chair.
So...given that one rubric must be omitted, is it better to abandon the proper gesture for the collect, or its proper location?
(Since the Prayer after Communion may be made either from the chair or the altar (GIRM 165), the problem does not arise for the end of Mass.)
December 19, 2010
A couple of weeks ago I posted my inspiration to begin to read Edith Stein. One of my confreres, in his charity, saw the post and immediately sent me a copy of her edition in the Orbis Books "modern spiritual masters series." Yesterday I arrived at this autobiographical passage, about a visit to a friend in Frankfurt:
But the deepest impressions were made on me by things other than the Römerweg and the Hirschgraben. We stopped in a the cathedral for a few minutes: and, while we looked around in respectful silence, a woman carrying a market basket came in and knelt down in one of the pews to pray briefly. This was something entirely new to me. To the synagogues or to the Protestant churches which I had visited, one went only for services. But here was someone interrupting her everyday shopping errands to come into this church, although no other person was in it, as though she were here for an intimate conversation. I could never forget that. (89-90)
In my 'seeking' phase, in the school year before I became a catechumen, I visited a lot of different churches, sometimes for services but more often when nothing was going on. I was struck and then intrigued by the same sight described by Edith Stein. Only in the Catholic churches did I ever see people praying when nothing else was going on. There they would be, all sorts of people, sitting or kneeling in the darkness and quiet. They knew about something of which I was still ignorant. Or better, they had been given a way to understand something to which I had always been attracted, but without understanding my desire.
December 18, 2010
When I was a kid we used to play Dungeons & Dragons, or at least we enjoyed playing and imagining in the fantasy of its world. This was in the olden days, before PC games and before the rules were re-written to be self-referentially coherent. These were the days of organically developed big books of 'rules' and procedures. One of the fun things about the D&D universe was that every sentient being had what was called an Alignment. It imagined the style of behavior of the character or other being, of how he, she, or it adventured through the world.
Alignment was a matrix of two axes, Lawful-Neutral-Chaotic and Good-Neutral-Evil. So there were nine alignments all together. Some sorts of characters were partially defined by an Alignment, e.g. Paladins had to be Lawful-Good, Druids had to be Neutral-Neutral, or 'True Neutral' as it was called, and Thieves were generally expected to be Chaotic-something. Supernatural beings were often defined by Alignment as well, e.g., devils were Lawful-Evil and demons were Chaotic-Evil.
When we were in high school, a friend and I used to sometimes sit in class and try to guess the Alignment of people we were studying. If it was a history class it would be the historical figures, if English, the characters in whatever book we were supposed to be reading.
I was thinking of this old friend as I did my chores this morning, and of our little game. Then, to distract myself during the repellent and annoying weekly task of cleaning out the refrigerator of long abandoned leftovers and salad dressing and condiment containers put back empty, I started to think about Alignment and religious life. What is the Alignment of the friars?
It's not an easy question, because it seems as if different aspects of our life display different Alignments. For example:
Divine worship. Here I judge the brethren, as a whole and for the most part individually, as Neutral-Good. They approach the liturgy with goodness in that they want it to be the worship of God and to thereby serve the pastoral care of its participants. They are neither Lawful nor Chaotic; rules are often a value, but not an absolute one. When rules seem to serve the greater purpose of goodness, they are followed, when they do not (in individual or corporate estimation) they may be abandoned. Some friars tend more toward the Lawful-Good in this area, holding up the value of 'say the black and do the red,' but they must always be careful not to allow themselves be driven to the pharisaic Lawful-Neutral, making an idol out of rubrics. Others tend more to the Chaotic-Good in this area, finding rules and structure at odds with goodness in a basic way. These must be careful, however, not to descend into the Chaotic-Neutral alignment of the narcissistic 'presider.'
Housekeeping. Here there is a great divide. Friars tend to the extremes in this area. Most are very neat and clean for the sake of others and good care of material goods, displaying a Lawful-Good stance. A few abandon goodness and become obsessed with neatness and cleanliness for their own sake, shading themselves to the Lawful-Neutral. A noteworthy minority, however, are Chaotic in this regard. There is the Chaotic-Good that claims not to even notice mess or dirt, and the Chaotic-Neutral that simply considers cleanliness and neatness not to be values. There is one general rule here, however. Almost all of the brethren--with a few famous exceptions--are entirely Chaotic-Evil when it comes to putting their dishes in the dishwasher. They tend to be placed not only with no regard for order, but in such a way that minimizes the capacity of the dishwasher, thus making poor use of water and energy.
December 17, 2010
Right after college, not even baptized two years, I went off in my zealous first fervor and joined the formation program of another mainstream Franciscan community. I had a fine and growthful postulancy, but trouble came in the novitiate. I wasn't ready; I lacked spiritual roots and maturity in prayer. Worst of all, I did not understand or realize that I had these deficits. The novitiate didn't work out, and I was dismissed from the program. God bless my novice master and his assistant. It must have been hard for them, but it was some of the best pastoral care I ever received. I left on Christmas morning (after having said my breviary, of course.) It was a deeply destablizing and confusing experience, but in my prayer in those days it became the occasion for a new and much stronger spiritual foundation and attitude. The blessings and new spiritual beginnings given to me in the stark wilderness of those days became the spiritual foundation on which I stand even now.
Today, thanks to Fr. Z's post, I'm thinking of one the particularly difficult, but ultimately formative, moments in those days. On one of the days following Christmas I went to Mass. Perhaps it was St. Stephen or Holy Innocents. One of my parish priests stopped to talk to me, and asked me why I wasn't in my habit. I had to tell him of my dismissal. He didn't even stop to say anything about it, but immediately invited me to become an altar server. This parish was a little on the traditional side with regard to liturgy, and only used older adolescents or grown men as servers. Someone who had spent some time in religious life was an asset to the parish in this regard, Father explained.
