Author: Michael Mozdy OP

  • From Genie God to Fantastic God

    From Genie God to Fantastic God

    Tuesday of the Fourth Week in Advent, Year A: Isaiah 7:10-14, Luke 1:26-38.

    Today’s reading from Isaiah can come across as a little odd. Not the bit about the future Emmanuel, but the bit about Ahaz being offered whatever kind of sign he wants. As a kid, I read a lot of fairy tales from around the world and this one smacks of an Arabian tale of finding a genie in a bottle: “The LORD spoke to Ahaz: Ask for a sign from the Lord, your God; let it be deep as the nether world, or high as the sky!” This excerpt makes more sense when you read it in context, thankfully. 

    Fisherman and The Genie, from the Arabian Nights, Maxfield Parrish (1905) | Image from fineartamerica.com.

    Ahaz, we recall, was a very wicked king whose father (Jotham) and son (Hezekiah) were both good kings. Ahaz’s story is an interesting dive into politics (which haven’t changed much since 740 BC!) and religious practices bowing to outside influences. The short version is that good King Jotham was deposed at the age of 41 when his son Ahaz became king at the tender age of 20. Why? The Wikipedia entry for Jotham states that he was “deposed by a pro-Assyrian faction,” presumably of Jews in his own increasingly beleaguered small-but-powerful kingdom of Judah. You see, Assyria was the reigning power in the Middle East at this time, and the northern kingdoms of Samaria and Israel were super nervous about being overtaken.

    So, when Israel and Samaria came to King Ahaz in the southern kingdom of Judah for an alliance, Ahaz refused because he was backed by pro-Assyrian Judeans. Soon, the Israelite and Samarian armies were at Jerusalem’s doorstep, ready to depose Ahaz in favor of someone who would ally with them. Heady politics! Here’s where Isaiah comes in.

    God sends Isaiah to Ahaz. His first message is that the kings of Israel and Samaria would not succeed in trying to attack Jerusalem: “thus says the Lord God: It shall not stand, and it shall not come to pass” (Is 7:7). That being said, just before the section we read in the lectionary, Isaiah relates that God says, “If you do not stand firm in faith, you shall not stand at all” (Is 7:9b). God sent Isaiah to plead with Ahaz not to ally with foreign powers (that is, Assyria) and instead trust in the Lord. 

    And so we get to our lectionary excerpt, where God tells Ahaz to ask for a sign, any sign “high as the sky” to show that God was with Israel and all they had to do was trust in Him. Note that what is being offered is a sign, not a wish. The sign means that God will honor His covenant and promises to His People, whereas a wish is something granted to a specific person outside of a broader plan for salvation. So, no genie here. Instead, this is the God who has always been happy to work wonders and signs for His People. 

    Let’s not confuse Ahaz’s response “I will not ask! I will not tempt the LORD!” for true modesty. We know from other books of the Bible that he was a rotten Jew: he set up idols and images of foreign gods and committed abominations by worshipping these gods (2 Chron. 28:2-3). He even worshipped the god Molech by offering his children in sacrifice (in Leviticus 20:1-5, God pronounced the death sentence against all who worshipped this god). As Ahaz’s fortunes decline in later years after Assyria turns against him, he shows his absolute degeneration as a child of God. He says, “‘Because the gods of the kings of Aram helped them, I will sacrifice to them so that they may help me.’ But they were the ruin of him, and of all Israel” (2 Chron 28:23b).

    This makes it a little easier to understand Isaiah’s lack of patience with Ahaz’s demurring. For what it’s worth, I find Isaiah’s rejoinder to be a great moment of exasperation captured in scripture: “Is it not enough for you to weary men, must you also weary my God?” I can just envision the fantastic eyeroll that accompanied this statement.

    Isaiah goes on for quite some time about Emmanuel, that is, Jesus. But the lectionary today stops with a concise, “Therefore the Lord himself will give you this sign: the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall name him Emmanuel.” The fact that it takes another 7 centuries for Emmanuel to be conceived unto Mary tells us that 1) God is truly looking out for his people as a group rather than an individual king or person, and 2) God is patient with His love, playing the long game and waiting until His People are ready for the child to be conceived unto Mary. 

    I have written four separate reflections on the wonderful gospel reading from Luke describing the Annunciation, so I don’t want to repeat myself here. I do encourage anyone reading this to consider diving into them.

    • This one focuses on Mary’s fiat.
    • This one focuses on Mary as the living House of God.
    • This one focuses on Mary’s unique title of Kecharitōmenē and the exchange between her and the angel Gabriel.
    • This one (from 12 days ago) focuses on Mary as the New Eve.

    I simply want to reflect today on how God’s great plan to give us Emmanuel, His Son, is way more fantastic than a genie granting wishes. Fantastic in all senses — unbelievable, supernatural, awesome, great, immensely pleasing. In fact, this story is too fantastic for a human to make it up. The threads of prophecy and fulfillment, the indescribable humility and selfless goodness of Christ, the centuries — no, millennia — of teaching that was perfected in Christ in an always surprising way … these things are absolutely the Greatest Story Ever Told. Fairy tales borrow from God’s entry into humanity, not the other way around. All that humans can come up with on their own is a genie or spirit who grants singular wishes to a selfish human (who often makes a terrible mistake, giving us some sort of moral tale). Of course, today we can find very sophisticated fantasy and science fiction book series and TV series, but all of this smacks of escapism, not reality. 

