Griptape And Old Cloaks

(Note to readers: this is another half-silly post, so I apologize to anyone so unfortunate as to live in a spiritual landscape so barren as to have to seek serious, devout doctrine from this silly blog and has found it so quiet lately. What can I say? I'm on vacation, you know.)

I am a small but long-standing theological dubium for which I would like a definitive answer. I last mentioned it on this blog five (!) years ago. The question is this: does, or does not investiture in the religious habit of a (non-Carmelite) religious institute dissolve a previous investiture in the Brown Scapular?

On some evening in the years between my first and current time in religious life, I went to some kind of Catholic youth event at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel in Hamden, CT. It might have been 1997 or 1998. The event was organized and led by some Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate. In the course of things, I accepted investiture in the Brown Scapular.

Now, since the Brown Scapular is a form of the Carmelite habit, my best guess is that my (re-) investiture in the Franciscan habit in 2001 dissolved my investiture in the Brown Scapular, as it would certainly seem unfitting for someone to wear the habit of two religious orders at one time. Therefore, since then I have not bothered to wear the Brown Scapular nor carry it in any other way about my person.

However, I remain open to correction on this point. I was reminded of all this when I saw this video which has been making the rounds. As you can see around 1:15, the friar, a Franciscan Friar of the Immaculate even, seems to have embraced the contrary position.

totus per eam cursus diei ac noctis consecretur

At breakfast this morning I got into an interesting conversation on the broad variety of practice in the Order regarding the praying of the Liturgy of the Hours in common. For example, in my province it's pretty standard to pray just the hinge hours, Morning and Evening Prayer, in common. Here in the Curia, however, we also pray Midday Prayer together. In the house where I stayed over last summer, we also often prayed the Office of Readings in common. I have to say I didn't really care for it, as accustomed as I am to pausing on interesting phrases and taking as much time as I want to reflect between the readings and responsories.

So for me the move to Rome has meant praying more of the Liturgy of the Hours in common. For the brother with whom I was talking, however, it had meant less; in his province it was normal to pray the entire cycle of the Hours in common each and every day.

Regarding the contrast, he had an interesting comment, which went something like this: 'If the brothers pray the minimum of the Hours in common, the danger is that they will never think of the other Hours, or because of doing the least allowed they will begin to see the liturgy as less of a value. On the other hand, if the brothers pray all the Hours in common, it can happen that they never learn to think of praying their breviary on their own, as if they had no individual responsibility for their prayer.'

A thoughtful comment, I thought. As much as I hate the term, is the answer 'balance'?

Of Bridesmaids and Tabernacles

Making the rounds on Facebook today was a picture of a group of bridesmaids. Wearing strapless dresses and photographed from behind while sitting in a pew in church, the viewer might easily imagine that the poor things were wearing nothing at all. Of course I was amused; many times I have endured the jarring experience of observing a group of bridesmaids while presiding at a wedding, unable to recognize the anxious creatures as continuous with the group of pretty young women I had met in the same role two evenings before at the wedding rehearsal, so transformed they were by unflattering dresses, fussy hairdos, and too much makeup.

My Despicable Beard: A Capuchin Dubium

In the course of this past winter Ordinary Time, a confluence of factors led me to stop shaving altogether. Since the spring semester of 1993, around the time of my twenty-first birthday, I've been sporting the Grunge-inspired Van Dyke, and I just decided--as I say, for a number of reasons--that such was over for me.

So I started to let a full beard grow. Such is, of course, como Dios manda for a Capuchin.

But here's the problem. It's not going very well. It's patchy, incomplete, and looks pretty bad. At least it looks pretty bad so far. Of course the brothers don't point this out to me. This is because they are gentle souls but also because they know well the anarchistic and contrarian tendencies that will make me want to do something even more once it is criticized. Be strong, be wrong, as Nomeansno famously put it.

