Next stop on the sacred art train

Baltimore.

(Link via open book.)

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I know what I like

I'm not sure what to say about the Fra Angelico exhibition at New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I saw with a small group last Saturday. For me it was more a pilgrimage to venerate relics than a visit to look at paintings. You can read the review I'd have written at Clarity's Place; the three paintings she mentions are the three I'd have mentioned if I'd mentioned only three.

The criticisms of the exhibition are probably valid. The works displayed are bits and pieces (they sell a booklet containing a couple of essays on how tempera panels from the early Renaissance got split up and how, in one case, they were reunited); the arrangement is somewhat unsatisfying (the Cranky Professor says the space is too big; I didn't mind the elbow room, but the layout of the works was a little confusing); none of his frescoes are included (and in fact, I'm not sure I had ever seen pictures of more than a few of the paintings before).

But like I say, I wasn't there for the museum experience.

It's true, what I had been told, that you can't really tell what Fra Angelico's paintings look like from photographs; the colors are never reproduced quite right, and the colors -- not so much the hue as the saturation -- are key to both the artistic and theological meanings of his paintings.



This Nativity, for example, may be most notable for how uncomfortable the Christ Child looks. In person, though, what's most notable is how the Christ Child glows. I doublechecked the lighting to see whether they had some sort of microspot on the lower half of the painting. (Of course, it's not hard to glow if you're made of gold, and another thing that's hard to tell from reproductions is how much of a painting is inlaid gold -- like, in this case, the rays coming out of Baby Jesus.)

One of the most remarkable works in the exhibition is Christ Crowned with Thorns -- I mean that literally; a Google search on "Fra Angelico" "Christ Crowned with Thorns" returns half a dozen or more reviews of the exhibition that remark on the painting. It is so untypical of his work that, when I first saw it from thirty feet away, I assumed it was by one of his assistants and almost overlooked it.


When not on loan, the painting is in the Church of Santa Maria del Soccorso in Livorno, Italy.

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Inside the brotherhood

If you ever wonder what life is like for the student brothers at the Dominican House of Studies in Washington, DC, you probably need a hobby. Nevertheless, you can get some sense of their life at their website, particularly on their recent events page.

From there, you can discover something about the rich history of the Order of Preachers, in art, music, and even (despite what some petty folks say) physical activity. (Yes, physical activity. The old image of St. Thomas puffing his way round the cloister has been replaced with the vision of trim, fit friars, and steps have been taken to keep the physically unfit from entering the studentate.)

A number of the recent events documented on the site include reflections, such as one by Br. James Dominic Brent, OP, on making simple profession in the Order:

I may longer go where I want to go. I may no longer do what I want to do. I may no longer say what I want to say....
Yet ever since the moment of profession I have known a freedom like I have never known before.

Another reflection, by Br. Hyacinth Cordell, OP, reports on the experience of being installed as a lector:

There is a principle of the spiritual life, that the Lord of Providence never calls anyone to a task without providing the grace to fulfill it. And here the Lord of life was gracing us and entrusting us, through this sacred rite, to fulfill the ministry of living and manifesting the word of God. We have been officially commissioned to read aloud the liturgical passages of Scripture. But the mission of lector is wider than this, as the rite bears witness.

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Happy Pro Orantibus Day!

Be sure to thank every cloistered monk and nun you meet today.

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Someone remembers

God bless Karen Marie.

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A dispassionate reaction

I was excited to receive a review copy of David Scott's The Catholic Passion: Rediscovering the Power and Beauty of the Faith. I think celebrating the Faith is, generally speaking, a much better way to evangelize than is defending the Faith. In the preface, Scott writes, "The early Christians spoke of mystagogy, a kind of life-long immersion in the mysteries of the faith. This book is a small exercise in twenty-first-century mystagogy."

A passionate immersion in the mysteries of the faith. What's not to love?

Well....

For one thing, there are niggling little mistakes (all Twelve were at Jesus' ascension?) and unclear writing (the Father was crucified?) that should have been caught before publication. It's hard for me to get caught up in passionate writing when I keep having to say, "Er, what?", or, "Not quite."

What really turned me off to the book, though -- and by turned off, I mean, set aside for a couple of months after reading forty pages, then returning to it just in case it gets better, and finding it about how I remembered -- is what I expected to love about it. As the publisher's blurb says:

Scott illuminates the Catholic mysteries with the insights of great Catholic figures of modern times—the American writer Andre Dubus, the French composer Olivier Messiaen, the Chinese human rights activist Henry Wu, the French martyr Charles de Foucauld, the American reformer Dorothy Day, and others.

Doesn't that sound great? It's not just some guy (well, Scott is a journalist and the editorial director for Scott Hahn's St. Paul Center for Biblical Theology) writing about what he thinks is wonderful about the Faith. It's a whole tapestry, a mosaic, a symphony of voices, from across the lands -- and across the centuries, too.

The problem is that a tapestry, a mosaic, and a symphony are all unintelligible without order, and to me, all the quotations -- and there are a lot of quotations -- were just a jumble. In one two-page stretch, we move from St. Gregory of Nazianzus to Franz Joseph Haydn to Gerard Manley Hopkins to St. Augustine to St. Paul. Yes, it's all on the same theme (how creation calls man to adore the Trinity), but it comes in such relentless succession that the effect -- for me -- is of a debater trying to win a point by sheer number of authorities referenced.

As I read, I try to situate St. Gregory, for example, in some context; one of the great Eastern Fathers, way back when. A paragraph later, I'm in Eighteenth Century Europe, then two paragraphs in Nineteenth Century England, then a skip off late Patristic Age Hippo and back to the First Century Mediterranean. If it's the first time someone is quoted, the quotation is prefaced by a sentence or less of biographical introduction. It's necessary (not everyone has heard of Julian Green), but disorienting.

I would much prefer a book that featured perhaps a quarter or a fifth of the quotations Scott uses, to give their specific wisdom time to soak in, to draw out some of the insights and implications of, say, St. Gregory's poem:

The Trinity is one God
Who created and filled all things:
the heavens with heavenly beings,
the earth with creatures of earth,
the sea, the rivers and springs,
with creatures of the waters,
giving life to all things by His Spirit,
that all creatures
might sing the praises of their wise Creator,
Who alone gives life and sustains
all life in being.
Above all others, let the creature who reasons
celebrate Him always
as the great King and good Father.

Couldn't more be said about this than:

In this poem, he dwells on the Trinity's artistry... We are the creatures who reason, made to stand in adoration and worship before the creation of this great King and Father.

On the whole, I think I would have preferred reading the quotations by themselves, an edited Commonplace Book of Catholic Passion, to the whirlwind "If It's Page 58 This Must Be G. K. Chesterton" style Scott adopts.

That said:

Let me emphasize that my reaction is a matter of personal taste and temperament, even more than usual for opinions about books. The way my mind works and the way the book works are just not quite compatible, and from comments I've read elsewhere the book works terrifically well for some.

I think the concept of the book is great, and the content (niggling mistakes aside) fine, but it's just not my style at all.

Labels: Reviews

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Plus ca change

In an old Catholic humor anthology, I found a selection from Frank Leslie's 1947 book, There's a Spot in My Heart, that, with minor changes, could have been written today. It opens:

Uncle George described himself as one of the "Church Militant" .... "Militant" was too fragile a word to define Uncle George's emotions on the Church. "Church Rampant" might have been more accurate, although "Church Berserk" was even closer to it.