    Stories of life and passion of Christ, fresco, Gaudenzio Ferrari (1513), Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Varallo Sesia (VC), Italy | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    That’s the ground truth that keeps us in church. Israel, Judah, Christ, the martyrs, the Church Fathers: these are all real history. We don’t have to look to another planet or a pretend reality to find the most fantastic story in our very midst. We have to have faith and embrace it, because our God was patient and loving and gave it to us in the form of an infant to be adored.

  • Widows and Our Spiritual Family

    Thursday in the Third Week of Advent, Year A: Isaiah 54:1-10, Luke 7:24-30.

    We are traveling today, so I have to keep this reflection short before we head to the airport, but I did want to write something about that venerated group in the Apostolic Age and the Patristic Age, but their role has faded into obscurity. Widows were a class unto themselves from the time of the Acts of the Apostles onward. We have some skewed ideas of them today, thanks to (false) popular belief that women could not own property, were dependent upon their husbands, and were legally subordinate in every way. Even adjusting for a more accurate historical understanding of women, widowhood rightfully evokes sympathy – losing one’s spouse is an incredibly difficult thing. We find some lovely spiritual salve for widows in today’s readings.

    The Widow’s Mite, James Christensen (contemporary) | Image from havenlight.com.

    Susan Hylen, PhD, MDiv, from the Candler School of Theology at Emory University has written a nice historical revision to the ideas we have about the helpless widow of antiquity. She summarizes by saying:

    This historical portrait suggests there was a lot of variety in the social status of widows. Some were wealthy and even powerful. Some were poor, and many were in the middle. Some experienced a drop in economic position when their husbands’ died, and others did not. Although vulnerable in some ways, widows were also supported by social expectations that gave them increased status.

    Thus, when we find specific mention of widows and barren women in scriptures, we might better understand the feeling being evoked as one of personal sympathy for people removed from highly valued things in Jewish society such as a loving spouse and children, rather than sympathy because their legal and monetary situation is dire. Isaiah uses the sad situation of widowhood to describe the devastated nation of Israel, but he promises marriage to a much better spouse: “Fear not, you shall not be put to shame; you need not blush, for you shall not be disgraced. The shame of your youth you shall forget, the reproach of your widowhood no longer remember. For he who has become your husband is your Maker; his name is the Lord of hosts.” There does seem to be reference to a social stigma or at least embarrassment/shame, but this can be in reference to a woman who was married and then “cast off” or divorced. But the promise is that even this deeply felt personal feeling in a social context is like nothing in the face of union with God. And, of course, this promise of the mystical marriage with God was established by Jesus in the Church.

    In the early centuries of the Church, an “order” of widows existed that was as established and recognized as the role of deacon was. In fact, diakonos is simply the Greek word for a servant such as a waiter or messenger. In the early Church the deacon’s (or deaconess, in the case of widows) first role was that described in Acts 6: distributing food to the poor, leaving the apostles free to devote themselves “to prayer and to the ministry of the word” (Acts 6:4). As early as the Apostolic Age, we hear Paul instructing, “Do not let a widow under sixty years old be taken into the number, and not unless she has been the wife of one man, well reported for good works: if she has brought up children, if she has lodged strangers, if she has washed the saints’ feet, if she has relieved the afflicted, if she has diligently followed every good work” (1 Timothy 5:3-10). Thus, widows were not only recognized, but they performed great services for the communities of Christians, living out the maxim to love their neighbors as themselves. Some of them had inherited money and goods that they donated or used for the benefit of the early churches. Others, as we see in Paul’s statement, owned property and practiced hospitality, “lodging strangers.” The third-century Syrian book of Church order, the Didaskalia, mentions three specific roles for them: 

    1. Visiting women in their homes. It reads, in part, “… to visit those who are sick, and to minister to their needs, and to bathe those who have begun to recover from sickness”
    2. Assisting in baptisms for women: “Also, because in many other matters the office of a woman deacon is required. In the first place, when women go down into the water, those who go down into the water ought to be anointed by a deaconess with the oil of anointing… it is not fitting that women should be seen by men.” The Fourth-century Syrian book of Church order, the Apostolic Constitutions, Book II, adds “And when she who is being baptized has come up from the water, let the deaconess receive her, and teach and instruct her how the seal of baptism ought to be (kept) unbroken in purity and holiness. For this cause we say that the ministry of a woman deacon is especially needful and important.”
    3. Keeping order in the women’s section of the church. This was like being an usher, and finding a place for any woman who comes, rich or poor, “one of a low family, or a stranger.”

    Elsewhere, we read that widows would instruct young married women in caring for a household and rearing children. We can see that widows not only participated in the early Church in a special way, but even walked the Christian Way more perfectly and thoroughly than many others. It is almost like a proto-nun order, one that is steeped in worldly works rather than solitude and prayer behind convent walls. In this way, the Church as the mystical Body of Christ fulfills the promises of Isaiah in a structural way, providing real spiritual advancement towards the Kingdom for widows while on earth. And, it fully overturns our stereotypical image of widows as pitiful and helpless.