So here's my question. In the oft-quoted precept from our Constitutions of 1536, Capuchins grow beards because they are "manly, austere, natural, an imitation of Christ and the saints of our Order, and despised." If my beard is despicable, and thereby all the easier to despise, doesn't that make it more Capuchin?

A Dubium for the Feast of St. Brigid

Here's a liturgical question. I'm interested in hearing thoughts and opinions.

I've been helping out with Masses in two South Boston churches lately, St. Brigid and Gate of Heaven. They are separate parishes canonically, but have one pastor, one parish office, one staff, and one bulletin. Thus, though they remain two parishes, they are very much associated with one another.

My question has to do with the observance of the liturgical day tomorrow.

It's a ferial day in the general Roman calendar, as well as in the proper calendar for the United States, the plain old weekday in Ordinary Time that is the standard example of low solemnity. It is also, however, the feast day of St. Brigid.

At St. Brigid's, the answer is simple. It's their titular feast day, and so the Mass of St. Brigid would be offered, either with the Commons from an American edition of the Roman Missal, or with the proper prayers, which I suppose one could use if he considered South Boston to be a suburb of Ireland. I checked my Commonwealth English breviary; Brigid is a feast day there, as well she might be as patroness.

I, however, have the Mass at Gate of Heaven tomorrow. Given the strong association of the place with the other parish, as well as the fairly intense Irishness of the place, ought I to use the Commons to offer a Mass of St. Brigid? As I said, the day is otherwise free to select 'any Mass' for just cause or pastoral advantage. Or would it be better to respect the individuality of the place by not doing so?

Of course, should he say anything, I will do as the pastor directs.

St. Brigid, pray for us. Happy spring, happy Imbolc, and happy whatever else you would like to be happy about.

Christmas Mass Dubia

The ordinary rule of the Church is that one priest should only offer one Mass each day. They may be given faculties for offer Mass twice on weekdays and thrice on Sundays, should there be a pastoral need in a certain place. In fact, such faculties are pretty much the norm nowadays.

There are two days a year when priests have the right to offer three Masses as a given: All Souls Day and Christmas. On All Souls, a stipend may be taken only for the first Mass, and it is also the only one for which the priest may decide upon or accept an intention. The second Mass is to be offered for all the faithful departed, and the third for the intentions of the pope. On Christmas, as far as I know, there is no such restriction on intentions, and stipends may be accepted for all of the Masses. Another difference is that the three Masses of All Souls, should a priest decide to celebrate all of them, could be offered in succession. The three Masses of Christmas must be offered at the times of day to which they are assigned.

The Christmas situation raises some questions for me, however.

1. From the missal it seems that the 'three Masses' begin after the vigil Mass, and therefore would be the Mass at night, the Mass at dawn, and the Mass during the day. These three are the 'traditional' Masses of Christmas, i.e. midnight, dawn, and day. So my first question is that it would seem a priest could celebrate the vigil Mass, and then still be able to celebrate the three Masses of Christmas Day proper. That would be four Masses over the whole of the liturgical day. Is that still o.k.? Would it be an abuse of the tradition?

2. Traditionally, the Mass during the night was the Mass at Midnight. Now, at least in the Ordinary Form, it is only the Mass in nocte, and can be celebrated during the night prior to midnight. So, would it be o.k. to celebrate the Mass in nocte as one of the 'three traditional Masses' even if this were before midnight? In other words, if someone were taking up the traditional practice of the 'three Masses, ' ought he also to follow the traditional rubric for the time?

3. For pastoral purposes, the different readings for the Masses of Christmas may be switched around. For example, if you attend Christmas Mass at 4 or 5 pm on Christmas eve, you probably won't hear the gospel for the vigil Mass, but the gospel for the night Mass. The angels and the shepherds from St. Luke, which everyone knows if only from A Charlie Brown Christmas, just says Christmas in a much more accessible way that St. Matthew's genealogy. So let's say you were going to celebrate the vigil Mass in a parish complete the readings for the night Mass. If you were going to offer the night Mass later on privately, should you use the night readings again, back-fill the liturgy with the vigil readings, or go ahead to the readings for dawn?