The piece is about the discord between the narrator's uncle and grandfather, the latter being a temperate skeptic.

Uncle George, who was compounded, spiritually, in eccentric portions, of Savonarola, Saint Jude, and Father Dooley's bitch, accused Grandfather of lacking "respect for the cloth." My grandfather said that he had the highest respect for the cloth; he merely did not like to see it being used to wrap up a fool.

The story culminates with a visit from the new curate.

...Uncle George moved in with one of his favorite openings: the magnificence of plain chant versus the odious and uncanonical caterwauling of mixes choirs. Father McManus ... never quite realized what hit him when Uncle George swarmed all over him with decrees of the Council of Trent, more recent regulations of the Sacred Congregation of Rites, and direct citations from a bull of John XXII. Before he could regain his balance he was parrying an interrogation on the nature of Sanctifying Grace and, having countered with a Dominican defense, found himself buried under an avalanche of Jesuitisms. After a further incautious lead, he was hanging on the ropes, desperately endeavoring to duck a haymaker of the heresy of Jansenism which Uncle George was trying to land...

"Without a vigorous priesthood we cannot have a militant Christianity," he declaimed to the now helpless and bewildered curate. "Why are there no Christian martyrs in our times? Why are we Christians poorer in spirit than mere Mohammedans? ... We find those who profess Christ indifferent and slothful, wavering and watery in the practice and belief of their Holy Religion, while Mohammed's millions are still charging into the teeth of the Unbelievers' guns, greedy for that martyrdom whose recompense is lust! To think that we, who hold ourselves as Christians--"

"I wouldn't be so hard on the Christians, George," said my grandfather suddenly from the doorway. "After all, a Mohammedan can anticipate while a Christian can only hope."

The next time my grandmother got sick they sent the pastor.

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We should dance

The only good Dominican is a drunken Dominican.

Dominican preaching is sometimes described, and for good reason, as doctrinal since it delights in pondering and proclaiming the mysteries of Creation, Incarnation, Redemption and Resurrection. But the manner in which Dominican preachers, like Catherine and Thomas, speak about imbibing the wine of the mystery of Christ, alerts us to the fact that real "knowing" is always accompanied by a certain amazement. The wine of truth which Christ gives us to drink is also a wine of astonishment. What we preach, then, are not just truths about God. We preach a wine of truth which we have actually tasted ourselves, and have drunk with living faith and joy.

Link via Contemplata aliis Tradere.

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If they don't float, they're not witches

Wow! Linda Chavez begs the question so hard, I think I could claim it on my taxes.

Those on Capitol Hill and elsewhere who have been complaining of U.S. policy on the detention of enemy combatants got a wake-up call this week. It appears that one of the Iraqi men who bombed three Jordanian hotels on Nov. 11, killing 57, may have been in U.S. custody in Iraq for a time but was released... When authorities could find no reason to keep the man, they let him go. Lt. Col. Barry Johnson told reporters, "A review of the circumstances of his capture by the unit determined there was no compelling evidence that he was a threat to the security of Iraq and he was therefore released."

So according to the Army, there was no compelling evidence that Safaa Mohammed Ali was an enemy combatant. And this is a wake-up call for those who have been complaining of U.S. policy on the detention of enemy combatants because why?

The presumption of innocence is important in the criminal context -- indeed, it is one of the foundations of our legal system. But in a war in which our enemy doesn't wear uniforms, doesn't fight under a foreign flag, and targets civilians as a primary military strategy, we cannot afford to confer on the enemy the same rights and protections we grant ordinary criminals or even military adversaries in a traditional conflict.

So since we don't know who our enemy is, we can't afford to presume he's innocent? But don't we have to know who our enemy is in order to know that we can't afford to presume he's innocent?

Apparently not:

Short of torture, which President Bush has made clear we will not use, we should be free to hold suspected terrorists captured overseas for as long as necessary and to use harsh techniques to elicit information.

Of course, Safaa Mohammed Ali was not a suspected terrorist, so what this has to do with lessons learned from the Jordan bombings I don't know. I suppose it could be that Chavez is arguing that, once captured by the U.S., no one should be released until harsh techniques elicit sufficient information to prove they were innocent all along.

That's gravely unjust, but at least no one would deny it would be getting serious, which seems to be a greater concern for Chavez than justice. At the very least, she seems to think anything and everything "short of torture" is justifiable and presumptively justified.

(Speaking of that "short of torture" gambit, I think it's amusing how several people who comment at Catholic and Enjoying It! will switch between asserting that of course they oppose torture and insisting that there is no satisfactory definition.)

(Link via Kevin Miller.)

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An undigested thought

For further rumination:

Christians can get caught up -- not without reason -- in the question, "What must I do to possess eternal life?" But the answers too often revolve around distinguishing what is necessary, without which one cannot possess eternal life, and what is sufficient, with which one is sure of eternal life.

Typical discussion space in conversations on eternal life.
As I say, these are reasonable points of discussion. But:

We're talking ETERNAL LIFE here! Life to the full, an overflowing fountain of life, a life of complete joy! How much time should we be spending, really, worrying about what is sufficient?

Potential discussion space in conversations on eternal life.

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Behold, I am with you always

Daniel Hurley, MD, is the author of Facing Pain, Finding Hope: A Physician Examines Pain, Faith, and the Healing Stories of Jesus. It's a book on the fascinating topic of the human problem of pain.

By "human problem," he doesn't limit himself to medical, philosophical, or theological aspects of pain. It's not just "why" and "by what means," but "what now" and "what next." And the reason I say it's a "fascinating" topic is that the questions of what now and what next need to be answered, not just by those who suffer from chronic or acute pain, but by their medical caregivers and by their families and friends.

Though pain is only experienced as pain by the person in pain, it affects all those in close contact with the person, in important ways differently than other, more visible, medical problems do. No one would say to someone whose legs are paralyzed, "Can't you just, you know, climb the stairs if you really think about moving your legs?" It's not nearly so unthinkable to say to someone in chronic pain, "Can't you just, you know, take a painkiller or something?," or even, "Come on, it can't be that bad!"

A Catholic who specializes in Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation, Hurley reads the miraculous cures of the Gospels in the light of his experiences as a doctor who daily works with patients in great pain. He's a good enough doctor to know that pain is not merely a physical phenomenon, and a good enough Catholic to know that it is in Jesus that the spiritual dimension of pain can best be come to terms with. He quotes Nicholas Wolterstorff's Lament for a Son:

Suffering is the meaning of our world. For Love is the meaning. And love suffers. The tears of God are the meaning of history. But mystery remains. Why isn't Love-without-suffering the meaning of things? Why is suffering-Love the meaning?

This leads Hurley to muse on the mystery:

With the arrival of God into the very history of humanity, good and evil manifested themselves around him as they do around every other person in the world.... Our Lord did not eliminate injustice or cruelty or death as entities unto themselves. He preached against the evil in men's hearts that lead to these things.
The Scriptures indicated that his name was to be Emmanuel, "God with us," not "God instead of us"...
What of our own laments to God? When we pray and search for him with all our hearts, feeling helpless, can we look back on the heartbreaking search of Christ's own earthly mother? If she was told she would suffer a sword of sorrow and was confused in her own direct searching for her son who was God, how can we expect to escape suffering? And do we trust that he is fulfilling the "business" of being God for us, even though we cannot see him doing so?