    Elijah Receiving Bread from the Widow of Zarephath, Giovanni Lanfranco (1621-1624) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    In today’s gospel reading, Jesus takes the promise shared with Isaiah about widows and amplifies it. He exalts John the Baptist, saying, “among those born of women, no one is greater than John.” High praise, indeed! But he adds, “yet the least in the Kingdom of God is greater than he.” This truth about the state of souls in heaven gives us great hope. No matter how far we’ve fallen in our lives, no matter our flaws and inability to avoid sins, if we can achieve heaven, great glory awaits us. Even the least of us in heaven is greater than the greatest human on earth! If we have ever wanted to make something of ourselves and our existence, this is it.

    May we all recapture the diakonos way of living and serving that is part of the path to the Kingdom. May we all, too, be exalted eventually in heaven.

  • Considering St. John of the Cross

    Considering St. John of the Cross

    Memorial of Saint John of the Cross, Wednesday in the Third Week of Advent, Year A: Isaiah 45:6C-8, 18, 21C-25, Luke 7:18B-23.

    I want to consider Saint John of the Cross in just a short reflection. I have always admired his writings. I am drawn to the mystical side of our faith, so forgotten and misunderstood in modern times. It’s not that there haven’t been pretenders forever – there certainly have, and the epistles in the New Testament are full of warnings about people who claim to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ when in fact they were leading Christian communities astray. Our most recent examples are televangelists and cult leaders who have made millions on the backs of the less wealthy and even led them to their deaths (Jonestown, for example). We have the added problem of a culture that overwhelmingly believes mystical knowledge is delusion or fantasy, thanks to the hard and fast technological knowledge that drives us. In my lifetime, hippies and New Age spiritualists seemed to be the inheritors of a precious and deep mystical tradition, now stripped of significance and—crucially—God.

    Where, then, does someone like St. John of the Cross fit in today?  

    I guess that true Christian mystics were never all that numerous, although their way of experiencing the divine was seen as valid and miraculous, even when met with suspicion. In all circumstances that I know, these true mystics (most of them recognized as saints) pursued God with pure intent, extraordinary persistence, and a Christian acceptance of suffering as part and parcel of the mystical journey.

    St. John of the Cross, unknown artist (attributed to Zurbarán, 1656) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    St. John of the Cross is a good example of all of these characteristics. A short sketch of his life: he was born Juan de Yepes y Álvarez in 1542, in a small village of central Spain about 90 miles northwest of Madrid. His family was distressingly poor, with his father dying when he was three and his older brother dying two years later, likely of malnourishment. Here is where we see a society enmeshed in Catholic structures and traditions making a difference. He went to a boarding school for mostly orphans and some poor children where he was instructed in basic Christian doctrine. While studying there, he was chosen to serve as an altar boy at a nearby monastery of Augustinian nuns. Growing up, John worked at a hospital and studied the humanities at a Jesuit school from 1559 to 1563. Keeping up this Catholic education experience, he went to Salamanca University and studied theology and philosophy and became a priest in 1567.

    That same year, he met the influential Carmelite nun, religious reformer, and fellow mystic, Teresa of Ávila, 27 years older than him. This was to be a huge turning point in his life. She convinced him to join the Carmelites (he was considering joining the Carthusian order), in particular the much stricter observance that she was implementing in the order in her zeal for monastic reform. This group became known as the Discalced (“shoeless”) Carmelites because they observed the original tradition of either going barefoot or only wearing sandals. This was but a small bit of their reforms, which included much more solitude, silence, study, and praying of the Divine Office, as well as total abstinence from meat and many months of solid fasting. These reforms would be vigorously opposed by much of the Carmelite order, friars and nuns, up to the point of violence.

    Ten years into his commitment to the Discalced Carmelites, tensions had boiled over. On the night of 2 December 1577, a group of Carmelites opposed to reform broke into John’s dwelling in Ávila and took him prisoner. He was jailed in a monastery where he was kept under a brutal regime that included public lashings before the community at least weekly, and severe isolation in a tiny stifling cell measuring barely 10 feet by 6 feet. Except when rarely permitted an oil lamp, he had to stand on a bench to read his breviary by the light through the hole into the adjoining room. He had no change of clothing and a penitential diet of water, bread and scraps of salt fish. Eight months later, he managed to escape thanks to a tiny window to a room adjoining his cell.

    View of Toledo, El Greco (1596-1600) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia. El Greco’s landscape of Toledo depicts the priory in which John was held captive, just below the old alcázar (fort) and perched on the banks of the Tajo on high cliffs.

    A few years later, in 1580, Pope Gregory XIII granted a petition by the Discalced Carmelites to be considered their own, separate order, and the violent tensions soon ended. St. John of the Cross’s imprisonment, while horrific, kick-started his writing and mystical experiences. But he was not granted the solitude we associate with great mystics. He served as a rector of a new college, was sent by Teresa to found a convent, founded a different monastery, and then in 1580, was elected Vicar Provincial of Andalusia, a post which required him to travel frequently, making annual visitations to the houses of friars and nuns in Andalusia. During this time he founded seven new monasteries in the region, and is estimated to have travelled around 25,000 km!