The New Translation: What of the Hours?

The new translation is afoot. At the parish where I celebrated Mass yesterday the new Gloria was sung. Here in the States we are now allowed to have to the books, and who knows how many are in the mail. Very soon sacred ministers and seminarians, sacristans and liturgy coordinators will be perusing and inspecting the new missal with delight or disgust, depending on what they have decided upon for themselves.

As I've looked forward to all of this myself, a question keeps bugging me. What of the Liturgy of the Hours? On both rubrical and theological grounds, one might presume that more general changes like and with your spirit will flow to the whole of the liturgy as it is celebrated in English. But what of, for example, the collects? Eight weeks from now, when the first Sunday of Advent arrives, we will pray the Opening Prayer for Mass in the new translation. But we will still have the 1975 American English Liturgy of the Hours on that day, in which we will find printed the old version of the same prayer. So will it happen that the American-English speaking Church will pray, on that day, the new version of the prayer once (at Mass) and the old version for the other five times it is to be prayed on that liturgical day? (I.e. Evening Prayer I, Office of Readings, Morning Prayer, Daytime Prayer, Evening Prayer II)

Sundays are, of course, the most glaring case with regard to this problem, but the same question arises for almost every day outside of ferias of Ordinary Time--and even on those days the collect for the Sunday of the week is presented as the ordinary option to conclude the Office of Readings.

In the end, this presents a fine opportunity for a new edition of the Liturgy of the Hours in English, which would be a chance to fix and update some other things as well. It could also be a moment to follow the lead of the new English missal and let go of the division between Commonwealth and American English.

So, if you pray the Divine Office with the American English Liturgy of the Hours, what will you do on the first Sunday of Advent?

Fortescue's Crypto-Catholics

As reading for relaxation (yes, I'm odd) I've been making my slow way through The Ceremonies of the Roman Rite Described.

I'm up to the 'reception of converts.' It's an interesting section to me personally, because Fortescue's description of how to receive unbaptized converts sounds a lot like what I went through in my own case, the parish near college not having heard (apparently) of the restored catechumenate through the RCIA. Amusingly, he only recognizes three species of the unbaptized adult: the Jew, the Muslim, and the Unitarian.

It's the section on receiving previously baptized converts, however, that is really interesting:

The case of a convert already baptised differs entirely in principle. He has once been a Catholic. He became so when he was baptised, no matter who baptised him or where. But since then he may have incurred excommunication for frequenting the conventicle of an heretical sect. All that is needed then, in principle, is that he now be absolved from that excommunication. (433)

Now I'm not sure this sense of things stands up to a more current magisterial ecclesiology, but the theological assumptions in it beg some other questions.

For example, it's not uncommon to meet someone who was baptized as an infant by a priest or deacon, but who was never brought back to church again, and not raised as a Catholic. Such persons may not even know that they are Catholic, or might self-describe as without religious affiliation, but the Church considers them Catholic Christians nonetheless.

So what about those in the same situation who were baptized in non-Catholic ceremonies? Such a person might think that he was 'baptized Lutheran' or what have you, but since he was never taken to church again and thereby made excommunicate, in fact he is a Catholic in fairly good standing.

Therefore, on Fortescue's logic, if you were baptized as an infant in a protestant ceremony, but never went to church after that, you are in fact a Catholic. So, for your weekend planning, confessions are usually on Saturday.

On The Various Forms of Prass

General Instruction of the Liturgy of the Hours 93-98 describes the particulars of how to combine Mass with one of the Hours. Mass may be "more closely joined" with Evening Prayer, Morning Prayer, or one of the Daytime hours. Except for the option of an extended vigil of Christmas Eve that includes the Mass in nocte, Mass can't ordinarily be combined with the Office of Readings. The GILH doesn't even address the idea of combining Mass with Night Prayer.