This comes toward the end of the book, in the chapter, "'A sword of sorrow shall pierce your heart': The Mystery Called Suffering." Several earlier chapters look at different healing miracles, accommodating them to Hurley's own present-day experience of patients, their families, and their doctors. (He shows, too, that these experiences were ever thus.)I've got some bookmarks in my copy^* on various specific points, and hope to get around to posting on them.

In the meantime, I'll just say that Hurley has a lot of intriguing things to say about problems many of us do or will one day face. I don't agree with everything he writes, of course, but he does a good job showing how the miracle stories can speak to us today, with a meaning deeper than, "Jesus, being God, cured some people."

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* Yes, my copy was sent to me by the publisher, Loyola Press. Will I write about your book if you send me a free copy? Try me!

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Two quick thoughts

Say what you like, Kathy Shaidle is no respecter of persons:

Now, I couldn't care less, you understand. The idea that I'd be banned for life from writing fifty-dollar book reviews for some local Catholic paper really doesn't concern me. Book reviews have lousy ROI of time and energy, and if you don't know what ROI means, chances are you, well, work in Catholic publishing.

I laugh, because fifty dollars is fifty dollars more than I've ever been paid for a book review, which I don't write any more, because they have lousy ROI of time and energy. That, and I'll be posting about a book I was sent to review -- posting about the book, you understand, not reviewing it -- next.

A comment on a post at An Examined Life touches on the old "Are the Commandments good because God gave them to us, or did God give them to us because they are good?" party ice-breaker:

God's commands, on the common divine command conception, really are in danger of seeming arbitrary, because God is conceived in an excessively anthropomorphic fashion expressing his will, which is presented as radically disjoined from our nature. The solution to the problem, as I see it, is just as you've proposed here and elsewhere; God issues his 'commands' because they are good, and they are good because following them constitutes the kind of life that allows us to achieve our good.

I think this is related to something I wrote last week. The Church certainly speaks of God's commandments, but His commandments are only part of His revelation.

They are, I think you could say, God's revelation under the aspect of law. But the aspect of law neither exhausts revelation, nor defines its nature. As St. Thomas teaches, Revelation is necessary for man to know the end (viz, God) to which he is directed. So from the very nature of Revelation, it can't be arbitrary or disjointed from our nature -- and that includes the Commandments.

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A no-talent homilist

As it happens, I was thinking about Jeremiah's call for nearly a week when I heard, in a homily yesterday, a point about the Parable of the Talents that echoed my thoughts. (It took me another day to recognize the echo.)

A "talent" is a unit of weight used to measure coinage. One talent seems to have been on the order of 90 pounds. A talent of gold would today be worth about $650,000, give or take $50,000. That's serious money, for most of us, certainly not the sort of thing many of us can pull together in an afternoon with our broker. On the other hand, it's not the utterly unthinkable sum of ten thousand talents from the Parable of the Wicked Servant.

Well, okay, thank you and you may close your Bible dictionaries now.

What I heard in the homily was a rejection of the customary "talents = talents" interpretation, where the money given to each servant by the master represents the talents and abilities given to each of us by God. (The modern English word "talent" even comes from this parable, as analogy according to this interpretation.) In fact, as the parable is recorded, the amount of money is given "to each according to his ability," so unless our talents are gifts given according to our talents, the straightforward interpretation needs some modification.

My pastor modified it in the soundest way possible: the talents given to the servants are nothing other than Christ Himself. A gift no servant could ever earn for himself, in the first and final analyses the only gift God has given to the Church. As His disciples, we are to bring Him into the world, where He will increase.

To bury Him, particularly out of fear, is to fail to see Christ as He is, as the Word of God Who is Love. But -- and here's the tie-in with Jeremiah -- it is also to think that bringing Christ to the world is our own work, at which we will succeed or fail according to our own ability. It's to look at the Gospel with a Pelagian mindset, as though it has no power greater than our own (the homilist allowed that most Catholics today aren't Pelagian, but suggested we're at least semi-Pelagian, some of the time).

Asking what the passage says about Christ is always a good exegetical tool. I hope I'll remember that He isn't always present in only one way, as with the master in this parable. TSO took the time to see what St. Jerome had to say about yesterday's Gospel, and unsurprisingly he saw the talents as "the Gospel doctrine," which is to say Christ under the aspect of teaching. It's always good when your pastor and St. Jerome are on the same page -- er, at least when it comes to interpreting Scripture. Pastorally, not so much.

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You know, He wasn't asking for your advice

The following sign is hanging on the side of my filing cabinet:

Only Genuine Pre-War American and British Whiskeys Served Here

It's from a Dashiell Hammett short story, and when the Continental Op reads sees this in a seedy dive, he passes the time trying to "count how many lies could be found in those nine words." He reaches "four, with promise of more," when the person he's waiting for shows up.

Every now and then, you come across a statement that packs an astonishing amount of something -- lies, maybe, or factual errors, or ways to take offense -- into very few words. Jeremiah 1:6, for example, which immediately follows the LORD telling Jeremiah that before he was born, he was appointed a prophet to the nations:

"Ah, Lord God!" I said, "I know not how to speak; I am too young."

How many mistakes did Jeremiah pack into thirteen words? Let's find five, and leave the promise of more.

He was wrong on the facts. He wasn't too young to be God's prophet.

He was wrong to say no to God. That's just never right.

He was wrong to tell God He had made a mistake. Hint: If there's a difference of opinion between you and God, change your opinion.

He was wrong to explain to God why he wouldn't make a good prophet. Did he think God was unaware of his age or of his speaking skills?

And he was wrong -- and in a big way -- to think that God expected him to be a prophet to the nations according to his own abilities. Jeremiah expressed a Pelagian mindset, that it was by a his own strength and power that a prophet did God's work.

But that term -- "God's work" -- happens to nicely express the orthodox Christian doctrine. It's not merely work done for God; it's work done by God, through the one He chooses to freely choose to do it. Jeremiah's youth and artlessness made him the perfect tool in the LORD's hand:

Say not: I am a child: for thou shalt go to all that I shall send thee: and whatsoever I shall command thee, thou shalt speak. Be not afraid at their presence: for I am with thee to deliver thee.... Behold I have given my words in thy mouth: Lo, I have set thee this day over the nations, and over the kingdoms, to root up, and pull down, and to waste, and to destroy, and to build, and to plant.

It was true of Jeremiah, as it was true of St. Paul, as it is true of each of us: When we are weak, it is then we are strong.

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Praedicare

Fr. Philip Powell, OP, who was ordained a priest of the Dominican Province of St. Martin de Porres this past May, has begun to blog his homilies at Domine, da mihi hanc aquam!. (That's Latin for, uh, "Lord, I got me a hankering for water." Must be a Southern thing.)

His homilies, as you can see, tend to start with a bang:

• "First, what belongs to Caesar? Nothing. Second, what belongs to God? Everything else."
• "I want to conduct an experiment tonight. Let's see how obedient you are! I command you to stand. I command you to clap your hands. I command you to say hello to the people around you. I command you to sit."
• "Wow. I know of no other way of expressing my amazement at tonight's readings. Wow!" (The homily I heard that day, Priesthood Sunday, began with the priest imagining himself as the Cowardly Lion jumping through a window.)
• "I believe that most of us are idolators."