Still very confused about my religious life not working out, I was very grateful for the invitation to serve Mass at the parish. It was something, at least, that I could do for God. So, on what must have been the feast of the Holy Family, I showed up in the sacristy before Mass and put on alb and cincture. I was assigned as cross-bearer. I was nervous but happy. But in the end it didn't go well. During the consecration I got a strong tap on the shoulder from the lector behind me. "Young man, kneel," she commanded with some aggravation in her whisper. After a year and a half in religious life, I had forgotten about kneeling at Mass. We never did. Why I wasn't reminded by seeing the assembly I don't know.
After the Mass, Father had a word with me. Didn't I know how to serve Mass? How could someone who lived in a novitiate not know when he was supposed to kneel? The invitation to serve Mass was rescinded. Father didn't say it, but it was clear to me that he was wondering if my inability to go to Mass properly had something to do with my dismissal from the novitiate. It didn't, of course, but the idea still hurt.
My experience on that Holy Family morning further added to my confusion. Over the years and as I have grown up as a friar, my experience that day has become emblematic for me of an abiding tension in my religious life. I have had a wonderful and blessed experience as a religious. I have met and lived with saints and characters. I have had the blessing of real friendship. The trust of the brothers and the generosity of our benefactors have allowed me to give the majority of my religious life thus far to the leisure of obtaining a theological education. I have lived in wonderful communities and spent two summers in Central America. Most of all, I have found among the brothers a place where God can work on me through my obedience to the fraternity to bring out some of my gifts for the sake of the Church. For all of these blessings I am exceedingly grateful to God and to the friars who accept me each day as a brother. But within all of this, in the area of divine worship, I have often found religious life to be confused and confusing, deformed and deforming. I rant about such things often enough, as readers know, and I don't want this post to be another rant. It's just to say that within the intense goodness of God and the tremendous blessings of my religious life, this one aspect has been confusing to me, and the sweet old lector having to hit me during the consecration has become a symbol of all of it for me.
The priest in the story has moved on to some other ministry, though from his Facebook profile I can't figure out exactly what it is. The lector has gone to her reward. Her funeral was the day after Thanksgiving. Requiescat in pace.
December 16, 2010
When the fast was longer, either the three hours prescribed by Pius XII or from midnight before that, it could account for those who did not receive Holy Communion. In other words, if someone didn't receive, one might presume that he or she had not kept the fast for whatever reason. Nowadays, offered my professor, there is only one reason for someone to abstain from Holy Communion after having been previously admitted to the sacrament: the state of serious sin.
Thus, he opined, reinstating a longer communion fast could be a great pastoral kindness by providing (as it once did) a pretext for abstaining from Holy Communion for those who were actually unable to receive due to struggles with serious sin or other habitual troubles in their state of life, and thereby give them the dignity of some privacy.
December 15, 2010
Student friar: "It says 'love.' God is love. That's kind of religious."
Friar with doctorate in theology: "Yes, brother. God is love. But at Christmas God is love in a particular form. Go upstairs."
Do any of my teachers or mentors have one? All of them? None of them?
Is there a way, of which I am ignorant, that I am supposed to know?
Would someone admit to having one? Would I be willing to ask?
Cur deus homo : atti del Congresso anselmiano internazionale, Roma, 21-23 maggio 1998 / a cura di Pa
The love of learning and the desire for God; a study of monastic culture. Translated by Catharine Mi
Magistri Alexandri de Hales Glossa in quatuor libros Sententiarum Petri Lombardi, nunc demum reperta
Alexander of Hales' Theology of the Hypostatic Union
The city of God / translated by Marcus Dods ; with an introduction by Thomas Merton.
Doctoris irrefragabilis Alexandri de Hales Ordinis minorum Summa theologica iussu et auctoritate rmi
Proslogion / Anselm von Canterbury ; Untersuchungen lateinisch-deutsche Ausg. von P. Franciscus Sale
Monologion. Lateinisch-deutsche Ausgabe von P. Franciscus Salesius Schmitt.
Pourquoi Dieu s'est fait homme / Anselme de Cantorbéry ; texte latin ; introduction, bibliographie,
Decem opuscula ad theologiam mysticam spectantia / seraphici doctoris S. Bonaventurae ; in textu cor
For me, I've always found a quiet form of prayer to be a good fit. Early on along the way God provided me with a spiritual friend who introduced me to the writings of Thomas Keating and the Centering Prayer method. After sixteen years of practice I would hesitate to call my prayer by that name; it has become something else. I have also come to regard some of Keating's writing as eccentric, though I still think the practical doctrine is of great value.
So, given all of that, lately I have been playing with a definition of contemplative prayer and contemplation:
Contemplative prayer is the practice of consenting to let our desire attend exclusively to its Ultimate and Final object, Who is God. In this practice we come to know ourselves in our own deepest identity, as fruits and expressions of the Love who desires us into being, and Who restores us to beautiful being by emptying Himself into our humanity in Christ. Contemplation is the obscure knowledge that these two loving desires are ultimately identical. Christ, then, in the perfect union of his two distinct natures, is perfect contemplation itself. The person of Christ is thus both the model and the object of contemplative prayer.
December 14, 2010
Imagining, perhaps not entirely consciously, that religious life would fulfill his emotional needs, and then finding the experience frustrating in this regard, troubles and boundary problems for a brother in ministry are the next pitfall that comes along.
Such distortions and false dichotomies are therefore very dangerous, and I have always been grateful to St. John of the Cross for giving us a salutary corrective. Consider, for example, some bits from his Counsels to a Religious:
To practice the second counsel, which concerns mortification, and profit by it, you should engrave this truth on your heart. And it is that you have not come to the monastery for any other reason than to be worked and tried in virtue; you are like the stone that must be chiseled and fashioned before being set in the building.
Thus you should understand that those who are in the monastery are craftsmen placed there by God to mortify you by working and chiseling at you. Some will chisel with words, telling you what you would rather not hear; others by deed, doing against you what you would rather not endure; others by temperament, being in their person and in their actions a bother and annoyance; and others by their thoughts, neither esteeming nor feeling love for you.