Even though I've been going to Mass for almost nineteen years, and have been saying at least some of the Hours for seventeen, I had not experienced this liturgical option until very recently.

It's curious, or at least it is to me, that the liturgical services that result from the 'more close joining' of Mass with one of the Hours do not seem to have their own names. Our friars sometimes use the general term 'Prass,' a contraction of 'Prayer and Mass.'

Playing around with this on Twitter yesterday, I learned some other names:

Evening Prayer combined with Mass is called "Masspers."

Morning Prayer combined with Mass is called "Mauds."

I still don't know what Mid-Morning, Midday, or Mid-Afternoon Prayer are called when combined with Mass. Perhaps Tass, Sass, and Nass, or Merce, Mext, and Mone? I'm not sure about those.

Thanks to @caesius and @mikewgossett

Baby Priests

One of my colleagues at school was ordained priest last weekend. I've been praying for him. He's a baby priest. That's what they call you. I've always experienced it as a term of endearment; the baby priest is innocent, unruined, full of possibility and promise, and inspires care-giving.

The baby priest also has certain special 'powers.' Asking for his 'first blessing' is a venerable tradition, and the blessing itself is said to contain great graces. As one of the old friars said to me around the time of my own priestly ordination, getting the blessing of a new priest "is worth wearing out two horses." I was ordained by Cardinal Sean O'Malley, whose practice it is to conclude the Mass by kneeling down and asking for himself the blessing of the newly ordained. I'll never forget that moment, as I tried to remember what I had practiced saying about his ministry as teacher and shepherd, and how he kissed my chrismated hands.

Today I visited a parish to give a pro-life talk. I was there a little early, and I ran into one of the parish priests. As we were introducing ourselves, he asked me what I was doing in Boston. I explained that after three years as a parish priest after ordination, I had been asked to return to studies. "Oh," he said, "a baby priest." I was a little surprised to hear it, as I've been a priest for over three years. Besides, he looked pretty young himself. Nevertheless, you never know, for reasons that require further study, certain sorts of priests go through life very well preserved.

So, the question arises: at one point does a priest cease to be a baby priest? I don't know. Given that this language is obviously meant to be analogous to babyhood in human life, I hardly know how to make an assertion, because I don't know when people stop being babies and turn into something else. It would also seem somewhat culturally bound; I have remarked many times that among some ethnic groups, children are still called babies when they would have long been considered something else in another group.

So, when does someone stop being a baby priest?

Using the Prayer to St. Michael

Here's another one of my infamous little liturgical dilemmas.

The parish priest for whom I substitute for Mass on Thursday mornings--so that he can have an overnight caring for his elderly mother--is a very gentle man, and would never presume to tell me how to celebrate Mass. He's just grateful for the regular and reliable help, and I'm happy to do it.

However, I get the feeling that Father would like me to add the Prayer to St. Michael at the end of Mass. I know that he appends his daily Masses with the prayer. He leaves a laminated copy (in English and Spanish) prominently placed on the altar.

Nevertheless, I don't do it, and nobody else in the assembly starts it spontaneously either. For one thing, I don't like adding things to the Mass, as I feel that such things detract from the 'noble simplicity' of the Roman rite. (Not that I'm not guilty of a handful of tridentine accretions in my practice of the Ordinary Form; but I'm careful only to permit myself such things at moments when nothing else is provided in the current rubrics. I feel like I'm in the spirit of the "mutual enrichment" of the two forms of the Roman rite which the Holy Father called for in his cover letter to Summorum pontificum.)

Also, because I have a psychological tendency towards a certain rigorism--I'm 'precise,' as my mother would say--I would want to pray the whole of the Leonine Prayers if I'm going to add the Prayer to St. Michael. But, as is clear, the Leonine Prayers were suppressed in 1964 by the instruction Inter oecumenici.