I wonder how these have been received. I particularly wonder how many people stood and clapped their hands.

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A prophet to the nations

More than once, I've run into someone who has replied, "They made fun of Jeremiah, too," when he was ridiculed for saying something ridiculous.

Yes, and Alan Greenspan and I both chew our food before swallowing, but don't ask me to run a national economy.

Jeremiah is hardly the only figure in the Church whose mantle people like to assume on utterly trivial grounds. Are you obnoxious? You must be as learned as St. Jerome. Do you complain about bishops? Gosh, when I close my eyes I can't tell whether you or St. Catherine of Siena is speaking.

Jeremiah wasn't a prophet because he was ridiculed. He was ridiculed because he was a prophet. (And incidentally, the ridicule he endured was somewhat more substantial than being insulted on an Internet mailing list. Don't be so quick to claim his mantle; God just might let you put it on.) And he was a prophet because God called him, a calling recorded in a fascinating passage:

The word of the LORD came to me thus: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you, a prophet to the nations I appointed you.
"Ah, Lord GOD!" I said, "I know not how to speak; I am too young."
But the LORD answered me, Say not, "I am too young." To whomever I send you, you shall go; whatever I command you, you shall speak. Have no fear before them, because I am with you to deliver you, says the LORD.
Then the LORD extended his hand and touched my mouth, saying, See, I place my words in your mouth! This day I set you over nations and over kingdoms, To root up and to tear down, to destroy and to demolish, to build and to plant.

Those first words, "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I dedicated you," are well known -- I suspect for their beauty and profundity more than their utility in public debate. God knew -- and, being Love, loved -- each of us before we even existed.

But then there's that word "dedicated." Douay-Rheims has "sanctified"; other translations have "set apart" and "consecrated." The idea is of something (in this case, someone) made holy by being given over entirely to God's use. When a church is dedicated, it becomes a church, a house of God, not merely a building where Mass is sometimes said. Consecrated virginity is not a decision to go public with the determination to remain a virgin; it's a giving over to God one's virginity, which thereafter is holy and set apart from the things of the world.

Are we all dedicated by God before we are born, or was Jeremiah an exception? Well, one traditional interpretation of this verse is that Jeremiah was justified, washed free of original sin, before he was born, much as St. John the Baptist is said to have been when he leapt for joy at the sound of Mary's greeting. In that sense, no, we aren't all born free of original sin; most people aren't holy and righteous in God's sight at birth.

Still, before we were formed we were known, and if our personal dedications did not happen before birth, that doesn't mean we are never to be dedicated by God. What is set apart is set apart for a purpose, and for us humans (if you'll pardon the utilitarian language for a moment), our purpose is to work out God's plan for His creation in time. God's plan would not be perfect, God would not be perfect, if there were people who had no place in His plan, no purpose in His creation.

So yes, we are, all and each of us, known from eternity to be sanctified in time. Whether the time is before or after birth is a secondary matter.

[As for that utilitarian language, I excuse it with a reference to the Baltimore Catechism's "God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next."]

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They blog so I don't have to

Flos Carmeli has been quite a joyful place of late.

We will not know joy until we come to love and trust... But love and joy both come in their own time through God's all-giving grace. I can make small motions toward these, but in the end it is God who grants them in their fullest as we dispose ourselves to receive them.

After all of this it boils down to--where is joy to be found? In gratitude, in grateful acknowledgment of all that God has given me, has shown me, has made of me, has offered me. This is the beginning. It is the small movement of will that disposes us to receive even greater graces. Gratitude--the simple courtesy to say, "Thank you," to the One who loves us.

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Veritas looks at la nouvelle theologie's question, whether the death of God for us is Liberalism.

Now, why is liberalism understood in this sense the death of God for our times? Because of its amazing capacity to create and sustain (false) antagonistic dualisms, e.g. faith and reason; body and soul; church and state; religion and life. Note well: I'm certainly not denying that each element of each pair of terms is distinguishable from the other… that's obviously true. My point here is that liberalism doesn't merely distinguish between (for example) faith and reason: rather, it puts them in opposition to one another at a fundamental level.

Ultimately, liberalism is so problematic because of its propensity to separate religion from "everyday life". I'd submit that the vast majority of Americans fail to structure their lives according to their faith at an ontological (as opposed to moral) level. Were you to ask someone how being Christian informs and shapes (for example) their profession, you'd be lucky to get more than, "I don't cheat, lie, or steal because of my faith" (i.e. moralism). What we're talking about here is the split between the faith believers profess and the lives they live which Vatican II and Pope Paul VI referred to as the great drama of our times. And I think a convincing argument can be made that the origin for this drama is liberalism.

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In a post on medieval studies at Cambridge, Contemplata aliis Tradere turns up a website on the disputatio. It includes this description of the quodlibetica disputation, when masters "made themselves available to deal with a question 'raised by anyone on any topic'":

What characterized it, in fact, was its capricious, and impromptu aspect, and the uncertainty which hovered over it... In the quodlibetica dispute anyone could raise any question. And that was the great danger for the master who was responding. The questions of objections could come from all sides, either hostile or shrewd -- anything was possible. He could be questioned in good faith to learn his opinion; but someone might have tried to force him to contradict himself, or to force him to speak on controversial subjects which he would have preferred never to broach. Sometimes it was a curious foreigner, or a worried soul; sometimes a jealous rival or curious master who would try to put him in an awkward position. Sometimes the questions would be clear and interesting, other times they would be ambiguous and the master would have great difficulty in grasping their exact significance and true meaning. Some would be candidly confined to the purely intellectual realm; others above all had implications of politics or of disparagement.... It was thus essential that whoever wanted to hold a quodlibetica dispute have an uncommon presence of mind and an almost universal competency.

Nowadays, universal competency is generally regarded as a fundamental human right.

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Perspectives on faith

A lot of difficulties people have with the Faith seem to boil down to false dilemmas. Omniscience and free will, mercy and justice, faith and works: the standard arguments over these all seem to center on assertions of conflict, that either one or the other, but not both, must somehow win out or be true.

I think many of these apparent contradiction resolve themselves with the judicious application of St. Thomas's formulation "under the aspect of." If you look at something under one aspect or from one perspective, then look at it from a different aspect or perspective, the fact that you see different things does not demonstrate an inconsistency in the thing looked at nor a deficiency in one or another of the aspects looked under.

Imagine two people looking at a third person. Suppose one observer says, "I can see that this person's eyes are brown," and the other observer says, "I can't tell what color this person's eyes are, or even whether he has eyes." Before we conclude that the eye color of the person being observed is some unfathomable mystery, or that his eyes possess some occult property of revealing themselves only to certain select persons, we might first ask the second observer whether, from where he is standing, he can see the person's face. If he answers, "No, I'm looking at the back of his head," then we don't have much of a conflict between the observers' statements.

I think we need to be particularly careful about false contradictions when we refer to Scripture. If you put a verse from a Gospel next to a verse from the Pentateuch, you are comparing things that were written by different people at different times from different perspectives for different purposes. The unity of all Scripture lies, not in a single perspective, but in a single Spirit Who inspired it.

