Palm Sunday
Prayer, lifting our hearts and minds to God, is our soul’s highest calling and greatest difficulty. It’s not hard to say words to God, and to converse with Him is easy—and good. To lift our hearts and minds to Him, though, is to wait on Him. It’s not something we decide we’re going to do right now, since our favorite TV show doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.
A conversation with the Lord can take place anytime, anyplace. We can turn our attention to Him and offer Him our words of praise and petition Him for our needs. When we see something in the world around which moves us to wonder or strikes us with beauty, it’s meet and right to immediately turn to God and praise Him for His creation; it’s pointing out something to a Friend. When we learn of someone’s need, it’s meet to say something about it to God. When I don’t know what to do (even more, when I think I do know what to do), it’s right to “bring the Lord in” and ask for His guidance. When the sudden veering of a car jolts my mind to how close death can be, I may be quick, if not eloquent, to call on God!
But God is more than “our very present help in time of trouble.” He is more than a friend. Because He spoke, the Universe came into existence. You exist, second by second, because He wants you to. St Augustine said, “God still creates! He still redeems! He still sanctifies!” Things may look grim to us at any given time—our national economy may be in trouble, the Chinese may be poised to make a move into the Middle East, the Cowboys may be eliminated from the play-offs—but for no second is anything removed from God’s hands. As Christians it may be a good meditation to consider that no matter how bad things seem, the Lord is present, His purposes unthwarted. We can’t see what God is doing—truth is, we never have seen, or at least understood. We’re as clueless as the Lord’s Apostles were when He spoke in parables.
God has given us minds and look at the many great things we’ve accomplished with them. But they—we—I—have limitations. We can and should wrestle with questions ranging from the inner secrets of the tiniest piece of an atom to the circumference of the boundaries of the Universe, but none of those discoveries will bring us any closer grasping the Mind of our Creator. Remember that odd exchange between Moses and God in the Book of Exodus? Moses asks God “show me Thy glory. And God said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee…but thou canst not see My face: for no man see Me, and live. I will put thee in a cleft of the rock, and will cover thee with My hand while I pass by: And I will take away Mine hand, and thou shalt see My back: but My face shall not be seen.” We can see the signs of God’s presence and activity in His creation, in where He directs our lives: the unfolding affairs of men, which we imagine are all set in motion by the irresistible forces of history, can never undo what God intends. The Creator of Worlds, Who continually creates and sustains us, the Redeemer of souls, Who became forever one of us so we could one day be like Him, the Sanctifier of all things, Whose power binds all things, this is the One Who invites us to pray.
Our prayer is so anemic because our grasp on the things of the Spirit is so weak.
To lift our hearts and minds to God is not just to “talk to” Him, much less to “think about” Him, as if He were a math problem. We lift our hearts and minds to Him by asking Him to bring us there—and then, waiting patiently, patiently, patiently, patiently for Him to do it—when He decides to. To pray is to put ourselves as His disposal, not vice versa. It’s a daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, lifetime decision to pray. Each day’s waiting, each day’s prayer, is built on the waiting and prayer of the day previous.
Sound boring? Better, more important stuff to do? It would certainly seem so. We’ve got stuff to buy, people to impress, business to transact, worlds to build. And someday, before you’ve finished doing all the things you think you have to, you die—and somebody else takes your stuff and puts it in a thrift shop.
Holy Week has a lot of church services attached. The Three Great Days could conceivably use up 4 or 5 hours each, especially if you go to Tenebrae. That’s a lot of time to be in church.
The Apocalypse, the Book of the Revelation, describes the cherubim: “…each of them wrapped in six wings about him; and they are full of eyes within: and they rest not day and night, saying, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy, LORD God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come.’ ” They forever, with all those eyes, look at God. And their response is to shout, “Holy” over and over and over again, without stopping to take a breath or checking the clock for their break time. They don’t want a break. Every “holy” that they shout is as “fresh” as the first. They’re praying.
You and I aren’t the cherubim, with their powers of sight or concentration. We live day-to-day in our artificial world of garish billboards and cars that are little more than large “boom-boxes” and 24 hour cable news. But do something different this Holy Week. Come out from all the distractions for more than an hour. Go to sing the chants and see the Old Rites made new, where Jesus comes again. Take two and a half-hours and go to your favorite park and don’t bring whatever your customary electronic stuff is. Be quiet. Be alone. Ask God to lift your heart and mind to Him. And wait.
A Blessed Holy Week.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
"CONTINUE THINE FOREVER"
Saturday after Passion Sunday
For forty days and forty nights the Lord Jesus was in the desert. He went there, following His baptism, led by the Spirit. The Spirit was with Him as He fasted and prayed, when He encountered temptation and when He trounced the devil. Our forty days with Him will soon end. The same Spirit that led the Lord leads us, too. Because of our spiritual dullness, we usually aren’t “aware” of it, and few of us do much of anything about it, but the Spirit was specially gifted to you—do you remember?
Some time back, maybe so long you can’t remember much of it, the Bishop pressed his hands on your head and prayed: “Defend, O Lord, this Thy Child with Thy heavenly grace; that (s)he may continue Thine for ever; and daily increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more, until (s)he come unto Thy everlasting kingdom.” Your confirmation may have been when you were given presents and had your pictures made with a lot of overdressed relatives, but it was also when the Lord gave you what you need to mature as a Christian.
That prayer the bishop said, like so many other good things, is simple. But it’s packed full as a good knapsack. The bishop asked God to protect you; not from bug-bites or broken toes but from falling prey to the devil. He doesn’t pray you won’t be tempted—he doesn’t even pray you won’t sin—but that whatever comes, you’ll “continue God’s forever”: nothing will snatch you from His hand. At the core of the prayer lies the heart of our Christian life. He asks that God’s Spirit—His life lived in us—“will daily increase more and more.” This is what Lent has been all about.
Our Evangelical friends talk about “being saved.” By that, they mean (best I’ve been able to deduce after many years of being asked whether or not I “was”), “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?” If you answer “yes” in a way that meets their satisfaction, you’re saved. Even among Evangelicals, though, there are disagreements about this their basic concern. Some believe once you’re saved, you’re in. You’ve made it forever. Others disagree and warn of the possibility of “backsliding.” Christians in the Catholic tradition, though, following the teaching enshrined in the bishop’s confirmation prayer, hold otherwise.
The prayer asks that we will “daily increase” in the life of the Spirit “more and more, until we come” into God’s “heavenly Kingdom.” When the concerned Evangelical asks if we’re “saved,” it’s fair to ask, “from what?” You know the answer as well as I do. Hellfire, brimstone, dancing devils and all those tedious people you thought you’d never have to see again. Is this why God became incarnate, to free us from burning to a crisp?
“Continue Thine forever” leads us away from fretting over hell’s terrors to the contemplation of Heaven’s joys.