Trials will never be lacking in religious life, nor does God want them to be.
The translation is from the ICS edition of John's collected works. He is very much worth reading in his own Spanish if you are able. Some can be found online, and his Obras Completas is published by the Editorial de Espiritualidad in Madrid. I found a copy at Schoenhof's up in Cambridge.
December 13, 2010
By the time I begin to walk back home at 7:30 or so, the rest of the world is awake. Today I saw a curious sight. A man was walking his dog. The dog, to make up for back legs that were useless and lame, was in a harness that had two wheels. He was like a funny little cart, with legs instead of front wheels.
At first it struck me as quite the pitiful sight. But then I observed the dog's expression; he seemed perfectly delighted to be out for his morning walk, and was eager to notice and smell everything in the world.
As I continued to walk, it struck me that there is a similar choice in the spiritual life. We're all broken at some level. Our ability to walk freely and naturally with God is hampered by our disordered attachments, maladaptive idiosyncrasies, persistent weaknesses, and chronic patterns of sin. So what do we do? We can spend all of our time and reflection and prayer wringing our hands over these things, obsessing about them (which usually makes them worse) or even fetishizing them so as to make sin the primary subject of our spiritual life, or we can simply be grateful for the grace of God that has lifted us up and enabled us to walk above our debility and even in spite of our attachment to it.
December 12, 2010
Her answer took me a little by surprise; I guess I was thinking of the human roles when I asked and expected her to say that she would be a shepherd or even Mary herself. No, she was going to be a sheep.
I was reminded of St. Francis and his own desire to celebrate with a live nativity scene at the famous Christmas at Greccio in 1223. As related by Thomas of Celano, Francis desired to contemplate and behold with his bodily eyes, as much as was possible (utcumque corporeis oculis pervidere) the humble circumstances of the Lord's birth. It was important to him that things be real. Real hay, real cold, real animals, and real people. The animals, provided by Francis's mysterious friend John, with all of their noise and probably even their smells, mattered to Francis because it all spoke to the humility of the incarnation, and to see this humility as much as he could was Francis's great desire.
So, as my young friend reminded me this morning, the animals who witnessed the Lord's birth were not there accidentally, and nor are they there just to make our own nativity scenes look cute and fun. The animals have christological signifance, and speak to the humility of the incarnation and the renovation of the whole creation which it brings.
December 11, 2010
One never gets to enjoy that feeling in the parish ministry. A parish is always running. There are individual projects that arrive at completion, but most of the work is continuous and never-ending. It slows down at certain times of the year, like in the middle of the summer and in the last few days before Christmas, but the thing itself never really pauses. It's also true that one gets to feel a little sense of rest and doneness at the end of principal celebrations, but it doesn't last. After the Paschal Triduum there's a great sense of gratitude and relief, but there is almost always a funeral to do on Easter Monday, having been set aside from Saturday or Friday (or even Thursday, when funerals are permitted, but not funeral Masses.) Christmas is a similar thing; the afternoon of Christmas Day is a blessed quiet and relief, but as soon as the office opens on the next first weekday, the new wedding engagements start calling in. (I didn't know this before I was a parish priest, but a lot of people get engaged at Christmas.)
So right now I'm just appreciating the sensation of having finished the semester, and am enjoying all of the little rituals of recycling, filing, and clearing that go with it. Not that there won't be more work to do after another day or two: I've left several mundane projects and errands for the time of the semester break, I have a presentation to prepare for January and a directed reading course for next semester to plan in more detail. And off in the not-so-remote distance is my reading list for comprehensive examination, and (dare I say it) a dissertation proposal to be made.
December 8, 2010
We were questioning ourselves on this point. Does the relative neatness and formality of someone's external appearance reflect his internal spiritual condition? It's not an easy question, and the answer is both yes and no.
Soul and body are distinct, but in a deep and mysterious relationship. Together they constitute the person who has a vocation in this world and an eternal destiny in the next. We believe in the bodily resurrection, and though it might be difficult to articulate exactly what this might mean, we know that the whole person will go into eternity. As one of my favorite teachers liked to say, "eschatologically speaking, the human being is not a two-stage rocket."
Thus, the exterior does have significance for the interior, and vice versa. When we desire to express our reverence for sacred spaces and times, a neatness or formality in our external appearance is a natural and obvious means. With our more serious and formal clothes on, we then behave in a more serious and reverent manner.
When I first began attending a Mass in the Extraordinary Form, one of the things that immediately edified me was the care the people seemed to have taken with their dress and appearance. As I have written about many times, what hooked me into an interest in the EF was the discovery of a reverence and recollection among the people that I had been missing in some other parts of my liturgical life. No doubt the practice of dressing in a particular or formal way for Mass was formative for them as well.
On the other hand, I think that care must always be taken not to push such reflections and claims too far. I suspect that some of the most sincere prayers in this world come from people who both feel and look a mess. Some religious will say that the relative neatness and cleanliness of one's room or appearance is indicative of the state of soul and vocation within, but this is not always the case. Along the way I have met very spiritual brothers who were quite slovenly and even dirty. On the other hand, sometimes someone will try to deal with internal chaos by controlling the neatness of his external world.
December 6, 2010
After all, the rubric only says, "at night," so at the end of December in the northern hemisphere, 7:00 pm certainly qualifies.
At the parish where I was most recently assigned, the pastor moved the Christmas Mass in nocte to 10 pm, taking his lead from no less a brother pastor than His Holiness Benedict XVI.
Some of the parishioners were horrified. Knowing that I can sometimes have traditionalist leanings, they tried to make an ally out of me in their campaign to restore the Mass in nocte at midnight. I tried to make a deal with them: I would support their efforts, if they would support me in agitating for the Easter Vigil to be celebrated also at the most traditional time, i.e. such that it would end right before dawn on Easter Sunday. They did not accept my offer.