So, for example, the parable of the sheep and the goats in Matthew, which is coming up in the Lectionary in a couple of weeks, is told from a perspective of judgment. Last Sunday's reading from 1 Thessalonians, is told from a perspective of Christian hope. Other references to the Final Judgment (a term not without its own perspective) are made from perspectives of exhortation and mystery.

There are people who say things like, "I don't see how Jesus can be loving and say, 'Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.'" And yes, this objection can be answered in various arguments that "Depart from me, you accursed" can be said in love, but... they aren't really convincing arguments, are they? I mean, do they persuade many people who don't want to be persuaded?

It might be better to say, in so many words, that they are right, "Depart from me, you accursed" is not very loving, but that it comes from a story of the Second Coming told under the aspect of judgment. To hear the story of the Second Coming told under the aspect of love, look elsewhere.

Maybe this just shifts the problem, from "how do you reconcile these two verses" to "how do you reconcile these two perspectives." But it at least disposes of the immediate problem of an apparent contradiction, and changes the conversation from a stock proof-texting exercise to a shared exploration of the mysteries of Christ.

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The Feast of All Dominican Saints

A common answer to the question, "What interested you in the Dominican Order?," goes something like this: "I was looking for a way to grow closer to God, and the Dominican way seemed like a good fit." Another answer is: "I knew some Dominicans, and I said, 'I'll have what they're having.'"

The former answer is based on the individual, the latter on the community. I suspect all Dominicans learn relatively quickly that you don't get the one without the other. The person looking to perfect himself finds out that the Dominican way insists he be perfected in community. The person wanting the joy of Dominican community discovers how much that joy depends on letting God transform his own heart from within.

Somebody once told me she couldn't really see the point of thinking of the Dominican saints in heaven as somehow more united with the Dominicans on earth than are all the rest of the saints in heaven. Yes, in this vale of tears a community has a clear role, but once we reach heaven, what need will there still be for Dominican and Franciscan, Sulpician and Josephite?

And I think part of the answer is that the community within an order is real. It's not just a fortuitous arrangement in this life; an order situates its members within the Body of Christ in a way that endures forever. The Dominicans of this world exist within the Church on Earth as the Dominicans of the world to come will exist within the New Jerusalem. The relationships that begin now as seeds flower in eternity. And those relationships extend now from the Church Militant through the Church Suffering to the Church Triumphant.

In Christ we are washed clean, not bleached. The perfections of our relationships with others in heaven will include, in some cases, the perfections of communion in a perfected religious order.

Happy Feast Day!

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Irresponsibility at its highest

Bill Bennett is upset at the news that the CIA is running a program of secret prisons in foreign countries:

This is an outrage....

This is irresponsibility at its highest; it's also hypocrisy....

Shame on them. The consequences of what they've done will continue to rattle and distract our efforts — so too our allies'.

Oh, just to be clear: he's upset at the news, not at the fact. At the reporters, not at the government.

In this case, Eugene Robinson speaks for me:

Why does it matter how we treat a bunch of Islamic radicals who are sworn to bring death and destruction to the United States? It matters because the United States draws its strength and its moral authority in the world from its ideals. We preach about due process, we preach about the rule of law, we preach about humane treatment -- and now we're ignoring our own pronouncements.

But there's more at stake than American standing in the world. Our ideals are the heart and soul of this nation. We are not an ancient nation united by language or blood. Our ideals, rather than ethnicity or even territory, hold us together and make us a nation. When we betray those ideals, we weaken America.

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"Eucharistic spirituality ... comprises the whole of life"

Here is a ZENIT translation of Proposition 39 from the 2005 Synod of Bishops (emphasis and bullets added):

Christian faithful need greater understanding of the relationship between the Eucharist and daily life. Eucharistic spirituality does not consist only in participation in the Mass and devotion to the Most Blessed Sacrament. It comprises the whole of life.

Above all we encourage the lay faithful to continue their search to

• give the Eucharist a higher meaning in their lives and to
• feel hunger for God. We ask lay theologians to
• express their experience of living daily life with a Eucharistic spirit. We especially encourage families to
• be inspired by and draw life from the Eucharist.

In this way, they will take part in the transformation of their baptismal vocation which destines them to take the Good News to their neighbors.

In this context shines the prophetic testimony of consecrated women and men, who find in the Eucharistic celebration and in Adoration the strength for a radical following of Christ, obedient, chaste and poor. Consecrated life has here the source of contemplation, light for apostolic and missionary action, the ultimate meaning of their own commitment to the poor and marginalized, and the pledge of the realities of the Kingdom.

Prop. 40 ("Divorced Persons Who Have Remarried and the Eucharist") will get all the press, but 39 is a lesson we all, and we each, should learn. The parts in bold are what the lay faithful are supposed to do.

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They do it for Christ

A related story, told by Cardinal Schönborn:

In a very poor plantation village in Sri Lanka, I was received with unimaginable honors. For days the first visit of a cardinal had been prepared: garlands, the long road neatly and painstakingly covered with fresh sand, flowers, music, everything that these poor people were able to muster. When we finally reached the church–a wretched building-the Jesuit Father, who had been living there, impoverished, for forty years among his parish children, whispered in my ear: "Do not believe that these people did all that on account of Christoph Schönborn. They do it for Christ."

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Another way of humility

I have no opinion about the Virginia governor's race. In fact, if anyone knows how I could join a class action lawsuit against the Commonwealth of Virginia for exposing me to their political ads even though I live in Maryland, I'd be grateful.

But I like this story, told by Tim Kaine about his missionary tour in Honduras with the Jesuits:

Kaine was 22 years old. During the Christmas holiday break in Honduras, he was up in the mountains with a priest named Jarrell D. Patrick, who is known as Father Patricio. Patricio would walk from village to village and celebrate Mass on makeshift altars. One day, before saying Mass, Patricio told Kaine he wanted to visit with a man and his wife and four children.

"The family was very destitute," Kaine recalled. "The kids had obvious signs of malnutrition. We visited for a few minutes and were getting ready to leave when the man said, 'Hey, Father, wait a minute, I've got something for you.' " Kaine said the man went to a corner of the hut and picked up a hemp bag filled with food and gave it to Patricio as a Christmas gift. Kaine said he was shocked and angry that the priest had accepted food from a man whose own children clearly were not getting enough to eat.

For five minutes or more they walked in silence, until the priest turned to Kaine and said: "Tim, you know you really have to be humble to accept a gift of food from a family that poor."

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Which way?

The Dominican liturgy for the Feast of St. Martin de Porres speaks of St. Martin being sanctified by following "the way of humility." This got me thinking about what the way of humility is, and I think it might actually be a whole set of ways, or at least that humility can be expressed in a variety of tones and shadings.

The humility of St. Dominic lay in disregard of honors and comforts that might impede the preaching of the Gospel. St. Thomas's humility guarded against distractions from his study. St. Catherine is the great doctor of the "she who is not" humility that stands as nothing before God.

St. Martin's humility strikes me as marked by complete absence of ambition. He had no desire for anything greater than he had, and in fact desired to have less. He wasn't interested in doing great things -- not for himself, and not even for God.

He doesn't seem to have been the type to daydream about leading the rejoicing crowd into the house of God, amid cries of gladness and thanksgiving, the throng wild with joy. He didn't want to go off and work wonders. He was content to do what God gave him strength to do for the people he met each day.