The Church doesn’t turn our gaze to our sins every Lent to scare us, but so we’ll recognize who our enemies are. I’ll risk the trite possibilities of the phrase and say “sin is not good for us” as much as it tries to look like it is. Sin masquerades as attractive, interesting, sophisticated or pleasurable until it entangles us. Then, when we’re in their nets, the devils (who we don’t even know are there) slowly pull us in. They’ve got us so well-trained the only thing we really notice is that we’re not enjoying all this so much anymore. Listen to an alcoholic’s tale. A lot of “seasoned” alcoholics tell you how much they hate drinking. Yet, even among AA members, recidivism rates are more than 90%. There are no groups for those of us who suffer from chronic arrogance, but as one of that number, I’ve got to guess it’s even higher.
Sin isn’t generically dangerous. I’m not a sinner because I exist, but because I commit sins; real ones, in my daily life. I lie and scheme and get jealous and try to get the people I don’t like at work fired. And because sins are real acts, they can be addressed. We can not sin, if we’re willing to call on God for help. He’ll give us His Spirit—His Grace—if we ask. But think back to the last time you sinned (I hope you have to think for a minute, but since I’m a practiced sinner, it’s not hard). Chances are, you didn’t put up much of a fight (I’m imagining that your sin wasn’t embezzling $29 million but more along the lines of spreading a bit of irresistible gossip). It might not have even occurred to you what you were doing was sinful—not really sinful—until later. That’s not because it wasn’t; it’s because you’re as well-trained as I am. Even if you later thought something like “I shouldn’t have said that about her,” we pretty much know our sins are a lot less serious than other people’s.
So ask God to show you your sins. St Teresa of Avila tells us how gentle God is with us. “The Lord will only show us as much of our sins as we can bear to see,” she says. “He doesn’t want to drive us to despair, but repentance.” As you become aware of your sins, ask the Lord to help you fight them. “Help me not to gossip, Lord.” Give something up, now and then, undramatically (like the bowl of banana cream pie you were going to have for desert) to help your fight. If you ask the Lord, He’ll be present and the next time the tempter pulls your string, you’ll remember Jesus. Now you’ve got the ball. Which team are you playing for?
If we accustom ourselves to making the choice of Grace, we’re “daily” increasing in the Holy Spirit, and on our way to “continuing” His forever. Holiness, trite but true, is a habit. It’s something we learn.
When we “come to the everlasting Kingdom,” we will be endlessly delighted but not surprised. We learn to speak the language of Heaven, St Bernard of Clairvaux tells us, here on earth. This Lent, I hope you’ve broadened your vocabulary.
For forty days and forty nights the Lord Jesus was in the desert. He went there, following His baptism, led by the Spirit. The Spirit was with Him as He fasted and prayed, when He encountered temptation and when He trounced the devil. Our forty days with Him will soon end. The same Spirit that led the Lord leads us, too. Because of our spiritual dullness, we usually aren’t “aware” of it, and few of us do much of anything about it, but the Spirit was specially gifted to you—do you remember?
Some time back, maybe so long you can’t remember much of it, the Bishop pressed his hands on your head and prayed: “Defend, O Lord, this Thy Child with Thy heavenly grace; that (s)he may continue Thine for ever; and daily increase in Thy Holy Spirit more and more, until (s)he come unto Thy everlasting kingdom.” Your confirmation may have been when you were given presents and had your pictures made with a lot of overdressed relatives, but it was also when the Lord gave you what you need to mature as a Christian.
That prayer the bishop said, like so many other good things, is simple. But it’s packed full as a good knapsack. The bishop asked God to protect you; not from bug-bites or broken toes but from falling prey to the devil. He doesn’t pray you won’t be tempted—he doesn’t even pray you won’t sin—but that whatever comes, you’ll “continue God’s forever”: nothing will snatch you from His hand. At the core of the prayer lies the heart of our Christian life. He asks that God’s Spirit—His life lived in us—“will daily increase more and more.” This is what Lent has been all about.
Our Evangelical friends talk about “being saved.” By that, they mean (best I’ve been able to deduce after many years of being asked whether or not I “was”), “Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior?” If you answer “yes” in a way that meets their satisfaction, you’re saved. Even among Evangelicals, though, there are disagreements about this their basic concern. Some believe once you’re saved, you’re in. You’ve made it forever. Others disagree and warn of the possibility of “backsliding.” Christians in the Catholic tradition, though, following the teaching enshrined in the bishop’s confirmation prayer, hold otherwise.
The prayer asks that we will “daily increase” in the life of the Spirit “more and more, until we come” into God’s “heavenly Kingdom.” When the concerned Evangelical asks if we’re “saved,” it’s fair to ask, “from what?” You know the answer as well as I do. Hellfire, brimstone, dancing devils and all those tedious people you thought you’d never have to see again. Is this why God became incarnate, to free us from burning to a crisp?
“Continue Thine forever” leads us away from fretting over hell’s terrors to the contemplation of Heaven’s joys.
The Church doesn’t turn our gaze to our sins every Lent to scare us, but so we’ll recognize who our enemies are. I’ll risk the trite possibilities of the phrase and say “sin is not good for us” as much as it tries to look like it is. Sin masquerades as attractive, interesting, sophisticated or pleasurable until it entangles us. Then, when we’re in their nets, the devils (who we don’t even know are there) slowly pull us in. They’ve got us so well-trained the only thing we really notice is that we’re not enjoying all this so much anymore. Listen to an alcoholic’s tale. A lot of “seasoned” alcoholics tell you how much they hate drinking. Yet, even among AA members, recidivism rates are more than 90%. There are no groups for those of us who suffer from chronic arrogance, but as one of that number, I’ve got to guess it’s even higher.
Sin isn’t generically dangerous. I’m not a sinner because I exist, but because I commit sins; real ones, in my daily life. I lie and scheme and get jealous and try to get the people I don’t like at work fired. And because sins are real acts, they can be addressed. We can not sin, if we’re willing to call on God for help. He’ll give us His Spirit—His Grace—if we ask. But think back to the last time you sinned (I hope you have to think for a minute, but since I’m a practiced sinner, it’s not hard). Chances are, you didn’t put up much of a fight (I’m imagining that your sin wasn’t embezzling $29 million but more along the lines of spreading a bit of irresistible gossip). It might not have even occurred to you what you were doing was sinful—not really sinful—until later. That’s not because it wasn’t; it’s because you’re as well-trained as I am. Even if you later thought something like “I shouldn’t have said that about her,” we pretty much know our sins are a lot less serious than other people’s.
So ask God to show you your sins. St Teresa of Avila tells us how gentle God is with us. “The Lord will only show us as much of our sins as we can bear to see,” she says. “He doesn’t want to drive us to despair, but repentance.” As you become aware of your sins, ask the Lord to help you fight them. “Help me not to gossip, Lord.” Give something up, now and then, undramatically (like the bowl of banana cream pie you were going to have for desert) to help your fight. If you ask the Lord, He’ll be present and the next time the tempter pulls your string, you’ll remember Jesus. Now you’ve got the ball. Which team are you playing for?