December 5, 2010
Today I was reflecting on an example from my own experience. It was a Sunday after Mass. I thought I had said an attentive and devout Mass, sung well, and preached a homily both entertaining and illuminating. I had a wonderful feeling of having found my niche in the world and gratitude to God for having got me where I was meant to be. People told me it was one of the best homilies that they had ever heard.
Then one man came up to me and pointed out how I had missed an obvious and homiletically useful point. He made me realize that my homily had been clever, but had not really engaged the Scripture. Through this man's little bit of advice, God had accomplished in me a twofold humiliation of my intellectual pride; not only did it cut through my self-congratulation at my preaching, but pointed out that my own cleverness had interfered with my preparation and made shallow my own prayer through the Sunday readings.
As I made my prayer of thanksgiving after greeting the people, I thanked God for the grace of the humiliation and correction, and prayed for the willingness to surrender to true humility.
Then came the next and even more insidious temptation, a thought rising as one of the logismoi if there ever was one: "Wow, I have accepted this humiliation of intellectual pride pretty easily. It feels good to be able to let go of myself so easily. I must be more spiritually advanced than I thought!"
Pride does not give up so easily. Such is the insidiousness of the worst of the passions.
December 3, 2010
Many, many people hereabouts are not becoming Christians for one reason only: there is nobody to make them Christians. Again and again I have thought of going round the universities of Europe, especially Paris, and everywhere crying out like a madman, riveting the attention of those with more learning than charity: "What a tragedy: how many souls are being shut out of heaven and falling into hell, thanks to you!"
Charity is when someone organizes his behavior according to the missionary desire for the salvation of his neighbor in Christ.
Everything else that charity might be, like the corporal works of mercy for example, or even simple kindness on the natural level, derives from this original definition and focus, and is subordinated to it.
December 2, 2010
One day several weeks ago she asked me if I had any socks. Not being in the habit of carrying any socks apart from those on my feet, I had to say no. Later on in the day, though, I remembered that I had an unopened package of socks back in my room at home. So I put it in my school bag for the next time I saw her.
Some more of the semester went by. I don't always take the same route to or from school, and when I did go through this particular station, my friend wasn't there. Finally, after several weeks I ran into her again, and thought that I would finally get rid of the package of socks from my bag.
"Do you still need socks?" I asked.
"No, I have plenty of socks, thank you," she responded.
So, when I got home I put the package of socks back in my room where it started.
I find in all this a helpful reflection for myself. I carried those socks around for several weeks, thinking that I would be able to do a little act of kindness. It didn't turn out that way. It reminds me that the charity and kindness we actually receive from others is only a small subset of what others are willing to do or even of what they have intended to do.
In other words, since I can never know how kind others have been to me--since the love that is actually expressed in action is conditioned by circumstances and my freedom to accept it--I should always consider others as even kinder and more loving than they appear.
December 1, 2010
Caller: "How do I baptize my baby?"
Me: "You put some water on it and invoke the Blessed Trinity."
Caller: "Can I be buried in any cemetery I want?"
Me: "Not until you are deceased."
Caller: "What do you mean we can't have a funeral [Mass] on [Holy] Thursday? Which one of you down there made up that little rule?"
Me: "Pius XII."*
Man who came into the office alone: "I'd like to schedule a wedding."
Me: "Do you have a woman? We only supply the priest, organist, and cantor."**
Upset lady who said she wanted to hug the tabernacle: "Why are you telling me all these things?"
Me: "Because you asked."
*Any rubricians want to check me on this?
**In my experience as a parish priest, it was exceedingly rare for the male party to initiate wedding planning in the first place, much less come alone.
So as time opens up, I can get back to other things I either set aside because of the course work or left for later. But it also means I can find some time for personal reading. Various evidence suggests to me that it might be time for me to read Edith Stein. Does anybody who is better acquainted with her work have any advice? Because of the John of the Cross connection I'm curious about the Kreuzeswissenschaft/Science of the Cross, but I don't know if this is the right place to start.
Thanks in advance!
November 30, 2010
Check out the whole thing over on Adoremus.org, which preserves a lot of rare and largely forgotten documents. (For example, for all of you traddy priests out there, when some dear soul tells you that your maniple is no longer permitted, you can send him over to Adoremus where he may read in Tres abhinc annos that it is only "no longer required." But I digress.)
Religiosorum Institutio is fascinating to me on a number of levels. Sometimes I think that those of us who grew up after the Council--and who perhaps seek to retrieve religious life from some of its twentieth century wanderings--can get this idea that everything was stable up until the time of the post-conciliar reforms, or worse, that everything was just fine until the reform wrecked everything. This document, among many others, shows that there were deep shifts going on before the time of the Council and its subsequent reforms. Religious life in particular was changing along with the world around it; how vocations came about was shifting along with the questions of the religious themselves.
The document is especially concerned with the responsible pastoral care of vocations and the selection of those who are admitted to clerical institutes in particular. Some parts of it are quite sad, such as this section on those who stay in religious life because they don't know what else to do:
At times such candidates, on the verge of Sacred Orders or perpetual profession and somewhat mature in age, finding themselves without academic degrees and untrained in any art or liberal profession, were afraid to leave the religious life, feeling deep down in their hearts that if they returned to the world, they could not make an upright living unless by manual labor, or would be obliged to make difficult and uncertain efforts to acquire a liberal profession. Therefore they regarded the decision to continue in the religious clerical life as a lesser evil.
(By "liberal profession" we may presume that the document means a career derived from a liberal education.)
Other sections strike prophetically at the condition of religious life, even fifty years later:
Lastly, not infrequently there is adduced as a cause the loss of the religious spirit either because, under the insidious impact of present-day naturalism, these priests become incapable of discipline and religious observance, or because, living in religious houses an indolent and unproductive life, deceived by the desire of life outside and ill-regulated pseudo-apostolic activism and neglecting the interior life, they fall victims to dangers of all kinds, which they do not avoid and do not even recognize.
Make of the document what you will, but it's certainly interesting not only as a glimpse into concerns just prior to the Council, but even on its own and in its wisdom for our own time.