And of course, in that humility, that desire to simply do God's will rather than to suggest what God's will could be, he managed to do great things, to work wonders, to lead rejoicing crowds into the house of God.

Relatedly, Contemplata aliis Tradere posts a translation of the hymn Martine, gemma candida, which begins:

O Martin, in the halls of light
You shine, a jewel, sparkling bright;
Come now to help us from above
And bring us tokens of your love.

A pattern of God's love divine,
You have been made midst men to shine;
May every nation in you see
The image of Christ's charity.

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The Word of God in Christian Prayer

Proposition 31 from the recent Synod of Bishops, as translated by ZENIT:

The Eucharistic celebration is the central celebration of the Church but, for the spiritual life of a community, the celebrations of the Word of God are also of great importance.

Such celebrations offer the community the possibility to further its reflection on the Word of God. Forms of access to the Word of God may also be used which have been demonstrated to be valid in the catechetical and pastoral endeavor, such as dialogue, silence or other creative elements like gestures and music.

Moreover, the forms of the Liturgy of the Hours, confirmed by tradition, should be recommended to the communities, especially Lauds, Vespers and Compline, and also the holding of vigils. The introductions to the psalms and readings of the Office may lead to a more profound experience of the event of Christ and of the economy of salvation that, in turn, can enrich the understanding of the Eucharistic mystery.

It will be decisive that whoever leads such celebrations not only have a good theological formation but that, stemming from personal spiritual experience, be able to draw closer to the heart of the Word of God.

Is this the year you talk your parish into celebrating Sunday Vespers?

(I'm thinking Evening Prayer II, although it would be pretty funny to tell all the people who come to the vigil Mass on Saturday to get it over with, "For the Invitatory Psalm tonight, we'll be using Tone IV.")

And this business of the holding of vigils. The Dominican House of Studies' All Saints Vigil is growing in popularity, but for some reason they keep scheduling it on Halloween, so I haven't been able to attend. But perhaps a vigil could be held at my parish for the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, or something.

Is there a book of vigils one checks?

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Mind the Adjective

Today is All Saints Day.

It's not All the Rest of the Saints Day, as though we're trying to be fair to everyone in heaven who doesn't have his own proper office.

It's not Each Saint's Day, as though we're praying, "We rejoice in you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you, ... and you, and you there in the back. Let's see, is that everyone?"

It's All Saints Day. The whole, not the parts or the individuals. And yes, the whole comprises individuals, but the saints in heaven compose a reality that is more than the sum of their individual persons. Together, they are the Church Triumphant, and as the Church they offer acceptable worship to the Father through the Son in the Holy Spirit.

This is one of the great both/ands of Catholicism. Today we celebrate both each saint and all saints, with the celebration of each saint placed within the context of the celebration of all saints.

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Controlling anger

Waiting in Joyful Hope offers a suggestion on getting rid of anger:

So what must we do to get rid of this anger? We must learn to forgive.

The first process is to make the decision to forgive, remembering that forgiveness is a decision not a feeling.

Once we have made that decision, we must remember all the things that have caused this need for forgiveness.

Then we must list all the other points that have been blessings from this person we need to forgive.

The next point is the most crucial of all, when anger surfaces, we must not bring the list of hurts to mind, but only the list of blessings, and then the anger will subside.

The wonderful prayer (from, I think, Happy Catholic), "God bless them and have mercy on me," also diminishes personal animosity. (As I wrote before, the antidote to hatred is humble prayer; asking for mercy is the gold standard of humility.)

We are, of course, obliged to pray for our enemies, an obligation that would seem to extend to those who aren't our enemies so much as people we flat don't like. It is, I find, a very liberating experience -- animosity and anger being what we're liberated from -- to simply pray that God give them the graces they need to fulfill God's will for them, without reminding God what His will for them is. That is, to pray, "Fill his heart with Your love," without adding, "so that he'll finally stop being such an idjit."

This isn't to say you can't know what another person, even an antagonist, truly needs, nor that you can never pray for a specific intention for them. It is to say, though, that you can be wrong about what another person, especially an antagonist, truly needs -- and so be asking God to give him a scorpion thinking it's a fish -- and that at least occasionally leaving the details to God is a good exercise in humility.

Labels: On Anger

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30 Day Money-Back Guarantee!

How's this for "Pray the Rosary" ad copy:

The soul now treads a merry way; it doesn't find itself alone anymore. It knows it can stop at inns along the way to be fed and to rest, strengthened to follow on in its journey. The soul doesn't know when the journey will end, but it knows to Whom it leads, for Himself leads the soul.

Labels: Praying the Rosary

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A responsive chord

Let me answer Jeff's comments on my post below in four notes.

First, of agreement: Yes, absolutely, absence of anger does not guarantee presence of virtue. In my first post on St. Thomas's treatment of anger (both the passion and the vice), I pointed out his teaching about the vice that is the opposite of anger, viz,

Anger may be understood in two ways. On one way, as a simple movement of the will, whereby one inflicts punishment, not through passion, but in virtue of a judgment of the reason: and thus without doubt lack of anger is a sin... On another way anger is taken for a movement of the sensitive appetite, which ... cannot be lacking altogether, unless the movement of the will be altogether lacking or weak. Consequently lack of the passion of anger is also a vice, even as the lack of movement in the will directed to punishment by the judgment of reason.

Second, of qualification: Zealous anger (i.e., the good kind) is not an absolute or virtuous good, something desirable for its own sake. It is rather a useful good, something desired as the means to another good. In itself, anger is a desire to correct injustice and vice under arduous circumstances; what makes it useful is that, as a passion, it keeps us moving toward the correction of injustice and vice in circumstances where we might otherwise give up.

As a means to an end, zealous anger can only be rightly demanded of us -- which is to say, its absence can only be a sin -- when both the end is demanded of us and such anger is a necessary means. I would suggest that, quite often, people demand zealous anger of others (and justify it in themselves) when one or both conditions aren’t met.

The first condition can fail when a person has no particular duty to correct the particular injustice or vice -- as when on-line Catholics get all spun up over poor liturgy in a parish far, far away -- as well as when what provokes anger is not actually injustice or vice -- as when a bishop makes a licit but unpopular decision.

The second condition can fail when the first fails, when a person's duty is not arduous (for example, giving moral support to someone in a diocese far away who is trying to correct his parish's music director), and when a person can meet his duty without growing angry.

The ability to correct injustice and vice without growing angry (in the "movement of the sensitive appetite" sense) has been commended as ideal by spiritual directors throughout the history of the Church.

A third note, of contrariety: I don't find "70% less evil than the other leading brand" type arguments very persuasive, and that's what comments like, "I think they may be doing BETTER than most people who AREN'T getting twisted in a knot," amount to. Sin has enough apologists in the world, and it's no act of charity to excuse sin in another.

Furthermore, the anger I see expressed on the Internet is, I'd say far more often than not, quite simply not anything like what might result directly from "[p]eople who keep abortion in front of their eyes -- what it is in its nature -- and all the disgusting excuses and prevarications engaged in by all sorts of people who ought to know better."

It's a metastasized anger, a reflexive hatred, a habitual posture of derision and spite directed at whatever doesn't meet someone's personal standards.