If we accustom ourselves to making the choice of Grace, we’re “daily” increasing in the Holy Spirit, and on our way to “continuing” His forever. Holiness, trite but true, is a habit. It’s something we learn.
When we “come to the everlasting Kingdom,” we will be endlessly delighted but not surprised. We learn to speak the language of Heaven, St Bernard of Clairvaux tells us, here on earth. This Lent, I hope you’ve broadened your vocabulary.
Friday, March 26, 2010
A SPIRITUAL SUPERMAN
Friday after Passion Sunday
Few people would believe it, but I like to fast. Unfortunately, I like it for the wrong reasons. I feel more healthy when I fast and—even more important to me—when I don’t think about food for a few days, I turn those “hunter-gatherer” instincts to more interesting uses—writing or reading or book-buying!
Lent has been hard for me the past several years, since my accident, because I’ve been forbidden to fast at all. I have to eat and am supposed to do it several times a day. That makes Lent more of a struggle for me.
I’m gonna tell you a secret, something not many people know. Twice, in 1979 and 1980, I kept an almost complete Lenten fast. Except for water and juice, I didn’t eat anything from the Shrove Tuesday Pancakes until the Easter Day ham. It was exhilarating. After about four days of thinking “this isn’t going to work for this and that reason,” my hunger pangs—and their attendant stomach noises—almost completely disappeared. I felt a “freedom” from “material things” it was hard for me to define. All I knew was that it was very spiritual. How many other people could do this?
I didn’t tell anybody, not even my confessor. The Forty Days sped by: I prayed more and felt great. I was some kind of spiritual dynamo, I tell you. Then, on Wednesday evening of Holy Week, while I was reciting the Tenebrae Psalms, it hit me. Easter’s coming. The Fast is ending. I’d have to eat again. I’d have to break my fast (I, I, I, me, me, my—is there a pattern here you see? I didn’t), I didn’t want to. I didn’t want Lent to end.
It did anyway, and a few hours after the Easter Vigil I broke my fast.
After Whitsunday, when the cycle of Friday abstinence was restored, I found it all a bit banal. Where’s the challenge in not eating meat once a week? Gradually, though, I got back into the cycle of Feasts and Fasts, while harboring the notion in the back of my mind that I’d really have to come up with something special next Lent to top my ascetic feats of the year previous.
But as the next Lent approached, I couldn’t think of anything. Well, okay, I did pretty darn well last year. This year should be a breeze.
But it wasn’t. I remembered the temptations of the first few days and thought I’d steeled myself against them, but they came on particularly strong. They weren’t just food oriented, either. Sexual thoughts also presented themselves with a distressing frequency—last year I’d been almost completely free of them. What was going on? By the middle of the second week, every day was a struggle. Food seemed everywhere, offered by attractive women. My prayers, so easy the year before, were little more than grunts, whines and my quickly rattled off daily prayers. “My words flew up, but my thoughts remained below.” How many days longer? I didn’t mark off the days on my Ordo Kalendar with a pencil, but Lord knows I looked at the thing a dozen times a day, recalculating when Easter would arrive.
When Passion Week arrived, I went to offer my confession. I was one confused and disappointed fellow as I knelt in the box. God wasn’t giving me the rewards I’d earned.
The Lord has always been especially gracious to me in my confessors. From the first one, they’ve been men of discernment, wisdom and wit, with just a touch of the Egyptian taskmaster thrown in. As I went through my Lenten list of woes, I heard a gentle chuckle. He cut in softly “Will you make it through your first Lent, you think?”
“What?”
“Last Lent wasn’t one you shared with Jesus or anybody else. It was your little spiritual fantasy. Your Lents before have been focused on your keeping rules, your getting through the season unblemished, Lent has been another thing you’ve accomplished. This year, the Lord is giving you a chance to be with Him for Lent: to be hungry and tired and feel the temptations He felt. You haven’t figured that out yet, but I hope you can see it now.”
This year, as for the past several, I still miss sharing the rigors of the Lenten Fast—yes, there are other ways I keep it so I don’t pass out dramatically in public—but I’ve found this great consolation. The Lord has had to soften—lighten—lessen—the rules for me, because I’m not up to it. I’m not a spiritual superman. I’m one of many, trudging imperfectly along the road to Calvary. I’m happy of the companionship.
Few people would believe it, but I like to fast. Unfortunately, I like it for the wrong reasons. I feel more healthy when I fast and—even more important to me—when I don’t think about food for a few days, I turn those “hunter-gatherer” instincts to more interesting uses—writing or reading or book-buying!
Lent has been hard for me the past several years, since my accident, because I’ve been forbidden to fast at all. I have to eat and am supposed to do it several times a day. That makes Lent more of a struggle for me.
I’m gonna tell you a secret, something not many people know. Twice, in 1979 and 1980, I kept an almost complete Lenten fast. Except for water and juice, I didn’t eat anything from the Shrove Tuesday Pancakes until the Easter Day ham. It was exhilarating. After about four days of thinking “this isn’t going to work for this and that reason,” my hunger pangs—and their attendant stomach noises—almost completely disappeared. I felt a “freedom” from “material things” it was hard for me to define. All I knew was that it was very spiritual. How many other people could do this?
I didn’t tell anybody, not even my confessor. The Forty Days sped by: I prayed more and felt great. I was some kind of spiritual dynamo, I tell you. Then, on Wednesday evening of Holy Week, while I was reciting the Tenebrae Psalms, it hit me. Easter’s coming. The Fast is ending. I’d have to eat again. I’d have to break my fast (I, I, I, me, me, my—is there a pattern here you see? I didn’t), I didn’t want to. I didn’t want Lent to end.
It did anyway, and a few hours after the Easter Vigil I broke my fast.
After Whitsunday, when the cycle of Friday abstinence was restored, I found it all a bit banal. Where’s the challenge in not eating meat once a week? Gradually, though, I got back into the cycle of Feasts and Fasts, while harboring the notion in the back of my mind that I’d really have to come up with something special next Lent to top my ascetic feats of the year previous.
But as the next Lent approached, I couldn’t think of anything. Well, okay, I did pretty darn well last year. This year should be a breeze.
But it wasn’t. I remembered the temptations of the first few days and thought I’d steeled myself against them, but they came on particularly strong. They weren’t just food oriented, either. Sexual thoughts also presented themselves with a distressing frequency—last year I’d been almost completely free of them. What was going on? By the middle of the second week, every day was a struggle. Food seemed everywhere, offered by attractive women. My prayers, so easy the year before, were little more than grunts, whines and my quickly rattled off daily prayers. “My words flew up, but my thoughts remained below.” How many days longer? I didn’t mark off the days on my Ordo Kalendar with a pencil, but Lord knows I looked at the thing a dozen times a day, recalculating when Easter would arrive.