So, what should I do?

Continue to not add the Prayer to St. Michael, as I have been doing? Add the prayer at the end of Mass, in support of my host, and for the sake of prayerful continuity for the people? Go all the way and lead the whole of the Leonine Prayers, telling myself that the spirit of the liturgical vision of Benedict XVI trumps the prescriptions of the famous consilium for implementing Sacrosanctum Concilium?

Anybody have any other qualifications for the question? Any other documents that I don't know about?

Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio, contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium. Imperet illi Deus, supplices deprecamur: tuque, Princeps militiae caelestis, Satanam aliosque spiritus malignos, qui ad perditionem animarum pervagantur in mundo, divina virtute, in infernum detrude. Amen.

Does It Matter What Christians Eat?

Today the refounding of the world after the Flood and the covenant with Noah come around in the lectionary. I didn't preach the first reading at Mass this morning, but nonetheless it's a passage I think about sometimes, mainly from the perspective of nutrition.

It is with God's covenant with Noah that human beings receive divine permission to eat animals (excepting the blood.) Our antediluvian counterparts, in the generations from Adam to Noah, were only given the seed-bearing plants and fruits to be their food.

Christianity, then, seems to be beg a dietary question: if our redemption in Christ is the work of restoring the original justice prior to the fall of our first parents, is not the antediluvian diet more appropriate to us than the post-Noachic? In other words, shouldn't Christians be vegans?

Of course, on the other hand, God declared animal food clean in Peter's vision and then commanded Peter to "slaughter and eat" (Acts 10.) Jesus himself is said to have declared all food clean. (Mark 7:19, et al.) St. Paul teaches strongly that food is not a constitutive, but only relative, concern in the Kingdom of God (Romans 14.)

For me, at least on purely theological grounds, by which I mean scripture, it's a question I've never been able to resolve.

Need to Know Basis

Sometimes there are hilarious conversations in friaries. For example:

Friar visiting kitchen: "Is there any hot water [in the electric tea pot]?"

Friar cooking supper: "Maybe. [Fr.] John as just here; he made some water."

"He made some water? I know he's talented, but he's not God."

"God didn't make water."

"Of course he did. Don't you believe in creation?"

"Yes. But the water was already there. Read Genesis."

"So where did it come from if God didn't make it?"

"I don't know. The Scripture doesn't say, so it must not be relevant to redemption."

"What?"

"Divine Revelation only imparts what we need to know to be saved."

A Liturgical Trilemma at Communion

I'm full of liturgical wonderings today, and this one is no abstract case.

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.

Sacerdos Sedem Petit: A Rubrical Dilemma

On Monday mornings I have been offering Mass at the local monastery of the Poor Clares. It's really a joy; I've enjoyed getting to know some of the sisters and consider it a privilege to offer Mass for them and their intentions.

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.)

Chalices, Windows, and Prostitutes

Today I'm reading about Maurice de Sully, who was bishop of Parish from the 1160 death of his great predecessor, Peter Lombard, until his own death in 1196.

Maurice, of course, was the bishop who ordered the construction of the great cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris. Apparently, or so I read, he refused donations of chalices and stained glass windows from the Parisian prostitutes.

It's a complicated question. If you were a pastor or a bishop building a new church, would you accept such gifts from the local prostitutes? Would you let it be inscribed as such for all to see? What might it mean to accept or refuse?

Donkeys and Serpents

The other night one of the brothers came into the recreation room and tried to test us with a "Final Jeopardy" question he had seen. There are two animals who speak in the Old Testament, went the setup. Between the two of them, how many legs did they have?

The answer that was alleged to be correct was four: Balaam's donkey in Numbers 22 had four legs,* and the serpent from Genesis 3 had none. So they had four between the two of them.