It's certainly possible that such habits, in any particular person, developed from zealous anger directed against real, radical evil. It's also possible they didn't. In any case, it doesn't much matter.

Fourth, of justification: I've been involved in on-line discussions on Catholicism for nearly fifteen years. In all that time, anger has been a ubiquitous feature. I am not, let me be clear, speaking of anger at abortion or child abuse, or at indifference to these grave evils. I am speaking of anger -- of sullenness and ill-will, and of hatred and derision directed at fellow Catholics -- over things like hymn selection, and whether a priest says "Good morning" at the beginning of Mass.

Faced with this anger, I have at times joined in; at others, reacted with an equal and opposite anger. Often I am still bemused and befuddled by it. Long ago, I learned it was best to ignore it whenever possible.

I stand by what I wrote in that post almost three months ago:

If you don't understand anger, you don't understand a lot of what goes on between people, including between Catholics discussing their Church.

I, of course, am one of those Catholics who discuss their Church, one who finds anger in the words of others and within my own heart.

So no, I don't accept "it's a bit much if we start lecturing them about how terribly they are missing their calling, etc., etc., how dreadful their failings are, and so on," as a relevant criticism of my posts on this subject, nor that they particularly contribute to the tendency of "marginalizing our consciousness of depravity and evil." If anything, I would say they heighten our consciousness of depravity and evil, by pointing out the ubiquitous depravity and evil of hatred and anger in the on-line conversations of Catholics.

Have we not all the one Father?
Has not the one God created us?
Why then do we break faith with one another,
violating the covenant of our fathers?

Answering this last question is one of the things I am trying to do.

Labels: On Anger

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Diegos, Peters, and Arnolds

Peter of Vaux-de-Cernai was a Thirteenth Century Cistercian monk who wrote a history of the Albigensians, including the following description of the work of the Spanish bishop Diego of Osma:

In the year of the Incarnate Word 1206 Diego, Bishop of Osma, an eminent man worthy of renown, visited the Roman Curia with the intention of resigning his bishopric, so that he could be free to go among the pagans and preach the Gospel of Christ. But the Lord Pope Innocent was unwilling to grant the holy man's request and instead commanded him to return to his own see...

On his return journey from the Curia the Bishop of Osma reached Montpelier where he met the saintly Arnold, the abbot of Citeaux, as well as Brother Peter of Castelnau and Brother Ralph, Cistercian monks, all legates of the Apostolic See seeking to renounce the legacy enjoined upon them out of sheer discouragement, since they could attain nothing or hardly anything in preaching to the heretics. Whenever they began preaching to the heretics, the latter would taunt them with remarks about the scandalous lives of the clergy; so, if they wanted to correct the way of life among the clergy, they would have to give up their preaching.

The aforementioned bishop, however, offered them an effective solution to their dilemma by warning and counselling that, forgetting everything else, they should concentrate all their ardor on preaching. Moreover, to shut the mouths of their detractors, they should go forth humbly, doing and teaching according to the example of their Holy Master, go on foot without gold and silver, and thereby imitate the manner of the Apostles. However, since all this was something new, the above mentioned legates were not in favor of undertaking it by themselves. So they answered that if someone with due authority were willing to show them the way, they would gladly follow him. What else was there to do? The man of God offered himself, and soon, sending his carriages and his entire retinue to the city of Osma, he kept one companion and, with the two frequently mentioned legates, namely, the monks Peter and Ralph, he left Montpelier. The Cistercian abbot, however, returned to Citeaux, both because the general chapter of the Cistercians was to be held in the near future, and because, upon the completion of the chapter, he would return with some of the abbots of his Order who would help carry out the duties of preaching assigned to him.

In this story -- let's treat it as a parable, lest we do violence to the memories of holy men -- we have the figures of Diego; a bishop who could see what needed to be done and was prepared to do it himself; of Peter, a monk who would not do it himself, but was prepared to follow another; and of Arnold, who approved of Diego's way but attended to his own business first.

This story came to mind on reading a post at Sacramentum Vitae that identifies "a false sense of entitlement" among our bishops as a problem with the Church today.

...the solution is for bishops to do what all Christians are called to do, and begin to do, in baptism: conform themselves with the crucified Christ by dying to the old self. It should truly be said of each and every bishop what St. Paul said of himself: "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." Such an ideal is probably unattainable for many in this vale of tears; but a crucial step forward will have been made if the bishops understand what the ideal entails for them, value it above self-preservation, and strive accordingly. Only if the bishops as a whole take that step will the Church in this country be worth anybody else's taking seriously again.

Ah, but the bishops as a whole include Diegos, Peters, and Alberts; I would suggest they always have, and I would not be surprised if there have always been more Peters than Diegos, and more Alberts than Peters.

Any call for reform, then, should take this into account. As a rule, Albert will not become Diego, even if scolded. (Look to your own hearts for the truth of this, my fellow lay Alberts.) Odds are that any given person's bishop is not Diego, and the one after him won't be, either.

So as we pray for the reform of the Church, let's by all means pray for a miracle, but don't expect the one we get to be the straightforward, "the bishops get it" one.

As a matter of history, Peter, who remained with Diego, was martyred in 1208; he is now styled Bl. Peter of Castelnau, with a memorial on January 15. His death was the excuse for the crusade of the barons, more interested in gold than in God.

For his part, Arnold Arnaury of Citeaux rejoined the preaching field along with twelve other Cistercian abbots; they, with their companions, "came on foot without any display... in accordance with what they had heard about the Bishop of Osma." Their success was limited; as one report had it, "They reclaimed a small number; they instructed and confirmed in the faith the few Catholics whom they encountered." Within a year, the preaching had all but ended.

Not entirely, though. That "one companion" Bishop Diego kept when he sent the rest of his retinue on to Osma was, as you may know, the sub-prior of the canons of the Osma cathedral, Dominic de Guzman.

And Diego? He returned to Osma and died soon thereafter. He is remembered today largely as the MacGuffin that brought St. Dominic to Languedoc, which precipitated the founding of the Dominican Order.

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An unquiet evil



Habitual anger is poison to the soul. If not countered by the antidote of humble prayer, it will surely lead to spiritual death.

Some, on hearing this, respond, "But we have good reason to be angry!"

No one would dispute that there is plenty going on today that could enkindle a zealous passion to correct injustice and vice. But where does that leave us? With good reason to do something that, if not countered by humble prayer, will surely lead to spiritual death.

This paradox can be resolved along two lines.

First, the action of another that constitutes our "good reason to be angry" is not really, by itself, a good reason to be angry. Such an action -- the injustice we desire to avenge -- is necessary to be justly angry, but it is not sufficient. Just anger must accord with reason, and the reason involved is not only, "This is a very bad thing!" but, "This is what I can do to correct it!" It is not in accord with reason to get angry at the burning of the Library of Alexandria, because that's an injustice that cannot now be avenged.

Even given an injustice that can still be avenged, the questions remain, "Can I avenge it?" "Can I avenge it in this way?" Only if the answers to these questions are yes is the anger that commits me to act in this way just.

The second line of resolution is the distinction between an act of anger and the habit of anger. I am not too concerned about individual acts of anger (my own aside); some aren't sinful, and those that are ... well, that's what the confessional is for (to say nothing of Matthew 7:3-5).