When Passion Week arrived, I went to offer my confession. I was one confused and disappointed fellow as I knelt in the box. God wasn’t giving me the rewards I’d earned.
The Lord has always been especially gracious to me in my confessors. From the first one, they’ve been men of discernment, wisdom and wit, with just a touch of the Egyptian taskmaster thrown in. As I went through my Lenten list of woes, I heard a gentle chuckle. He cut in softly “Will you make it through your first Lent, you think?”
“What?”
“Last Lent wasn’t one you shared with Jesus or anybody else. It was your little spiritual fantasy. Your Lents before have been focused on your keeping rules, your getting through the season unblemished, Lent has been another thing you’ve accomplished. This year, the Lord is giving you a chance to be with Him for Lent: to be hungry and tired and feel the temptations He felt. You haven’t figured that out yet, but I hope you can see it now.”
This year, as for the past several, I still miss sharing the rigors of the Lenten Fast—yes, there are other ways I keep it so I don’t pass out dramatically in public—but I’ve found this great consolation. The Lord has had to soften—lighten—lessen—the rules for me, because I’m not up to it. I’m not a spiritual superman. I’m one of many, trudging imperfectly along the road to Calvary. I’m happy of the companionship.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
"I AM GOD'S SLAVE"
Thursday in Passion Week (The Feast of the Annunciation)
The Feast of the Annunciation, when the Archangel Gabriel came to the Blessed Virgin and asked her consent to be the Mother of God, always falls during Lent. That seems most fitting. Mary is the ideal Christian, the perfect keeper of Lent.
Like many Jewish girls of her day, Mary grew up on the lore that one day, some young woman would be the mother of the Messiah. Like so many expectations, it’s safe to say the reality and fantasy weren’t too closely linked. When Gabriel told Mary of the great things God had in store, she replied “How can this be? I’m still a virgin.” When the angel told her what God had already set in motion, Mary embraced his words. The beautiful King James translation records her words: “Behold, the handmaiden of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” The original Greek text is more blunt: “I am God’s slave,” she answered. Did she know what those words entailed?
She was a young girl in a small, overcrowded village. Everybody knows everybody else, and in a village there’s no such thing as a secret. Did she think, as she contemplated the angel’s words, what might happen? The surreptitiously pointed fingers, the cloaked whispers and false smiles she’d endure through the coming months would become her daily realities as the unearthly visitation of the angel faded into the background. Her fiancée, a decent man, didn’t insist on his rights—by the Law she was subject to stoning. “He was minded to put her away privately,” the Evangelist tells us.
Still, she clung to God’s promise, in spite of all the difficulties she hadn’t foreseen. What better describes us when we try to be faithful? When we do the thing which is right, when many around us think the worst, our temptation is to give in and try to make people understand. We want sympathy in our times of testing. Our Lord, standing on trial before the Sanhedrin, was exhorted: “Prove to us You are Who You say! Do something spectacular! Don’t just stand there!” But His Heart was fixed on the ancient prophecy of Isaiah about His hour: “He was brought as a Lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before His shearers…He opened not his mouth.” Mary’s young heart must have been torn and confused by the false assurances of friendship and stark accusing glares. She must have repeated her words, “Behold, I am God’s slave,” over and over again—it was her Lenten prayer.
She proved faithful for nine months. Joseph, himself visited by angels, overcame his doubts and married her. What a life he had as a result of this girl! Oriental potentates bearing exotic gifts came to call, the young family was chased to Egypt by spies and soldiers in hot pursuit, he lived in lands he’d only heard of in stories, then returned home to try and provide some hint of a normal life for his wife and Son.
For Mary, there was the Jewish mother’s pride in her Son as He grew in Grace and took His place in the community. As He carried on His ministry, she watched and listened. No doubt her heart shuddered at His words when He foretold His death, and the many depictions of the Pieta all unite in showing us her grief. She held the dead body of her Son, the Son of God, and somewhere, in her spotless heart, those words echoed: “Behold, I am God’s slave.”
Sin is bad, not because we break some arbitrary rules God made up, thinking “Now I can’t let them have too much fun. Let’s see…ten’s a good number of rules to start with…” Sin is bad because God made us a certain way. Some things are good for us, let’s say, a good laugh and friendship, and some things, like ingesting arsenic or breathing in carbon monoxide, aren’t. Some things are so bad they’ll kill us outright. We are made, as St Thomas Aquinas says, to be “friends of God” (he means that in the old classical sense of “intimates,” not just “nodding acquaintances”). He has made us for communion with Himself, and a fellowship of charity with one another. Sin rips and shreds at His intention for us. It turns us from Him and from unpretended charity with each other. It makes us false. And part of us loves it. We’re so well-trained we drink from the arsenic bottle and think “Now that’s a liqueur!”
Annunciation comes in Lent. It makes it hard for liturgical specialists, whose ultimate conundrum used to be “What happens when the Annunciation falls on Good Friday?” Figuring out those ritual rules requires one of those old-fashioned slide rules. But what could be better for us? “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord,” may spring naturally to one’s lips in the ecstasy of an angelic visitation. “Behold, I am God’s slave,” those are words we need to hold in our hearts every day, as we follow the Lord to Calvary.
The Feast of the Annunciation, when the Archangel Gabriel came to the Blessed Virgin and asked her consent to be the Mother of God, always falls during Lent. That seems most fitting. Mary is the ideal Christian, the perfect keeper of Lent.
Like many Jewish girls of her day, Mary grew up on the lore that one day, some young woman would be the mother of the Messiah. Like so many expectations, it’s safe to say the reality and fantasy weren’t too closely linked. When Gabriel told Mary of the great things God had in store, she replied “How can this be? I’m still a virgin.” When the angel told her what God had already set in motion, Mary embraced his words. The beautiful King James translation records her words: “Behold, the handmaiden of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word.” The original Greek text is more blunt: “I am God’s slave,” she answered. Did she know what those words entailed?
She was a young girl in a small, overcrowded village. Everybody knows everybody else, and in a village there’s no such thing as a secret. Did she think, as she contemplated the angel’s words, what might happen? The surreptitiously pointed fingers, the cloaked whispers and false smiles she’d endure through the coming months would become her daily realities as the unearthly visitation of the angel faded into the background. Her fiancée, a decent man, didn’t insist on his rights—by the Law she was subject to stoning. “He was minded to put her away privately,” the Evangelist tells us.
Still, she clung to God’s promise, in spite of all the difficulties she hadn’t foreseen. What better describes us when we try to be faithful? When we do the thing which is right, when many around us think the worst, our temptation is to give in and try to make people understand. We want sympathy in our times of testing. Our Lord, standing on trial before the Sanhedrin, was exhorted: “Prove to us You are Who You say! Do something spectacular! Don’t just stand there!” But His Heart was fixed on the ancient prophecy of Isaiah about His hour: “He was brought as a Lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before His shearers…He opened not his mouth.” Mary’s young heart must have been torn and confused by the false assurances of friendship and stark accusing glares. She must have repeated her words, “Behold, I am God’s slave,” over and over again—it was her Lenten prayer.