Of course I objected immediately, as it is my contention that the question is unanswerable. Consider the curse God imposes on the serpent: "Because you did this, more cursed shall you be than all cattle and all the wild beasts: On your belly you shall crawl and dirt you shall eat all the days of your life. I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; they shall strike at your head, and you shall strike at their heel." (Genesis 3: 14-15, JPS)

Now we are accustomed to moving immediately to the Marian and christological senses of the curse, but we should also notice that the crawling, dirt-eating, and heel-striking are parts of it. Therefore it is my contention that the serpent had legs before being cursed, and God took them away as part of the punishment. If he was crawling about on the ground like a snake before, why should that have been part of the curse?

Therefore, we don't know how many legs there were on the two speaking animals in the Old Testament, because the serpent could have had two, four, six, or a hundred. We just don't know.


*Balaam's poor she-ass raises another curious question; that of the possibility of animals being able to see angels. But that's another topic.

Are You Here For Supper?

People who enter religious life tend to be sorts that are sensitive to symbol. This is certainly as it should be for our life and work. But this also means--in ways that are sometimes both amusing and exasperating--that the most simple, transactional elements of our common life can be invested with great meaning, even to becoming treated as grave and mortal questions complete with their own zealots.

One example of this is the sheet of paper for signing in or out for supper, which you will find posted somewhere near the kitchen of most religious houses. It is usually presented as a sort of grid, with the date on one axis and the members of the community on the other. Marks are made on particular coordinates to indicate presence or absence from supper. This way whoever is cooking has an idea of how many to prepare for, and for whom.

Here we arrive at an ancient and acrimonious debate. What is the default, unmarked position? In or out? In other words, should brothers have to sign out to indicate their absence from the common table, or sign in to indicate that they will be there? Is it a 'sign in' sheet or a 'sign out' sheet?

Those who argue for the 'sign out' model say that any religious house in which absence from the common table is the default norm--at least symbolically if not necessarily--cannot possibly be healthy. Absence from the brothers ought to be an exception. Even if one is absent more than present, it is still the exception in the larger spiritual and symbolic economy. They fear that the 'sign in' model presents a worldview in which fraternal life is an elective rather than something to which we have consecrated ourselves by obedience.

On the other side, those who argue for the 'sign in' model say that is far more practical, and produces a better estimate of how many will be present for a particular meal. Therefore, those who cook a lot sometimes favor this model. Even more, the brothers are notorious for forgetting to sign out and often overestimate others' awareness of the obligations and days off that sometimes absent them from table, which others are supposed to know automatically, e.g. 'Everyone knows I'm never here for supper on the third Wednesday of every other month.' Nobody pays you that much attention, I'm afraid. God, perhaps. In this broken world, the desire to ensure that you get something for supper is a more powerful reminder than fraternal concern and charity for the cook, and so it is easier to remember to sign in to indicate presence than to sign out when indicating absence. Or so goes the argument. Proponents of this position also point out that guests always have to be signed in, even when regular members have to make a mark when they are in the opposite condition of absence, leading to a nomenclaturally incoherent system that would be easily resolved if everyone, guests and regulars, had to sign in.

No doubt this debate will rage in religious life until we all find ourselves at the heavenly banquet.

Unliftable Objects and Crucified Lords

This morning I am asked to say something about something called the "Hawking Conundrum," which is alleged to prove the non-existence of God, or at least the absurdity of the idea of God. This distinction matters, as we shall see. The problem was delivered to me in this form:

Assuming that God is the God of the Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition (which is to say both omniscient and omnipotent), can He create an object so heavy that He can't lift it?

The conundrum creates a logical impossibility, as follows:

If the answer be 'yes' (because God can create anything), than God cannot be omnipotent because He cannot then move the object; and if the answer be 'no' (because God can move anything), than God cannot be omnioptent because He Cannot create such an object. It follows logically that since God is not omnipotent, He is not God.

Of course this is not a new problem.