    As we consider John’s life, it is extraordinary in its physical deprivations as well as his public works. Here is a saint who experienced nearly all of the aspects we associate with a Christian life (although rarely in one person apart from the apostles): poverty, humility, openness to God’s will, study, wisdom, persecution, good works, mystical union with God, spiritual writings, and more.

    I think what is perhaps most underrated today is the centrality of suffering to the Christian mystical experience. Sharing in Christ’s suffering, in his Cross, seems to be an ingredient in reaching union with God. It’s leagues away from taking those 5 minutes of mindfulness a day to increase your focus at work!

    I’d just like to close with a few paragraphs from St. John of the Cross himself, as we read in today’s Office of the Readings (from a spiritual Canticle by Saint John of the Cross): 

    We must then dig deeply in Christ. He is like a rich mine with many pockets containing treasures: however deep we dig we will never find their end or their limit. Indeed, in every pocket new seams of fresh riches are discovered on all sides.

    For this reason the apostle Paul said of Christ: In him are hidden all the treasures of the wisdom and knowledge of God. The soul cannot enter into these treasures, nor attain them, unless it first crosses into and enters the thicket of suffering, enduring interior and exterior labors, and unless it first receives from God very many blessings in the intellect and in the senses, and has undergone long spiritual training.

    All these are lesser things, disposing the soul for the lofty sanctuary of the knowledge of the mysteries of Christ: this is the highest wisdom attainable in this life.

    Would that men might come at last to see that it is quite impossible to reach the thicket of the riches and wisdom of God except by first entering the thicket of much suffering, in such a way that the soul finds there its consolation and desire. The soul that longs for divine wisdom chooses first, and in truth, to enter the thicket of the cross.

    St. John of the Cross, Francisco Antonio Gijón (1675), Carmelite convent of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios, Seville, from 1675 until 1810 or 1835 | Public Domain, courtesy National Gallery of Art.

     

  • Running Out of Chances

    Running Out of Chances

    Memorial of Saint Lucy, Virgin and Martyr, Third Tuesday of Advent, Year A: Zephaniah 3:1-2, 9-13, Matthew 21:28-32.

    Alongside the great promise of our covenant with God – that we will be saved and granted eternal life with Him – there is an ominous warning. If we don’t come to him with open hearts, if we remain committed to our own pleasures and will, then we will be cut off from Him. This being cut off is quite an uncomfortable condition, to put it mildly. Eternal torment is another way to say it. But God would rather have us with Him, so we keep getting warnings to repent, to turn back to him, to stop our navel gazing and do His will while we are alive.

    I wonder if we are running out of chances.

    Russian icon of Zephaniah, 17th Century | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    Today’s readings give us two of these warnings. The first is given to us through the mouth of the prophet Zephaniah, speaking to the Jews collectively as “Jerusalem.” I think his words could equally be applied to Americans today: “Woe to the city, rebellious and polluted, to the tyrannical city! She hears no voice, accepts no correction; In the LORD she has not trusted.” Especially the idea of accepting no correction – there is a huge arrogance among Americans who feel that this is the best country on the earth and no one can correct us. And don’t get me started on the false slogan “In God we Trust” which makes me cringe every time I see it on a Utah license plate. The main thing our culture trusts in is money; we were built on capitalism and on capitalism we will die. Thus, the great irony is that we were taught to take the “In God we Trust” printed on our currency as a serious statement rather than seeing it for the hoax it was; after all, our government was carefully crafted to fully separate its laws and operations from any religious influence. The truth is, our real slogan is “In Man and Money we Trust.” OK, rant over, but hopefully the applicability of Zephaniah’s words is clear.

    Let us pray we are called to participate in Zephaniah’s next statement: “I will change and purify the lips of the peoples, That they all may call upon the name of the LORD.” If we want to join our Lord, we must start by actually being courageous enough to call upon His name, in private and in public. God’s promise is that, like it or not, He will intervene. We will become a changed, humbled people. “You need not be ashamed of all your deeds, your rebellious actions against me; For then will I remove from your midst the proud braggarts, And you shall no longer exalt yourself.” It may be easiest to see our showboating athletes, strutting music icons, and loudmouthed politicians as the “proud braggarts” of our culture, but I know that every time I hope for recognition at work or appreciation at home or even desire for holiness that I participate in this exalting of self. My wife has shared with me the powerful Litany of Humility this Advent, and it is a fantastic prayer to help us get ourselves right around the crucial problem of pride. Thank you to her! I’ve included it here.

    Maybe if we pray the Litany of Humility enough and conform our hearts more and more to doing God’s will alone, we can be a part of the remnant that Zephaniah speaks of: “But I will leave as a remnant in your midst a people humble and lowly, Who shall take refuge in the name of the LORD: the remnant of Israel.” We often jump to the idea of exalting in God’s glory in heaven, of living in the bliss of His presence, without considering what type of person we must become first. Heaven as an endless banquet is a wonderful image, heaven as a state of having no cares or worries is as well. But these things look very different for the person who has and expects nothing versus the person who has many things and is continually striving for more. For me, I fall into the problem of seeing heaven as a place of final relaxation with the Lord, essentially where I can be lazy in the sun, like a great beach vacation. How stupid! This vision is completely dominated first of all by me, and secondly by how I will feel. I have so far to go. So far, in fact, that I feel like I’m starting at the beginning every day.