She proved faithful for nine months. Joseph, himself visited by angels, overcame his doubts and married her. What a life he had as a result of this girl! Oriental potentates bearing exotic gifts came to call, the young family was chased to Egypt by spies and soldiers in hot pursuit, he lived in lands he’d only heard of in stories, then returned home to try and provide some hint of a normal life for his wife and Son.
For Mary, there was the Jewish mother’s pride in her Son as He grew in Grace and took His place in the community. As He carried on His ministry, she watched and listened. No doubt her heart shuddered at His words when He foretold His death, and the many depictions of the Pieta all unite in showing us her grief. She held the dead body of her Son, the Son of God, and somewhere, in her spotless heart, those words echoed: “Behold, I am God’s slave.”
Sin is bad, not because we break some arbitrary rules God made up, thinking “Now I can’t let them have too much fun. Let’s see…ten’s a good number of rules to start with…” Sin is bad because God made us a certain way. Some things are good for us, let’s say, a good laugh and friendship, and some things, like ingesting arsenic or breathing in carbon monoxide, aren’t. Some things are so bad they’ll kill us outright. We are made, as St Thomas Aquinas says, to be “friends of God” (he means that in the old classical sense of “intimates,” not just “nodding acquaintances”). He has made us for communion with Himself, and a fellowship of charity with one another. Sin rips and shreds at His intention for us. It turns us from Him and from unpretended charity with each other. It makes us false. And part of us loves it. We’re so well-trained we drink from the arsenic bottle and think “Now that’s a liqueur!”
Annunciation comes in Lent. It makes it hard for liturgical specialists, whose ultimate conundrum used to be “What happens when the Annunciation falls on Good Friday?” Figuring out those ritual rules requires one of those old-fashioned slide rules. But what could be better for us? “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord,” may spring naturally to one’s lips in the ecstasy of an angelic visitation. “Behold, I am God’s slave,” those are words we need to hold in our hearts every day, as we follow the Lord to Calvary.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
QUO VADIS?
Wednesday in Passion Week
There is a very good friend of mine whose wife is slowly succumbing to Alzheimer’s. What’s more, she knows it. She struggles every day to combat its pernicious impact on their lives and has learned a lot of coping mechanisms, but every time I speak to my friend, she has just a little more trouble than the time before.
She’s his boon companion and a delightfully gentle woman—the love of his life. He’s a retired marine colonel, tough as nails, but her influence on him over the decades has—not softened him, but—enabled him to view life and the world with kindness. He goes to daily Mass and makes regular retreats with the Benedictines in Gethsemani, Kentucky. I am lucky to have him as my friend.
I’ve prayed daily for and about the both of them for years. I don’t ask the Lord anymore for answers to my questions. Why this terrible thing came to them is beyond my understanding. What I can do is pray for them and ask the Lord to make their burden bearable and to give me some small share of their load. That’s easy, since they’re 1,500 miles away.
The other night I was saying my prayers and remembered the two of them before God. I prayed as I usually do, asking the Lord to help the two of them to bear it and still be assured of the certainty of His love. I asked Him to allow me to bear some small part of their burden. I was immediately struck: “Is that what you really want? How far will you go to share their heartache?”
I was shocked—and scared. What would God ask of me? What would I really be willing to do for my good friends?
Those who know me know I have a stony heart, but I pride myself (in the worst way) on my intellect. I can think of nothing worse than Alzheimer’s which robs you of the mind. Until the other night I never seriously considered the possibility that I would come down with it. For me, surrounded with a lifetime’s collection of books, many as dear to me as the closest of friends, with my cherished memories and intellectual joys, what would it be to have it all slip into oblivion? Could I ever be as brave and noble as my good friend’s wife? What does it mean to have the companion of a lifetime slowly slip away—not to die, but to seem to disappear? The two of them are walking a dreadful road to Calvary. They walk it with the Lord Jesus, but it’s hard for me to imagine a Way of the Cross more painful.
When I compare all my sufferings and sorrows to theirs, I’m ashamed to call anything that has ever happened to me “suffering.” The Lord said “To whom much is given, of him much is required.” When we say to Jesus that we want to follow Him, to be His disciples, He tells us unequivocally to pick up our Cross and start after Him. We don’t know what our Cross will look like, but it will be heavy and costly. It will also be full of Grace.
As I look at my friends, I am full of admiration for the love and patience they show each other. I’ve never seen a more unselfish picture of Love—not just the love a married couple has for each other; through this terrible trial, this Cross they both carry, their love has transcended the natural affections. It’s the Love of Jesus you see alive in them. Their hard, daily struggles are unvarnished signs of Grace.
During Passiontide we consider what it means for us to follow the Lord Christ on the Way of the Cross. Hidden around us are those who are actually doing it. They lovingly pick it up every day and continue on the Way to Calvary. The pain and suffering of our lives can be stuff to whine about; we can think of going to Friday night Stations as walking the Way of the Cross, but if we ask the Lord, not for suffering but for Grace to follow Him, we’ll each discover our own Cross. It’s been custom-made, just for you. It’s probably been laying around and you’ve averted your gaze for years. I don’t blame you one bit.
“But to as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God.”
There is a very good friend of mine whose wife is slowly succumbing to Alzheimer’s. What’s more, she knows it. She struggles every day to combat its pernicious impact on their lives and has learned a lot of coping mechanisms, but every time I speak to my friend, she has just a little more trouble than the time before.
She’s his boon companion and a delightfully gentle woman—the love of his life. He’s a retired marine colonel, tough as nails, but her influence on him over the decades has—not softened him, but—enabled him to view life and the world with kindness. He goes to daily Mass and makes regular retreats with the Benedictines in Gethsemani, Kentucky. I am lucky to have him as my friend.
I’ve prayed daily for and about the both of them for years. I don’t ask the Lord anymore for answers to my questions. Why this terrible thing came to them is beyond my understanding. What I can do is pray for them and ask the Lord to make their burden bearable and to give me some small share of their load. That’s easy, since they’re 1,500 miles away.
The other night I was saying my prayers and remembered the two of them before God. I prayed as I usually do, asking the Lord to help the two of them to bear it and still be assured of the certainty of His love. I asked Him to allow me to bear some small part of their burden. I was immediately struck: “Is that what you really want? How far will you go to share their heartache?”
I was shocked—and scared. What would God ask of me? What would I really be willing to do for my good friends?