November 29, 2010
On the one hand, it's just such a sweet time of year to have a fresh start of things. You get out your volume one or pars prior breviary; for various reasons it is usually the Advent-Christmas volume of the Liturgy of the Hours that is in the best condition in any given set. Combine that with a new ordo, and it gives you the feeling of fresh start on the natural level, like when you had sharp crayons on the first day of school. The day-to-day liturgical texts and colors change for the first time in what seems like ages.
On a deeper level, though, I find Advent to be among the most mystical times in the year. It is a time for us who stand in between. On the one hand we celebrate as we recall with joy the first coming of Christ, a coming that was humble, and, as we sometimes forget, secret. On the other hand, we look forward with wonder to the second coming of Christ in full and public glory, when he will bring the whole creation to its final destiny.
What's mystical to me about the season is the way in which it seems to emphasize the two comings of Christ in the reverse of their logical and temporal order: The liturgy of the early days, especially the first Sunday, focuses us on the end times, but as we go forward, and certainly by the time we arrive at the 'pre-octave' of the Nativity on December 17, we are fully into a celebration of the first coming of Christ.
We begin at the end times and proceed backwards to the dawn of our salvation in the Nativity of the Lord. We then notice how our own lives are moving in the course of a return from this recollection: the secret intimacies of grace and prayer in our own lives, in which the presence of Christ is conceived and carried in our own hearts, are moving toward a full and public harvest in the communion of the saints in heaven. Christ's movement from his conception by the Virgin to his ministry and passion and final glorification is also the journey of each Christian soul con-formed to Christ by Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist. Each secret and humble moment of prayer we experience in this life is destined for the final joy of heaven. Prayer is the Lord's Nativity in us, and it will become our Resurrection in Him as well.
November 28, 2010
Yesterday afternoon I went somewhere offer a memorial Mass for a small group of nice people. It was perfectly pleasant and I tried to do my best for them. In the front of the small assembly was a woman, not old but perhaps in later middle age, who made all the responses and prayers loudly and strongly, with all of the standard adjustments and changes for so-called 'inclusive language.'
It would be easy for me simply to rant about it. I don't want to live in a relativistic world in which everyone is their own pope, and each of us has the right to alter the Church's prayer to suit his or her own concerns.
But to just rant is a failure in charity. Yes, we must stand up against the errors and misunderstandings of our time. But we also have to try to appreciate each other, and to recognize that those who do wrong-headed things often do them with the best intentions and with genuine values at stake. The woman in front of me perhaps grew up in a world in which she was made to feel like less, as someone with fewer opportunities in life than her male counterparts. Perhaps she grew up in a world with a lot of 'rules' which didn't seem to have a function or make any sense. So maybe, just maybe, for her to use this so-called 'inclusive language' in her own prayer at Mass represents and symbolizes for her an intense experience of liberation she has had over the course of her life.
I think that this can be hard for many of us younger Catholics and religious to understand. We grew up not with oppressive systems of rules, but in the relativistic, post-modern vertigo. We grew up oppressed not by rules but by their absence. Our grandparents in religious life (our parents are mostly missing) found in their vocations a liberation from a previously ossified and oppressive culture, a liberation from the rules. We have found in our vocations a liberation from relativism and moral anarchy, a liberation to the rules.
This isn't anything new, and it has been better written by others. I just mean to say that as we work to recover our Catholic identity from the errors and wanderings of those who have gone before us, let us remember that they too were children of their time, and that the Spirit of God spoke to them in their liberation as well. No doubt I have own pet myopias, and errors that will need to be corrected by those who come after me. If I want to be treated like a thoughtful and charitable person when that day comes, I need to do it for others now.
November 27, 2010
These communities, and others, show that there is no shortage of vocations to religious life. Communities that embrace an unapologetic Catholic identity, are committed to a clear and Catholic mission, and center their lives on the ordinary and traditional means of holiness recommended by the Church have no shortage of young people wanting to enter.
So, could it be that there are many more potential religious vocations out there, but that they go unnoticed and under-nurtured because some of us religious are still resisting these 'signs of the times' and don't want to hear 'what the Spirit is saying to the Churches'?
November 23, 2010
The Dies Irae persists as an optional hymn for the Liturgy of the Hours during this last week of Ordinary Time. If you look in your breviary this time of year, you will find it broken up for the various hours. In the typical edition it appears at the beginning of the proper for the week, starting on page 489. If you have the Catholic Book Publishing Company American English LoH, it's in an appendix, starting on page 2013.
But here's my question. I know this will be a surprise, but I can't find the rubric that permits the Dies Irae this week. Perhaps that's all it is, the note at the beginning of the proper for the week in the typical edition, conveniently omitted in the English version. Does this option appear anywhere else?
November 22, 2010
We who desire to be devout people are regular singers. But sometimes I think we don't always remember to reflect on what a deep thing it is to sing a hymn to God. It's not just added ornamentation or solemnity, but something far more profound. Indeed, to sing a hymn to God is to imitate God himself and conform ourselves to Him.
What happens when we sing a hymn? A blend of truth and beauty emerges from our voice, from our body, mind, and heart. Thus, to sing draws us closer in con-formity to He Who Is Truth and Beauty Itself. In fact, God sings too. When a blended array of truth and beauty emerges from the Heart of God, we call this creation. So to sing a hymn or a text of the Sacred Scriptures is to imitate the creative Delight out of which everything is. That's why to sing automatically makes people joyous, or at least gives some relief from their misery.
November 21, 2010
Last night I heard (from a regular commenter on this blog, no less) a fine analogy to what Benedict seems to have said on the moral level: When robbing a bank, just don't shoot the teller.
In other words, the sort of case that the Pope seems to raise is already cut off from openness to new life and is already a case of compounded disorder, injustice, and misery. In such a case, perhaps using a condom to (perhaps) prevent the transmission of HIV could mitigate the tragedy of the whole business and be the beginning of a journey to real morality.