    Contrast this vision of heaven with the mindset of someone who is truly humble before the Lord. For someone who thirsts, for someone who never expects to be mentioned in conversations or remembered by history, even a sidelong glance from the Lord is a thrill of a lifetime. Imagine this person being looked upon full in the face by the Lord, in absolute love, and then grasped and pulled to sit at the Master’s table to be in His presence for eternity. This is mind-blowing. This is heaven. And it’s not as if the Lord is awesome as a consequence of perspective. God is truly awesome with or without our perspective being right.

    Zephaniah shows us that God’s will is that we be humble. One might claim that only by being truly humble can we experience true love for Him and all others in humanity. Consider this: pride by its nature seeks to put us above others, to see them as an object to be used (as my confessor recently gently explained to me), and there can be no love when this adversarial, objectifying impulse is present. Love is itself desiring the good of the other more than the good for yourself. If you see yourself above others, how can you ever truly love them? You might care for them, have sympathy for them, even do good works for them, but love, caritas, agape, is another mode. For this reason, we should pray to become a remnant of the people, humble and lowly.

    Litany of Humility

    -by Rafael Cardinal Merry del Val

    O Jesus! meek and humble of heart, Hear me.

    From the desire of being esteemed,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being loved,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being extolled,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being honored,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being praised,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being preferred to others,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being consulted,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the desire of being approved,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being humiliated,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being despised,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of suffering rebukes,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being calumated,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being forgotten,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being ridiculed,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being wronged,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    From the fear of being suspected,
    Deliver me, Jesus.

    That others may be loved more than I,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That others may be esteemed more than I,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That, in the opinion of the world, others may be loved more than I, others may increase and I may decrease,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That others may be chosen and I set aside,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That others may be praised and I unnoticed,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That others may be preferred to me in everything,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should,
    Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

    Amen.

    Nearly 700 years after Zephaniah and all of the other prophets who repeated God’s message to the people, we encounter Jesus in today’s gospel reading. He teaches the Parable of the Two Sons, one who initially refuses to work for his father, but then actually does it and the other who says he will but never does. Growing up, this parable immediately resonated with me. I was always mouthy (I know, shocking!), but thankfully the conscience God planted in me was also very active. I often regretted things said or done in moments of passion or temper, and sought to do good afterwards, in part to atone for my previous idiocy. So, I related to this parable on a very literal level. Jesus asks, “Which of the two did his father’s will?” and the answer is obvious.

    But understanding the parable on this level doesn’t really go far enough. After all, does God want his people to be a bunch of resistant hotheads who end up doing the right thing in the end? Probably not. This parable is illustrating an aspect of hearing God’s will, not an entire way of being a good Christian. The point of this parable might be summarized in the title of this post: hey people, you might be running out of chances to follow God’s will! Jesus drives this home when he says, “When John came to you in the way of righteousness, you did not believe him; but tax collectors and prostitutes did. Yet even when you saw that, you did not later change your minds and believe him.” He could have started with: God sent you centuries of prophets and warnings about being humble, turning to Him, and doing His will. But, graciously, he just holds them to what has happened during their generation. He points to John the Baptist, Elijah in their midst, calling them to repentance and opening themselves to God who has come.

    The chief priests and elders, while initially saying they would do God’s will given their paths in life, didn’t believe John and do God’s will, making them the second son in the parable. The tax collectors and prostitutes, who had initially said no to God in their life choices, now turned to Him to do His will. 

    The Parable of the Father and His Two Sons in the Vineyard, from The Story of Christ, Georg Pencz (1534-35) | Public domain, courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

    This is compounded by the fact that the priests and elders have seen that John’s baptism has been doing much good and converting people’s hearts back to God. John’s ministry of preparing people for Jesus has been successful; many crowds of disciples are filled with faith, are being healed, and are on their way to the Kingdom. But the priests and elders remain antagonistic, challenging and not believing God who is right in front of them.

    Woe to them! They are most definitely not the remnant, humble and lowly.

    Let us pray the Litany of Humility this Advent. Let us seek to become the remnant who will be welcomed into the Kingdom when our Savior comes.

  • Our Lady, Patroness of All Peoples

    Our Lady, Patroness of All Peoples

    Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Revelation 11:19a; 12:1-6a, 10ab, Luke 1:26-38.

    The Blessed Virgin Mary has appeared to many people, although in my upbringing we generally considered her from a European context (with skin likely too white to be from Nazareth). Today is the Feast of our Lady of Guadalupe, a decidedly brown-skinned Mary who appeared to St. Juan Diego Cuauhtlatoatzin in 1531 in what is today a suburb of Mexico City. This is a good opportunity for us to remember that Christ came to save all of humanity, not just the Jews (or white-skinned Europeans). Our Lady of Guadalupe is such a good example of how the Blessed Virgin works alongside the Church to bring all people to Christ.