I doubt that my response--I dare not call it an answer--will satisfy atheists, and perhaps it will satisfy believers still less. It's hardly even satisfying to me and involves theological questions within which I am still searching myself (thank God!) So if you think you will be annoyed by an unsatisfying answer, stop reading now.

I suspect that the presentation of this problem does not produce many sudden conversions to atheism. Perhaps more often it causes the discomfort of doubt or the increase of questioning. Neither of these are enemies of faith, however, but friends that are hard to recognize. I suspect an atheist reacts in a similar way when presented with something like St. Anselm's "Ontological Argument" for the existence of God. I have heard of a few conversions, but mostly the simple inability to find fault with the logic does not induce conversion.

My simple answer--and here is where it will become unsatisfying--is that God's omnipotence just doesn't work like that. Let's say that later on today I allow my own fatigue and the despair I bring upon myself with my sins to overwhelm me. I drive my car up the Saw Mill Parkway to the Tappan Zee Bridge, park in the middle, and jump off. What will happen? Surely it is God's will that I live and flourish and be happy, but all of that will be over as I hit the water and die. So, at least on the spiritual level, God has made an object (me) so heavy that he cannot, or at least will not, lift it to safety.

This is exactly why St. Paul called Christ crucified a scandal to Jews (i.e. believers) and an absurdity to Greeks (i.e. believers in human wisdom.) And it remains so. Believers are annoyed to hear about the God of Jesus Christ who, apparently, refuses to control the world or intervene in the suffering we bring upon ourselves in anything like a heavy-handed way. Atheists--and this is the logical force of the conundrum--complain that this God doesn't seem very intelligible as a deity.

What does it mean to say that the omnipotent God is revealed as a condemned and tortured criminal in the midst of his execution, not being able to move his hands and feet, much less lift infinitely heavy objects? It means, at least, that omnipotence and almighty-ness as divine attributes are not exactly what they are supposed to mean, prima facie, to us human beings.

Nevertheless, I am lifted up. When I received Holy Communion this morning, that same Christ crucified continued to unite himself to me precisely in my own brokenness and the misery, despair, and confusion I have brought upon myself with my sins. It's not that Christ has taken me, an infinitely offensive and heavy object, and lifted me up from above, but that he has pushed me up from below by descending into my powerlessness and weakness. With the strength of knowing this salvation, I will not have to struggle this afternoon with the temptation to jump off the Tappan Zee Bridge. And it is my prayer and hope that it also gives me the strength to avoid all of the other little suicides of sin.

Please follow this link for a follow-up post.

To Wipe or Not to Wipe

The pastor and I recently had an argument about the preparation of the chalice. It was a small point, but one with important implications for the Roman rite liturgy at this point in history.

Over time I have fallen into the habit of preparing the chalice with some of the actions only explicitly called for in the EF. I push the purificator in to wipe the inside. Then, removing the purificator to one hand, I infuse the wine and then the water with the appropriate prayer. I then wipe the stray drops before returning to the center of the altar to offer the wine.

The pastor argues that this draws too much attention to what is essentially a functional part of the modern Roman liturgy. What's more, since the Precious Blood will be consumed from all 'sides' of the cup, stray drops aren't a big deal anyway. Neither the rubrics nor the GIRM demand any such concern. On the other hand, Bishop Elliott recommends exactly the procedure I described, though without citation. (This is how I learned it, not from the EF.) He's not an official authority, but someone to whom I am grateful for answering many little questions when I was first starting to celebrate Mass. I give his book to all of our newly ordained.

It brings up some basic questions. On the one hand we don't want to clutter the "noble simplicity" of the modern Roman liturgy with Tridentine accretions. On the other hand, our Holy Father has called for a "mutual enrichment" of the two forms of the Roman rite. Does my extra-rubrical chalice preparation fall into such a category? More basically, given that it is our desire to follow the rubrics, doing less than they ask is certainly out of the question. But what about doing more than the rubrics demand?