But the habit of anger is a different matter. The habit of anger is one of the Seven Capital Vices (a vice, remember, is simply an evil habit). Its daughters, per St. Gregory the Great, are quarreling, swelling of the mind, contumely, clamor, indignation and blasphemy. In my judgment, the habit of anger is a loudly sounded note of the Church in the United States at this time, and having its daughters running around freely makes it harder for the faithful to conform ourselves to Christ and to fulfill the Father's will for us in this life.

Moreover, too often this vice is regarded as a virtue. People fail to distinguish between necessary and sufficient causes to be virtuously angry. It's sort of the dual of the "ends justify means" argument, a "cause justifies means" argument that whatever I do must be good because I am responding to something clearly evil.

On top of that, they fail to see what habitual anger -- even and perhaps especially anger at true injustice -- does to a human soul, how it shrivels the heart and blinds the reason.

Many chemical solvents are poisonous, even corrosive. We know that, and we treat them with care. We store them appropriately, take them out only for a particular use, follow the directions on the label, clean up thoroughly, then return the solvents to safe storage when we're done. If we're not completely oblivious, we're well aware of what might happen if we get careless.

Yet there are those who pick up anger, as poisonous and corrosive to the soul as high molar acids are to the body, when they wake and never lay it down throughout the day. They clutch it tight as they fall asleep. What would we say to someone who slept with a bottle of concentrated sulfuric acid, who carried it about with him during the day in search of things to dissolve with it?

Labels: On Anger

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The Church Tells its Own Story

In a comment below, Peter mentions Raphael's "Disputation on the Sacrament."

Fr. Timothy Verdon is working on a book on St. Peter's Basilica; an excerpt, on Raphael's painting, is found here.

For the sensibility of that time, the immediate impact, the primary message of the fresco, was of an eschatological character. It clearly showed the relationship between the Church militant upon the earth and the Church triumphant in heaven.

And then, in the apparent confusion of the scene, beyond the strange platform of clouds that divides the wall horizontally, the viewer would have noted the vertical axis defined by: God the Father above; Christ, who is displaying his wounds, in the middle; the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove descending in a nimbus of glory below Christ; and further below – on the altar placed upon three steps at floor level – the Eucharistic host in a monstrance.

So after the first impression, which would have been generally eschatological, or referring to the end times, the attentive observer would have made more specifically theological, even dogmatic, reflections: a central trinitarian structure and the sacrament as the visible extension of the life of the three divine persons, the object of attention for the figures gathered around the altar at the bottom.

The eschatological dimension and Trinitarian nature of the Eucharist are secondary notes of my Year of the Eucharist.

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The second word

Healed.

Last month, a priest spoke about what the faithful say just before receiving Holy Communion: "Only say the word and I will be healed."

The Eucharist is true food; It overcomes our weaknesses and makes us strong in the life of the Trinity, if we allow it. But how often do we really ask to be healed? Do we even expect anything from the Eucharist, beyond perhaps a good feeling and some bit of undetectable grace?

We can, if we like, come to Mass prepared to truly ask to be healed. Healed of a physical ailment, or an emotional wound, or a moral weakness. And what relic, what novena, what pilgrimage can add to the power made present at every Catholic altar in the world?

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The year in review

The Year of the Eucharist has drawn to a close. For me, it looks to be memorable chiefly for two words.

The first: Procession.

In a lecture on the Eucharist last spring, a priest mentioned in passing that we approach the altar for Communion, not in a line, but in a procession. And sure enough, the General Instruction on the Roman Missal speaks of "the procession to receive Communion" ("processionis ad Eucharistiam," n. 86).

The GIRM includes this Communion procession among the gestures of the people that "ought to contribute to making the entire celebration resplendent with beauty and noble simplicity" (n. 42).

There's not much I can do about how others process to receive our Lord, and I can only look so beautiful and noble myself, but since having this brought to my attention, I do try to keep in mind that I am not in a line, not in a queue, not in a parade or a march or a crowd, but in a procession.

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Apropos of nothing,

the Single Malt & Scotch Whisky Extravaganza will be in Washington, DC, on November 2.

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The mountains are just mountains

The Christian faith is not very sophisticated.

There's one God, Who made everything. He has one Son, Who became the man Jesus Christ to save us by His death. Jesus set up one Church, which is guided by His one Holy Spirit. Jesus will come again to divide everyone into the living, who will live in with God forever, and the dead, who will live without God forever.

A child of seven can understand this. Not as well, perhaps, as an adult of seventy, but I have a strong suspicion that little of the advantage of the adult over the child is due to sophisticated thinking.

Not that there isn't plenty of sophisticated thinking done by Christians. Some very clever, very elaborate, and even very profitable thinking has gone into Christian theology since the death of the last Apostle. But the Faith is faith in a Person, not in the thinking of even the best thinkers.

Many people who like to do sophisticated thinking, who relate to the world around them particularly through deliberate reasoning, have a hard time relating in a simple way to the Christian faith. The child-like faith Jesus commands is a real challenge for them. They want a mature faith that is qualitatively different from that of the child of seven.

There seem to be two ways of doing this. One is to preserve the simplicity of the Faith while building up the ancillary aspects of Christianity: the theology, the liturgy, the cult and culture.

The other way, which seems to have become common in the last couple of centuries (if it wasn't always common), is to deny that the Faith is really so simple. Jesus is God, Jesus is man: that's a simple belief with some very sophisticated (and, for the most part, provisional) explanations. But some thinkers want to import the sophistication into the belief, which happens to have the effect of destroying the belief. They want to say that Jesus isn't really God, or wasn't particularly God, or didn't actualize the deontology of Divinity until after the Resurrection Event, or whatever.

I say, that's what they want to do; that's the direction their habitual thought patterns lead them. Not all sophisticated thinkers actually do this, but some who do seem to be up front about what they're doing. The Christian Faith, as received from their forefathers, is too simple, too superstitious, too unenlightened, too backward, to be true.

Since God wants none to be lost but all to be saved, it follows that God wants the sophisticated thinkers to be saved, in addition to the plain thinkers and poor thinkers for whom the Faith is made simple. I'm toying with the idea that, to the sophisticated thinker who wants to destroy the Faith in order to save it from being too simple, Christ has given His mother, as a way to cut through all that sophisticated thought. Once past adolescence, all your fancy talk doesn't really cut it with your mother, and there comes a point when you shut up and listen to her, and of course what the Blessed Mother is saying to you is, "Do whatever He tells you."

I know more than one sophisticated thinker who appears to be grounded in the Apostolic Faith in large part, if not entirely, by being grounded in devotion to Mary.

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My Met Calendar event reminder

This is the reminder you requested about the event(s) listed below.

Special Exhibition
Fra Angelico
October 26, 2005-January 29, 2006
Robert Lehman Wing

This first major exhibition of Fra Angelico’s work since the quincentenary exhibition of 1955 in Florence -— and the first ever in this country -— will reunite approximately 75 paintings, drawings, and manuscript illuminations covering all periods of the artist’s career, from ca. 1410 to 1455. Included will be several new attributions and paintings never before exhibited publicly, as well as numerous reconstructions of dispersed complexes, some reunited for the first time. An additional 45 works by Angelico's assistants and closest followers will illustrate the spread and continuity of his influence into the second half of the 15th century.

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