    The image of the Virgin Mary given to St. Juan Diego in 1531 | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    I think it’s instructive to consider the real-world conditions under which she appeared to Juan Diego. The conquistador Hernán Cortés had just conquered the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlán 10 years earlier and re-named it Mexico City, the capital of New Spain. While we can rightfully abhor the philosophy, methods, cultural and physical damage that colonialism inflicted on native peoples around the globe, we can see a tiny glimmer of genuine goodness in Cortés when he asked the young Holy Roman Emperor Charles V to send monks to evangelize and convert the natives. In his fourth letter to the king, Cortés pleaded for friars rather than diocesan or secular priests because those clerics would not help with a true effort of conversion:

    “If these [native peoples] were now to see the affairs of the Church and the service of God in the hands of canons or other dignitaries, and saw them indulge in the vices and profanities now common in Spain, knowing that such men were the ministers of God, it would bring our Faith into much harm that I believe any further preaching would be of no avail.” (Hernán Cortés, Letters from Mexico, translated and edited by A.R. Pagden. New York: Grossman Publishers, 1971, p. 333.)

    Despite his many flaws and atrocities, in this at least Cortés seems genuine in his desire to bring these people into the Church. The famous Franciscans, the “Twelve Apostles to Mexico,” came in 1524 (followed by Dominicans and others) and proceeded to evangelize in a new and effective way. They performed traditional missionary activities like building chapels and  residential schools for native peoples, but their approach was very gentle and well integrated into the native culture. First, they learned the languages, starting with Nahuatl. Then, they found common ground in the religious festivities that the people were currently doing and the Christian festivals that we know. They attended festivals together, even if the subject and the God was different between them — it offered the Franciscans an opportunity to engage in dialogue and start to explain who Jesus Christ was. This turned out to be a great connection. They developed a catechism of basic beliefs, written first in Nahuatl. In it, they explicitly used indigenous terminology for the Divine, particularly as the creator and lord of all things and as someone who was “of the common people,” which resonated greatly with them. So, when they spoke of God and His Son, their deeply rooted religious meanings would sound familiar to the people. Thus, our Christian God and especially Jesus Christ could be understood as the ultimate embodiment of these very familiar characteristics of divinity. 

    The Franciscans also made themselves friends to the children and youth. They introduced them to the catechism of our faith and learned from them words and concepts in Nahuatl. It was a very receptive environment. It was the opposite of the heavy-handed, violent approach we normally associate with colonialism.

    St. Juan Diego and the Virgin’s Image, Julie Lonneman (contemporary) | Image from fineartamerica.com.

    In this environment we find Juan Diego, a Nahuatl peasant who had been baptized as a Roman Catholic. In 1531, he was passing by the hill of Tepeyac headed toward the Franciscan mission at Tlatelolco for religious instruction and to perform various religious duties. He was stopped by the appearance of a young morena, a brown-skinned woman, who addressed him in Nahuatl, his native language. She was clearly one of his own, indigenous people. She identified herself as Mary, the ever-virgin Mother of God, and instructed him to request that the bishop erect a chapel in her honor at that spot, so she might relieve the distress of all those who call on her in their need. Juan Diego did as instructed, but, crucially in the story, the Franciscan bishop didn’t quite believe him and asked for evidence, which made Juan Diego tell Mary that he thought he was too lowly of a person to carry her message to the bishop.

    This, however, was Mary’s point: she was there to serve the low and rejected, just as her son did. She encouraged him to gather flowers at the top of Tepeyac, and take them in his tilma (cloak) to the bishop. When he did so, opening his tilma to drop the roses at the feet of the bishop, the incredible impression of Our Lady was there on the inside of his tilma (and remains to this day, displayed at the Basilica that stands on the spot).

    Our Lady of Guadalupe Shrine, Irapuato, Guanajuato State | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    The fact that Mary appeared to the lowly Juan Diego and that he was the one to carry her message was important from an evangelical as well as a theological point of view. In this cultural milieu where Franciscans created bridges between Aztec beliefs and the orthodox Christian faith, Juan Diego himself became a type of bridge. The Franciscans had been longing to create a Church different from that of European Christianity, which they felt did not appreciate evangelical poverty. It was this exact poverty in fact and in spirit that they found in Mexico. Jerónimo de Mendieta, a Franciscan of the time, expressed it this way: “It can be asserted as truth that no nation or people have been discovered in the world better disposed and prepared for salvation (if they are helped to) than the natives of this New Spain. . . . they have shown by their deeds that they spurn the world and wish to follow Jesus Christ with such efficacy and such good spirit as I, a poor Spaniard and lesser brother, might wish to in following the evangelical life.” Their common spirit of poverty resulted in a natural respect of the native cultures and helped to create what we would today call “intercultural dialogue.”

    Mary, evidently, approved of this approach and used Juan Diego as that human bridge to bring native peoples to the Church. Many Nahuatl-speaking natives began traveling to Tepeyac to venerate Mary and Christ as soon as Juan Diego had his visions and presented his tilma to the bishop. When the Franciscans built a small chapel there a few years later, they found that this was already a devotional site to Our Lady, where previously it had been a temple to an Aztec goddess. The fame of Our Lady of Guadalupe quickly spread throughout Mexico and her influence on converting millions of native peoples cannot be overestimated. Today, the Basilica complex is the most visited Catholic religious shrine in the world.