The problem with contraception is that it attempts to divide the unitive and life-giving powers of sexuality. The rotten fruit of this separation--which has been more or less accomplished in our culture--is in evidence all around us. In the sad and sinful case in which the Pope is speaking, neither of these powers is present in the first place, so there is nothing to frustrate through the use of a condom.
November 18, 2010
May your blessing be upon all who find in this rosary a means to prayer and devotion.
May the prayers of the Blessed Virgin Mary preserve them from all danger of superstition.
We ask this through Christ our Lord.
I, John, saw a scroll in the right hand of the one who sat on the throne.
It had writing on both sides and was sealed with seven seals.
Then I saw a mighty angel who proclaimed in a loud voice,
“Who is worthy to open the scroll and break its seals?”
But no one in heaven or on earth or under the earth
was able to open the scroll or to examine it.
I shed many tears because no one was found worthy
to open the scroll or to examine it.
One of the elders said to me, “Do not weep.
The lion of the tribe of Judah, the root of David, has triumphed,
enabling him to open the scroll with its seven seals.”
Then I saw standing in the midst of the throne
and the four living creatures and the elders
a Lamb that seemed to have been slain.
He had seven horns and seven eyes;
these are the seven spirits of God sent out into the whole world.
He came and received the scroll from the right hand
of the one who sat on the throne.
When he took it,
the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders
fell down before the Lamb.
Each of the elders held a harp and gold bowls filled with incense,
which are the prayers of the holy ones.
They sang a new hymn:
“Worthy are you to receive the scroll
and break open its seals,
for you were slain and with your Blood you purchased for God
those from every tribe and tongue, people and nation.
You made them a kingdom and priests for our God,
and they will reign on earth.”
I hear in the anguish of the seer the spiritual condition of our world. In the scene in heaven, the story seems to have stalled; the revelation of God's destiny for creation cannot move forward until someone who is found who can break the seals and open the scroll. Likewise our world stumbles around not knowing how to move forward. We struggle to know how to move beyond the violence and ruthlessness embedded in our broken culture, in a world afflicted by war and poverty, in which human life is increasingly commodified or even worthless. The natural order is denied, and then we wonder why so many are alienated, miserable, and feeling unconnected. Who can help us? Who can be found to draw us out of the miseries we have created and cherished for ourselves?
We are not so broken and lost to have forgotten what we really want: a savior. Someone who can move the world forward. Who will our savior be?
The Republican Congress? Barack Obama? Catholic Traditionalists? Catholic Progressives? Saul Alinsky?
No, no, no, no, and no.
It is only the Lamb who was slain who can break the seals and get us in line with the destiny toward which the world is going anyway. Our mission of Christians is to make disciples of him, not of any of these other saviors.
November 17, 2010
November 15, 2010
Just now I read a review in which the same book is described as an example of an "intellectual dead end."
This is why you have to keep your wits about you as a Catholic, not to mention a student of theology.
Sometimes people think being a Catholic Christian absolves someone from having to think for himself. In the words of one of my childhood friends, such a position "couldn't be wronger." From the moment I came into the Church, I have found myself in a maze of divergent opinion and conflicting claims. Though it was a disappointment with which I was scandalized at first, I've been grateful for it in the sense that it has always driven me to study and make up my own mind as best I can.
Now, instead of giving my attention to the newly engaged or deceased, I give it to Peter Lombard, Anselm, and Alexander of Hales:
As it comes to us in our current English translation:
God our Father,
you endowed Saint Albert with the talent
of combining (componenda) human wisdom with divine faith.
Keep us true to his teachings
that the advance of human knowledge
may deepen our knowledge and love of you.
Grant this through...
This is something of a shift from the same prayer as it was prior to the reform of the liturgy. As it appears in the 1962 Missale Romanum:
Deus, qui beatum Albertum, pontificem tuum atque Doctorem,in humana sapientia divinae fidei subiicienda magnum efficisti: da nobis, quaesumus; ita eius magisterii inhaerere vestigiis, ut luce perfecta fruamur in caelis. Per Dominum...
God, who made St. Albert, your bishop and doctor, great in subjecting human wisdom to divine faith, grant us, we ask, that by holding fast to to the teaching he has left, we might enjoy perfect light in heaven. Through our Lord...
So, good old St. Albert, who used to subject human wisdom to divine faith, now only combines the two. Thus is revealed the uneasy relationship between the sciences and the Science for people of our time. So often I hear something like, 'There is no conflict between faith and reason, between theology and the natural sciences, because they ask different questions.'
No. It's true that they ask different sorts of questions, but this approach is finally inadequate because it suggests that there are different fields of knowledge, whereas there are only really different aspects of the one Truth to be known. It's true that there is no conflict between theology and the other sciences, but it is rather because all human questions and every inquiry of the human mind have God as an ultimate end. (Or, as we late moderns would say, 'horizon.') God, after, all, is the originary Principle from which everything is, as well as the Principle of and Ground of all knowing.
November 12, 2010
November 10, 2010
One of my confreres calls me a 'church nerd,' which I guess one has to accept when he reads rubric commentaries for fun.
Last night I arrived at the section on the deportment of altar servers, which made me laugh:
"Considerable tact and good taste are needed in the priest or MC who trains the boys, to find the right mean between slovenliness and affectation."
By "affectation" is meant what Martinucci calls a "too punctilious a uniformity" such that the "sacred functions look theatrical."
As devoted and long-suffering as they were, punctiliousness and uniformity were not an issue for the altar servers with whom I had the privilege of working for part of time at the parish. May God bless them and may they forgive me for not being the kind of priest who had considerable enough tact to find the right mean between slovenliness and affectation.