Those who know me know I have a stony heart, but I pride myself (in the worst way) on my intellect. I can think of nothing worse than Alzheimer’s which robs you of the mind. Until the other night I never seriously considered the possibility that I would come down with it. For me, surrounded with a lifetime’s collection of books, many as dear to me as the closest of friends, with my cherished memories and intellectual joys, what would it be to have it all slip into oblivion? Could I ever be as brave and noble as my good friend’s wife? What does it mean to have the companion of a lifetime slowly slip away—not to die, but to seem to disappear? The two of them are walking a dreadful road to Calvary. They walk it with the Lord Jesus, but it’s hard for me to imagine a Way of the Cross more painful.
When I compare all my sufferings and sorrows to theirs, I’m ashamed to call anything that has ever happened to me “suffering.” The Lord said “To whom much is given, of him much is required.” When we say to Jesus that we want to follow Him, to be His disciples, He tells us unequivocally to pick up our Cross and start after Him. We don’t know what our Cross will look like, but it will be heavy and costly. It will also be full of Grace.
As I look at my friends, I am full of admiration for the love and patience they show each other. I’ve never seen a more unselfish picture of Love—not just the love a married couple has for each other; through this terrible trial, this Cross they both carry, their love has transcended the natural affections. It’s the Love of Jesus you see alive in them. Their hard, daily struggles are unvarnished signs of Grace.
During Passiontide we consider what it means for us to follow the Lord Christ on the Way of the Cross. Hidden around us are those who are actually doing it. They lovingly pick it up every day and continue on the Way to Calvary. The pain and suffering of our lives can be stuff to whine about; we can think of going to Friday night Stations as walking the Way of the Cross, but if we ask the Lord, not for suffering but for Grace to follow Him, we’ll each discover our own Cross. It’s been custom-made, just for you. It’s probably been laying around and you’ve averted your gaze for years. I don’t blame you one bit.
“But to as many as received Him, to them gave He power to become the sons of God.”
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
INOPPORTUNITIES OF SIN
Tuesday in Passion Week
For fifteen years I served on the staff of the National Youth Camp outside of Denver, at Camp Santa Maria—first as Chaplain, then for the last five years or so as Director. One of the chaplain’s jobs was to hear the confessions of all the children at camp on the final Saturday. While I can’t remember the age brackets at Camp, I think the kids ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. One of you who went through this annual pilgrimage to purgatory with me will, I’m sure, correct my memory.
Sin is—or was—different for a twelve-year-old than a budding young person of eighteen. Opportunities are different; I hesitate to say an eighteen-year-old is more subtle than a child of twelve, but they are certainly more practiced in cunning (I remember my years at church camp as a teenager and how we put Fr Petersen and the nuns through the wringer with our late-night escapades). Opportunities and “inopportunities” of sin vary at different times in our lives. The other end of the spectrum is older people—in their late sixties on (that doesn’t sound so old to me now!)—whose confessions I’ve heard. Many times I’ve had an older person say to me, “Since I’ve got older, I just don’t sin as much. I’m not as interested.” A little questioning shows that’s not exactly so.
We don’t outgrow sin. In different times in our lives, though, it shows itself differently. The sexual temptations of a precocious sixteen year-old boy are not the same as a mature man of thirty-five. The more refined temptations of the flesh are different in a fifty-year old than for a man of seventy. But make no mistake, the tempter who so played us at sixteen and thirty-five doesn’t pack up his fiddle and slink off because we get too old. He simply alters his tune and keeps us dancing. The boisterous libido of a teenager becomes the “sophisticated” sexual connoisseur of late middle age, but the same devil is playing the melody. The man of seventy-five who has spent a life engrossed in sexual pursuits doesn’t lose interest, but his sophisticated sexual life now is reduced to grubby, secret pursuits.
It’s not just sexual sins that we think we outgrow. Whatever your “favorites,” your besetting sins, they don’t go away just because of your age. The obvious selfishness of a five-year old becomes the manipulative stinginess of a girl of thirteen. By the time she’s in her twenties, she’s learned to mask her greed and put it across with a practiced indifference, but it’s there, nonetheless. She’s learned to hide her greediness while still feeding it.
Since I was hospitalized five years back, my appetite for food has decreased. I can’t eat as much; I don’t want as much. But it’s no virtue. I haven’t become more abstemious. Now, rather than wanting a piece of steak, I want only a rib-eye or especially good T-bone. I’ll eat nothing rather than chose something not just to my liking. The demon of gluttony didn’t give up on me. “The subject Wilcox doesn’t eat as much, and I’m about out of a job!” his report might read; but my gluttonous tempter knows better. “Subject Wilcox doesn’t eat as much, but I’ve convinced him his palate is too refined for the foods of the hoi polloi. I’ve got him snared by concentrating, not on more, but better food! And what’s more, now and then he praises himself for being less gluttonous than in the past!”
Our temptations change as we do, but their goal is still the same. The intention is to drag us—unaware if possible—to hell. The Seven Deadly Sins are called that because they have the potential to destroy us.
So what are we to do? We keep watch over our souls. We examine ourselves regularly—preferably every day, for just a brief minute or two. You may not know how deeply your love of your favorite sins—we all have them—is ingrained in you, but you should know what they are. They’re ones you’re well- acquainted with—self-centeredness, self-pity, envy, anger, whatever they are, you have more than a passing acquaintance with them. We defeat them—and that’s God’s intention—that we face out sins in daily combat—by knowing what they are, seeing them in action (and our weaknesses in addressing them), and turning to Jesus for help.
When you’ve said something particularly nasty about a co-worker, face up to it. Go to the person you said the thing to and tell them you were wrong—then don’t accept their attempt to say the person deserved it; they’re simply embedding you more in your sin, justifying what you did because they, too, are guilty. Don’t simply tell God, I shouldn’t have taken that extra change from the cashier—give it back. Many people say they don’t need to confess their sins to a priest because they “confess directly to God.” What that really means is they don’t want to have to face up to what they’ve done in the presence of another. I’ve never heard a repentant politician confess to a scandal when he didn’t assure his hearers “God has forgiven me. I hope you can, too.” The implication (actually, implications—there are several in this type of cant) is that you can’t reasonably deny him your absolution if God already has.
But before we throw stones at politicians, let’s remember that they’re typical of us. Everybody wants easy, cheap forgiveness. But for those following the Lord Christ on the road to Calvary, it’s the last thing we need.
For fifteen years I served on the staff of the National Youth Camp outside of Denver, at Camp Santa Maria—first as Chaplain, then for the last five years or so as Director. One of the chaplain’s jobs was to hear the confessions of all the children at camp on the final Saturday. While I can’t remember the age brackets at Camp, I think the kids ranged in age from twelve to eighteen. One of you who went through this annual pilgrimage to purgatory with me will, I’m sure, correct my memory.