    The importance of Our Lady coming to these people to expand the ranks of the faithful is stated well on the Basilica’s website:

    The people present the Virgin to their children as the mother of the Creator and Protector of the entire universe, who comes to the people because she wants to embrace them all—Indian and Spanish—with the same mother’s love. The miraculous image imprinted on the sisal—a plant whose strong fibers were used by indigenous weavers to make tilmas (cloaks)—signaled the dawn of a new world, which was the Sixth Sun awaited by the Mexicas (Aztecs).

    This syncretism of religious beliefs (with the “dominant” religion winning out, as a comparative religions class would teach it) hearkens back to the earliest days of the Church when Paul preached at the Areopagus in Athens, calling upon their religious traditions and explaining how they pointed to (or were evidence of) the Christian God at work in their world. While the dogma and doctrine of the Catholic Church do not change, we are open to the infinite ways God has worked within Creation and human history, drawing all peoples to himself. The quote from the Basilica of our Lady of Guadalupe states that the “Sixth Sun awaited by the Aztecs” was, in fact, the arrival of Mary in their midst, drawing them to her Son and the Father. It is a lovely understanding of the many ways God works in all of our lives, and it helps us open ourselves to be surprised and delighted by Him. May we never close ourselves off to the varied revelation of God in our midst!

    Tepeyac Hill in north Mexico City. This is the site where the peasant Juan Diego was approached by a vision of the Virgin and instructed to build a place of worship. Here on Tepeyac Hill a sculpture shows the Virgin of Guadalupe being honored and showered with gifts by all the different peoples that now live in Mexico. Image credit: Matt Mawson. Image found on Google.
  • Getting into Gaudete Sunday

    Getting into Gaudete Sunday

    Third Sunday of Advent “Gaudete Sunday,” Year A: Isaiah 35:1-6a, 10, James 5:7-10, Matthew 11:2-11.

    Gaudéte in Dómino semper: íterum dico, gaudéte. Rejoice in the Lord always: again I say rejoice. This is the first line of the Introit to today’s Mass, marking the halfway point of Advent when we take a little break from the semi-penitential season to recall the joy of Christ’s coming into our hearts. The name for this special Sunday comes from the first word of the Introit, Rejoice!

    Virgin Mary and Christ Child, unknown illustrator (20th century) | Image from divine-innocence.org. Priests are allowed to wear rose on Gaudete Sunday, a color signifying the mixing of the white of Christmas with the violet of the Advent Season, a lovely symbolic gesture of the meaning of this halfway point of rejoicing.

    I’ve been reflecting on the dual nature of Christ’s coming (the babe in the Nativity and the judge at the end of time) this Advent, but there is a third coming for which Catholics are preparing in Advent: the coming of Christ in our hearts. Gaudete Sunday asks us directly to prepare our hearts by cultivating the joy that Christ’s coming will bring (and that we will allow to fully blossom in the Christmas liturgical season). Advent is a time to scour our hearts of sin, making them suitable for the Lord. Gaudete Sunday is a moment in Advent when we can align that preparation of the heart by remembering that joy is what awaits us, not just the continual work of penitential scouring. 

    So, today’s readings are chock-full of rejoicing. The first lines of Isaiah even extend rejoicing to all of creation: “The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom.” I appreciate these reminders that it’s not just humanity that will be perfected in Christ but all of creation.

    God does have a special place in His heart for humanity, though (case in point: Jesus is incarnated as a man, not a goat or a tree), and the message for us involves our intellect, emotions, and spirit: “say to those whose hearts are frightened: Be strong, fear not! Here is your God … He comes to save you.” This message never gets stale. It gave hope and confidence to Jews in exile hundreds of years before Christ, to early Christians suffering martyrdom, to Christians in the turbulence, disease, and violence of the Dark and Middle Ages, and to us moderns, assailed by a lust-filled, nihilist and atheistic culture.

    Apart from the 100,000-foot view of cultures and history, this message gives hope and confidence to all of us on an intensely personal level, whether we struggle with depression, family problems, money problems, or other uncertainties. God’s promise, proclaimed through Isaiah, is a true celebration of the best in each of us. He promises that in heaven we “will return and enter Zion singing, crowned with everlasting joy; [we] will meet with joy and gladness, sorrow and mourning will flee.” This promise of joy is so needed in all of our lives, and a huge reason that reading and re-reading the scriptures is important; not just to find comfort, but to find a much-needed perspective in our lives.

    So, God is coming to save us, and Jesus has already initiated the Last Times. Awesome, let’s do this! What is God waiting for??

    This question was especially poignant in the first generations after Christ’s resurrection, when they pondered his words, “Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away” (Mt 24-34-35). There was a very real expectation that the second coming would happen at any minute.

    Thus, for Christians at all moments since the resurrection, St. James’s words in today’s second reading are very important: “Be patient, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord.” This is echoed by other apostolic writers, notably St. John, who uses the word abide (“to stay,” “stand fast,” “remain” or “endure”) 34 times in his gospel and 19 times in his letters. Abiding and patience are both practices related to the virtue of fortitude — that is, not straying from the faith and the practice of the faith, remaining strong. James picks up this association with remaining strong: “Make your hearts firm, because the coming of the Lord is at hand.”