November 9, 2010
Settling down into this new kind of student life reminds me of some of the things I miss from parish life. I was just thinking about some of them this morning:
A regular and stable liturgical matrix. At the parish, liturgy had an intense regularity; every day the same chapel, the same church, the same altar. Liturgical time cycled through days, weeks, seasons, and years. The linear time imposed by the steps, grades, and goals of something like school or religious formation starts to fade away. Cycles replace time-lines. In the cycles of prayer, the Now of eternity starts to peek through. I miss that. Here in the student house, liturgical life is very different. I offer Mass at four or five different altars in the course of a week. Not that this isn't without its gifts; I'm really enjoying my weekly visit to the Poor Clare monastery, for example. But it can feel scattering. Here in the house, in the morning we sometimes have Morning Prayer in common and sometimes have Mass, a practice which feels choppy and scattering to me. I like to have a regular early-morning routine, but I can't really because sometimes I have to pray Morning Prayer in private and sometimes I don't. So I miss the regularity and stability of Mass and the Liturgy of the Hours in the parish.
Days off. The parish is always going. It's active seven days a week from early morning until the middle of the evening. For a priest, the only way to get a break is to leave, so that's what they do. They 'go on their day off.' I look over my posts labeled 'Day Off Adventures' and I see a certain lightheartedness and freedom from care that I no longer have. When you are a student the books are always there, and the papers always need to get composed. This isn't to say that I never take any time with friends or a day just to relax, but somehow there just isn't the same ability to leave the whole business behind and get away for a little while.
People. The parish priesthood is a personal service kind of job. From the parlor to the confessional, from running meetings to praying with folks at the funeral home, you are always with the people. It's one of the greatest blessings of the parish ministry; the people keep you sane and are very encouraging for the most part. The job is so social that you have to be careful about getting the solitude that you need; it becomes a treasure, really. Here I think of some of my 'Sunday Afternoon' posts. In the doctoral student life, the situation is quite different. It's a solitary life for the most part. Yes, I have new friends at school and I spend time with the brothers here at home, but most of my days are just me and text. I read text, I struggle over text, I try to make text about text. So here I must take the opposite care, of making sure I find some social time. Such is far harder for me than making sure I find time for solitude, so I miss being in the opposite situation in the parish.
November 7, 2010
For whom should we pray at the altar? Bonaventure offers a little list to help us remember:
"Propose to pray for the Pope, the cardinals, patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, doctors, rectors, priests, clerics, monks, religious, monasteries and all of Christ’s servants; for kings, generals, princes and all the nobility; for virgins, widows, orphans, pilgrims, prisoners, the afflicted, the crippled, the sick and for all the people of God; also for the pagans, schismatics and heretics, that they may return to the true God and to the unity of the holy Church."
I guess that's everybody.
1. How talented and/or knowledgeable of a cook a brother happens to be,
2. How conscious and aware he is of 1., above,
3. Whether he puts effort into the meal, and
4. Whether he makes an inordinate mess, depending on local community standards.
Therefore, the best case scenario for friary dinner is when the brother cooking that day knows how to cook, knows that he knows how to cook, makes an effort at it, and cleans 'as he goes' so as not to make a big mess.
Beneath this best case scenario the situation grows far more complex. For example, the moral judgment on messiness depends somewhat on the other factors; brothers who make a great meal are often forgiven their messes, while those who prepare average or yucky meals are not. Conversely, an average cook is helped much by being clean.
The talent and knowledge that make a brother a good cook are not absolute either. A brother who doesn't know much about cooking but who masters one or two plain suppers will be appreciated far more than the good cook who doesn't make much effort to please.
The most dangerous friary cook is the brother who thinks he knows how to cook but in fact does not.
November 5, 2010
One brother thinks that there always has to be a box of plain crackers on the counter. Crackers are akin to cookies, right? The cookie jar is on the counter, so the crackers should be there too. Another brother thinks that crackers belong in a cool dry place like the cupboard. So the crackers are constantly about this round trip from counter to cupboard.
A similar pattern emerges with the dish soap. One brother thinks that dish soap is like hand soap; it belongs next to the sink. Another thinks that dish soap is more at home with the other cleaning products, which everyone knows go under the sink. So the dish soap is always about an analogous cyclical journey.
One brother thinks that the butter belongs outside of the refrigerator, another one in.
One brother believes that the sink rag must be folded square and laid over the divider between the two sides of the sink. Another one is convinced that it must be left in a triangle shape draping over the front. Still another is convinced that it is gross to use a rag more than once, and so rejects both options and puts all wet rags into the laundry basket.
One brother thinks that the dish drain rack is where you put clean dishes to dry. Another brother thinks that it's where you put dirty dishes that can't be put immediately in the dishwasher. Still other brothers, when they get to be superiors, avoid this whole ugly debate by forbidding dish drain racks altogether.
Another question is the nature of kitchen counters. One brother imagines that light food preparation can be done on the counter without the mediation of any other surface, e.g. you can put the two pieces of bread that will anchor your sandwich right on the counter and proceed to dress them. Another brother believes that the counter is the place where you have to put another surface, like a cutting board or a plate, whereupon you may then prepare food. The latter sort of brother comes to be tempted to indulge disdain for the former, thinking him gross. The same issue goes, similarly, on the question of whether you can leave directly on a counter the spoon or fork you had used to put something into a bowl before putting it the microwave, retrieving it afterward for eating purposes.
November 4, 2010
So what's going on with me? I've been trying to puzzle it out. Of course some it is the standard worry about Catholic colleges having given up on their Catholic identity. The mother of a prospective undergraduate recently told me about how she was totally turned off by the admissions office, which was, according to her, constantly apologizing for the Catholic nature of the school, and assuring her son that he was in no way expected to live a Catholic life while a student. Mom was horrified.
This sort of thing is old news. It concerns me, but I don't think it's quite the thing that gets to me. So I've been praying for some insight. Yesterday, while I was walking to the Chestnut Hill T station, I think my prayer was answered.