Sin is—or was—different for a twelve-year-old than a budding young person of eighteen. Opportunities are different; I hesitate to say an eighteen-year-old is more subtle than a child of twelve, but they are certainly more practiced in cunning (I remember my years at church camp as a teenager and how we put Fr Petersen and the nuns through the wringer with our late-night escapades). Opportunities and “inopportunities” of sin vary at different times in our lives. The other end of the spectrum is older people—in their late sixties on (that doesn’t sound so old to me now!)—whose confessions I’ve heard. Many times I’ve had an older person say to me, “Since I’ve got older, I just don’t sin as much. I’m not as interested.” A little questioning shows that’s not exactly so.
We don’t outgrow sin. In different times in our lives, though, it shows itself differently. The sexual temptations of a precocious sixteen year-old boy are not the same as a mature man of thirty-five. The more refined temptations of the flesh are different in a fifty-year old than for a man of seventy. But make no mistake, the tempter who so played us at sixteen and thirty-five doesn’t pack up his fiddle and slink off because we get too old. He simply alters his tune and keeps us dancing. The boisterous libido of a teenager becomes the “sophisticated” sexual connoisseur of late middle age, but the same devil is playing the melody. The man of seventy-five who has spent a life engrossed in sexual pursuits doesn’t lose interest, but his sophisticated sexual life now is reduced to grubby, secret pursuits.
It’s not just sexual sins that we think we outgrow. Whatever your “favorites,” your besetting sins, they don’t go away just because of your age. The obvious selfishness of a five-year old becomes the manipulative stinginess of a girl of thirteen. By the time she’s in her twenties, she’s learned to mask her greed and put it across with a practiced indifference, but it’s there, nonetheless. She’s learned to hide her greediness while still feeding it.
Since I was hospitalized five years back, my appetite for food has decreased. I can’t eat as much; I don’t want as much. But it’s no virtue. I haven’t become more abstemious. Now, rather than wanting a piece of steak, I want only a rib-eye or especially good T-bone. I’ll eat nothing rather than chose something not just to my liking. The demon of gluttony didn’t give up on me. “The subject Wilcox doesn’t eat as much, and I’m about out of a job!” his report might read; but my gluttonous tempter knows better. “Subject Wilcox doesn’t eat as much, but I’ve convinced him his palate is too refined for the foods of the hoi polloi. I’ve got him snared by concentrating, not on more, but better food! And what’s more, now and then he praises himself for being less gluttonous than in the past!”
Our temptations change as we do, but their goal is still the same. The intention is to drag us—unaware if possible—to hell. The Seven Deadly Sins are called that because they have the potential to destroy us.
So what are we to do? We keep watch over our souls. We examine ourselves regularly—preferably every day, for just a brief minute or two. You may not know how deeply your love of your favorite sins—we all have them—is ingrained in you, but you should know what they are. They’re ones you’re well- acquainted with—self-centeredness, self-pity, envy, anger, whatever they are, you have more than a passing acquaintance with them. We defeat them—and that’s God’s intention—that we face out sins in daily combat—by knowing what they are, seeing them in action (and our weaknesses in addressing them), and turning to Jesus for help.
When you’ve said something particularly nasty about a co-worker, face up to it. Go to the person you said the thing to and tell them you were wrong—then don’t accept their attempt to say the person deserved it; they’re simply embedding you more in your sin, justifying what you did because they, too, are guilty. Don’t simply tell God, I shouldn’t have taken that extra change from the cashier—give it back. Many people say they don’t need to confess their sins to a priest because they “confess directly to God.” What that really means is they don’t want to have to face up to what they’ve done in the presence of another. I’ve never heard a repentant politician confess to a scandal when he didn’t assure his hearers “God has forgiven me. I hope you can, too.” The implication (actually, implications—there are several in this type of cant) is that you can’t reasonably deny him your absolution if God already has.
But before we throw stones at politicians, let’s remember that they’re typical of us. Everybody wants easy, cheap forgiveness. But for those following the Lord Christ on the road to Calvary, it’s the last thing we need.
Monday, March 22, 2010
PICKING AND CHOOSING
Monday in Passion Week
There’s an internet site for those who have given up chocolate for Lent. Among other things, it has pictures of chocolate candy—stacks of chocolates, chocolate Easter bunnies, and people admiring chocolate bars—the site provides a “support group” for those who are keeping the letter of the law (not putting chocolate in your mouth) but missing its spirit (are you giving up chocolate if you’re writing and reading about it—and fantasizing about it—a few times a week?). A friend sent me a cartoon last week that showed a teen-age girl standing in front of a candy machine, contemplating her choices. The caption read: “I’m growing spiritually by giving up M&Ms for forty days.”
There’s nothing wrong with giving up chocolates—even if only a specialized brand of chocolates—for forty days and forty nights. At the very least, even a minimal abstinence serves as a reminder that we are in a special time of potential spiritual growth.
During my long sojourn in California, I met many “spiritual” people. Almost without exception, my conversations with them began “I’m not really a ‘religious’ person, but I am very spiritual…” Inevitably this introduction was followed by a set of the most banal statements, proving to me that not only were they not “religious” but they weren’t profoundly “spiritual” either. Most of their convictions center around expressions like “I really like nature and being alone in the outdoors,” “I freed myself from dogma and creeds and am able to explore my own truth,” or “Leaving religion has allowed me to discover my inner self.”
Let’s be clear among ourselves, anyway. Everybody is “spiritual,” and all of us—atheists, Episcopalians and Zen Buddhists, all have “spiritual lives.” Monks do and so do mass murderers. There’s nothing special about having a “spiritual life”—it’s like boasting that you have nostrils. What matters isn’t that you are “spiritual,” but what your spiritual life is about. The hedonist hopes to raise sensual indulgence to a spiritual art. The Buddhist seeks to transcend everything—to find perfect oblivion—and so escape the pain of existence. Atheists dogmatically deny the existence of God and look for meaning—or embrace the notion of a lack of meaning—in themselves and the society around them. Each of these are real “spiritualities” (it doesn’t hurt to remember that devils—yes they exist regardless of whether we’re too smart to believe in them or not—are “purely” spiritual).
Our spiritual lives, as Christians, are grounded in the facts of the Creeds, not the way we feel or even what we think. The Creeds don’t go into a lot of detail, but they’re bluntly factual about what those details are: God, the Three-in-One, is our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier. He exists and so do we. And, in the wonderful phrase of St Bonaventure, “He has come to us, so we can come to Him.” All Christian spiritual thought is based on these few, essential truths. Though the greatest minds the world has known have struggled over the centuries with the meaning of those profound truths, the facts are unchanging and plain.
For those of us who are Catholic Christians (as we insist we are in the Creeds), we believe God’s claim on our lives isn’t because we “believe” in Him, but because He has marked us as His own. “As many of you as have been baptized into Christ,” St Paul tells us, “have put on Christ.” We may choose to live as Christians, but God chose us first. The most basic fact about your spiritual life is not whether or not you’re “spiritual,” but that you are baptized.
God, through that fact, has made you (remember your catechism) “a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the Kingdom of Heaven.” You no longer belong to yourself. You can live as a hedonist, follow a Buddhist path or deny the reality of the invisible; He still has marked you as His own. Being baptized doesn’t “accomplish” your salvation, but it does begin it. It also teaches us something important: our salvation, and how God accomplishes it, is in His hands. He acts in our lives to bring us to Him, and He’ll do whatever it takes. He really and truly is unconcerned about whether you are rich or poor, pretty or ugly, smart or dull, as long as none of those things gets in the way of your growth in His Spirit. If He allows you to win the lottery, it’s because He loves you and knows you need it. If He doesn’t, it’s because He loves you and knows you don’t need it.
Jesus said, “If anyone would be My disciple, let him deny himself, pick up his cross and follow Me.” Our spiritual lives and our struggles aren’t of our own choosing. We’re in God’s hands. When your pains and sorrows and the trials of your life come—even those which come because we made stupid decisions—Christ is there with you. When you’re sick, when you’re afraid, when you don’t know what to do, when you are hurt and betrayed, He’s with you, right then and there. Our usual response is to ignore Him or try to buy Him off.
You and I are like chocolate Christians. We want the struggles of our spiritual lives to be those we choose. “I’ll give up M&Ms for forty days.” “Lord, if only you’ll let me get by with it this one time, I’ll never do it again.” This is spiritual baby-talk.
“If anyone would be My disciple, let him deny himself, pick up his cross and follow Me.” We’re following Jesus’ Way of the Cross when we do. Where did that Way take Him? Outside Jerusalem to Golgotha, where they crucified Him. He didn’t want to be there. The night before He prayed that this could pass Him by. It’s okay if you and I pray His prayer. Remember, though, the words which concluded His prayer: “Nevertheless, not My will, but Thine be done.”
For these days of Passiontide, as you follow where He leads, make His prayer your own. This is the spirituality we’re called to: living and dying—and rising—with Jesus.
There’s an internet site for those who have given up chocolate for Lent. Among other things, it has pictures of chocolate candy—stacks of chocolates, chocolate Easter bunnies, and people admiring chocolate bars—the site provides a “support group” for those who are keeping the letter of the law (not putting chocolate in your mouth) but missing its spirit (are you giving up chocolate if you’re writing and reading about it—and fantasizing about it—a few times a week?). A friend sent me a cartoon last week that showed a teen-age girl standing in front of a candy machine, contemplating her choices. The caption read: “I’m growing spiritually by giving up M&Ms for forty days.”
There’s nothing wrong with giving up chocolates—even if only a specialized brand of chocolates—for forty days and forty nights. At the very least, even a minimal abstinence serves as a reminder that we are in a special time of potential spiritual growth.
During my long sojourn in California, I met many “spiritual” people. Almost without exception, my conversations with them began “I’m not really a ‘religious’ person, but I am very spiritual…” Inevitably this introduction was followed by a set of the most banal statements, proving to me that not only were they not “religious” but they weren’t profoundly “spiritual” either. Most of their convictions center around expressions like “I really like nature and being alone in the outdoors,” “I freed myself from dogma and creeds and am able to explore my own truth,” or “Leaving religion has allowed me to discover my inner self.”
Let’s be clear among ourselves, anyway. Everybody is “spiritual,” and all of us—atheists, Episcopalians and Zen Buddhists, all have “spiritual lives.” Monks do and so do mass murderers. There’s nothing special about having a “spiritual life”—it’s like boasting that you have nostrils. What matters isn’t that you are “spiritual,” but what your spiritual life is about. The hedonist hopes to raise sensual indulgence to a spiritual art. The Buddhist seeks to transcend everything—to find perfect oblivion—and so escape the pain of existence. Atheists dogmatically deny the existence of God and look for meaning—or embrace the notion of a lack of meaning—in themselves and the society around them. Each of these are real “spiritualities” (it doesn’t hurt to remember that devils—yes they exist regardless of whether we’re too smart to believe in them or not—are “purely” spiritual).
Our spiritual lives, as Christians, are grounded in the facts of the Creeds, not the way we feel or even what we think. The Creeds don’t go into a lot of detail, but they’re bluntly factual about what those details are: God, the Three-in-One, is our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier. He exists and so do we. And, in the wonderful phrase of St Bonaventure, “He has come to us, so we can come to Him.” All Christian spiritual thought is based on these few, essential truths. Though the greatest minds the world has known have struggled over the centuries with the meaning of those profound truths, the facts are unchanging and plain.
For those of us who are Catholic Christians (as we insist we are in the Creeds), we believe God’s claim on our lives isn’t because we “believe” in Him, but because He has marked us as His own. “As many of you as have been baptized into Christ,” St Paul tells us, “have put on Christ.” We may choose to live as Christians, but God chose us first. The most basic fact about your spiritual life is not whether or not you’re “spiritual,” but that you are baptized.
God, through that fact, has made you (remember your catechism) “a member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the Kingdom of Heaven.” You no longer belong to yourself. You can live as a hedonist, follow a Buddhist path or deny the reality of the invisible; He still has marked you as His own. Being baptized doesn’t “accomplish” your salvation, but it does begin it. It also teaches us something important: our salvation, and how God accomplishes it, is in His hands. He acts in our lives to bring us to Him, and He’ll do whatever it takes. He really and truly is unconcerned about whether you are rich or poor, pretty or ugly, smart or dull, as long as none of those things gets in the way of your growth in His Spirit. If He allows you to win the lottery, it’s because He loves you and knows you need it. If He doesn’t, it’s because He loves you and knows you don’t need it.
Jesus said, “If anyone would be My disciple, let him deny himself, pick up his cross and follow Me.” Our spiritual lives and our struggles aren’t of our own choosing. We’re in God’s hands. When your pains and sorrows and the trials of your life come—even those which come because we made stupid decisions—Christ is there with you. When you’re sick, when you’re afraid, when you don’t know what to do, when you are hurt and betrayed, He’s with you, right then and there. Our usual response is to ignore Him or try to buy Him off.
You and I are like chocolate Christians. We want the struggles of our spiritual lives to be those we choose. “I’ll give up M&Ms for forty days.” “Lord, if only you’ll let me get by with it this one time, I’ll never do it again.” This is spiritual baby-talk.
“If anyone would be My disciple, let him deny himself, pick up his cross and follow Me.” We’re following Jesus’ Way of the Cross when we do. Where did that Way take Him? Outside Jerusalem to Golgotha, where they crucified Him. He didn’t want to be there. The night before He prayed that this could pass Him by. It’s okay if you and I pray His prayer. Remember, though, the words which concluded His prayer: “Nevertheless, not My will, but Thine be done.”
For these days of Passiontide, as you follow where He leads, make His prayer your own. This is the spirituality we’re called to: living and dying—and rising—with Jesus.
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