I'm a college convert. The immediate roots of my own conversion to Christianity and sacramental initiation in the Catholic Church were in the college campus, undergraduate life. And here's the trouble: I got to be a Christian, on the natural level, largely as a reaction against the experience of college. The atmosphere of material affluence was a real culture shock at the time. Yes, I had grown up with educational and cultural privilege, but without a sense or experience of the material wealth that seemed to surround me when I got to college. In the midst of it I used to think about the poor of the world or those suffering in the first war in Iraq (which was going on at the time), and I felt the sting of conscience and I began to desire a life of responsibility.
The consequence-free playground of alcohol, drugs, sex, and rock and roll soon seemed to be a false and empty liberation, especially as I became aware of its darker sides: poisonings, rapes, abortions.
Having become a metaphysical optimist through the course in Plato I took when I was still in high school, I was scandalized by a search for truth and devotion to learning that ignored or even denied the Truth Itself. Even philosophy fell short. In Philosophy 101 the professor consented, with triumphal glee, to the students' conclusion that there was no 'meaning of life,' but only 'meanings in life.' It wasn't good enough for me. I turned to religion.
From all this, then, it's easy to see how it was that I found in Catholic Christianity (and it's Franciscan expression) a suitable means for rejecting and reacting against my surroundings. I think this is the real reason I feel uncomfortable at BC; at the root of everything I've done with my adult life is an attempt to reject and find an alternative to the world of 'college.' So to be on the campus with all of the kids feels very wrong to me.
So, I beg the question. What in all this is important for me to own and protect, and what am I called to let go of? Surely I don't need to be determined by who I was when I was nineteen or twenty. On the other hand, though, I need to be true to myself. What should be kept, and what should be left? These questions must be the next, careful discernment.
November 3, 2010
1. Pray for the other members of the community every day. Not only is this the right thing to do before God, but it practices the disposition of charity toward them.
2. Presume the best motives in others.
3. Presume that others are quietly putting up with your awkwardness, idiosyncrasies and annoying behaviors that you aren't even aware of. Try to do the same thing for them.
4. Do not avoid conversations that tend toward gossip or detraction. Instead, by your own speech, try to turn them positive.
5. Do not take responsibility for the feelings of others, nor try to make anyone else responsible for yours. Do not surrender your moods and emotional states to the control of others.
6. Commit to some form of prayer or spiritual practice that helps you transcend moodiness and dis-identify with the flux of your own thoughts and feelings.
7. Seek always ways to be helpful around the house, but also be careful of enabling anyone's learned helplessness or negligence.
8. Be free to challenge anyone who is having trouble accepting help or kindness. Be humble enough yourself to ask for help when you need it. Be humble enough to accept compliments and kind words. Those who refuse to accept love deny others the chance to practice charity.
9. Use humor wisely. It can be a powerful too for speaking difficult things in a safe way, but it can also be used to belittle or to prevent what needs to be said from coming out.
10. When you cook, pay attention not to what they say at table, but to whether anyone eats the leftovers. That's what indicates whether they liked it or not.
11. Be approachable and available. If nobody ever asks you for help or if they can talk something over, it might be because you seem unapproachable.
November 2, 2010
To pray for the dead at all is to affirm the Church's doctrine of purgatory, or at least something akin to it. For, if one of the faithful departed finds himself already among the saints in heaven enjoying the perfectly delightful and satisfying vision of God, what sense could it make to pray for such a one? It is rather he who should be praying for us. And if the dead find themselves--God forbid--in hell, there is no point praying for them anyway.
Thus, to pray for the dead presumes some kind of continuing journey after our earthly death, some kind of sense in which the dead can still be 'on the way' to God. The Church expresses this in the doctrine of Purgatory. So often Purgatory is looked upon as a gloomy and morbid concept, but the case is precisely the opposite. Purgatory is an exceedingly positive and encouraging doctrine, and an expression of the near, but not quite overwhelming, goodness and gentleness of God.
To explore this a little, we can see how Purgatory is a good corrective against two dangerous errors of our time: Presumption, on the one hand, and a kind of Pelagian deism on the other.
I offered about seventy funeral Masses in my three years as a parish priest. The typical (expressed) attitude of the mourners was that the deceased was already at peace in Heaven. Now I don't claim that this a strictly theological assertion; much of it is a justifiable attempt to find some comfort in an expressed faith in God. But, on the other hand, sometimes I felt a little presumption in all of it and a failure to accept the possibility that the deceased might not have been ready for the brilliance of heaven and perhaps could use of our prayers wherever he found himself on the continuing journey. Against the presumption of Heaven (not to mention the fear of hell), Purgatory stands as an expression of the mercy and gentleness of God. Even if we have not succeeded in surrendering to the grace to become saints in this life, even if we have not managed to become good before we die, God provides a time or a means (we don't know, and the Church doesn't define it) by which we may continue this journey, already solidly begun, after our earthly death.
This brings us to the second error for which Purgatory is a sound corrective, what I'm calling Pelagian deism. Sometimes people express this idea in which this life is construed as a kind of test. We have this time on earth, by which we are free to make choices that shape our final destiny in the life to come. This is true as far as it goes, but it often contains a very impoverished concept of salvation. God is not an impartial actor in this scenario! He doesn't set up this life and then leave us alone to choose either Heaven or hell. Against this view, I quote (as I often do) the beginning of Hilaire Belloc's Pelagian Drinking Song:
And taught a doctrine there
How, whether you went to heaven or hell
It was your own affair.
It had nothing to do with the Church, my boy,
But was your own affair.
Not at all. God chooses Heaven for all of us. It's not about whether we end up with more goodness and badness in the ledger by the time we die, but about how we find the humility to accept the grace of salvation. God wants to give all of us the infinite blessing of the beatific vision. He is, quite literally, dying to give us Heaven. The only way to go to hell is to obstinately refuse to accept the gift. God is so passionate about our salvation that, even if we have not succeeding in fully accepting the happiness and sanctity He wants to give us in this life, God provides a further purification after death in order to bring us to the destiny He desires for us.
So, just a we pray for each other to become saints in this life, we pray for the dead who continue--by the gentleness of God--on this same journey to the life of the saints in heaven.