    It is oh so easy for us to give up on things that don’t yield right away. Especially in today’s immediate gratification culture (heck, I find myself oddly impatient when an entire TV series isn’t available for immediate streaming all at once — having to wait a week for the next episode? The horror!). Thankfully, our history as God’s people provides us with the example and confidence that we can do it. As James says, “Take as an example of hardship and patience, brothers and sisters, the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord.” This is another reason why reading and re-reading the scriptures is so important for us. It helps us find courage and remember the example of those who have come before us. We are not in this alone and without a guide!

    3rd century painting of Christians praying, Catacomb of Priscilla, Rome | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    We even see the need for reassurance and confidence from the great John the Baptist in today’s gospel reading. John sends some disciples to ask if Jesus is the Messiah they’ve been waiting for. We might be cultivating a sense of anticipation in Advent, but John was bursting with it. His whole life was oriented to this one thing.

    Jesus, consistent with his teaching that we will be judged by our fruits, responds: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them.” In other words, trust in the supernatural realities that are being revealed to you.

    What an interesting answer! He could have said, “yes,” and been done with it, but Jesus was always teaching, always consistent, always urging us to go deeper. His point was that we must meet God’s will with our own will — we must exercise the muscle of faith and enter into a spiritual dimension with God in order to perceive the truth about life.

    Even this simple experience of entering into faith is one that can give joy. We often give up in frustration over what we perceive to be the silence of God in our lives, but, once again, St. James tells us to cultivate patience and a firm heart! Developing a relationship with God, who doesn’t often answer questions head-on the way we wish He would, takes effort and openness, but even the journey has its rewards.

    As we open ourselves to supernatural realities and the mysterious presence of divinity, God immediately rewards us with an expanded sense of Him and the world. And let’s not imagine we’re in this alone, praying in the cell of our mind. The Church of which we are a part has been established as the bridegroom of Christ, where we meet him in joy and love. The rituals, sacraments, devotions, and prayer life of the Church as a body are where we encounter God in sight, sound, feeling, and even in our bodies through the Eucharist. If we are feeling dry in our spiritual life and lacking in patience with our faith, we must ask ourselves how often we are participating in the life-restoring activities of the Church and how open our hearts and minds are to those activities and sacraments. They are great joy bringers for us in this time of patience.

    One last thing is something that really stuck with me from the pastor of St. Catherine of Siena Newman Center, Fr. Gabriel Mosher, OP, in his homily for Gaudete Sunday. He asked if we really knew what joy was and had we considered that Christ had achieved perfect joy as he hung crucified on the Cross?

    This is, of course, a Thomist definition of joy: “For joy is caused by love, either through the presence of the thing loved, or because the proper good of the thing loved exists and endures in it” (Summa II.II.28.1). As he hung on the Cross, Jesus obtained his heart’s desire, a perfect sacrifice to the Father that provided salvation for humanity. This is a great lesson for us! How often do we let suffering lead us to misery instead of joy? Perhaps always??

    Imagine instead responding to your suffering by remembering Christ absolutely joyful on the Cross (undoubtedly in great pain), and finding inspiration in him to be joyful yourself. You might not be taking away the sin of the world with your suffering, but you can offer your suffering self to the Father, just like Jesus did. You can say a prayer like, “Father, accept my lowly suffering alongside the great redeeming suffering of your Son. Allow me to offer my broken human self to you like he did, and in your mercy make me more like him.”

    Who knows — you might just find a glimmer of joy after that prayer. If for nothing else, you’ve taken up Christ’s offer to “take up your yoke” with him; and you might find it as sweet as he promises.

    I don’t want to be a “downer” amid our joyful celebration of Gaudete Sunday, but I was struck by how Fr. Gabriel expanded my notion of what joy can be and further deepened my appreciation for the depth of Jesus’s sacrifice. This is a powerful way to look at the Crucifixion, a scene which is often dominated by sorrow, upset, and emptiness. How important for us to consider that Jesus experienced a powerful joy over the completion of his ministry and doing God’s will. How fruitful is the contemplation of this type of joy, which so dwarfs suffering and ignominy.

    This joy persists for eternity with the Father, while those other things pass like a whisper in the night.

    Crucified Jesus Christ, Viktor Mikhailovich Vasnetsov (1885-1896) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

  • John is Elijah, Both Prepare the Way

    Saturday in the Second Week of Advent, Year A: Sirach 48:1-4, 9-11, Matthew 17:9a, 10-13.

    Today’s readings shed light on a lesser-emphasized aspect of St. John the Baptist: the fact that he is Elijah returned. The prophecy in question was given to Micah: “I will send you the prophet Elijah before the great and terrible day of the Lord comes. He will turn the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children to their parents, so that I will not come and strike the land with a curse” (Micah 4:5-6). Modern Christians simply don’t have the cultural frame of reference to appreciate this prophecy. Elijah was one of the original superheroes of the Jewish tradition, alongside Moses and likely eclipsing even the name of Solomon, David, Judah and Israel. His miracles were profound, his wisdom straight from the mouth of God. For Jews around the time of Christ, the return of Elijah would have been a not-to-miss event, a fitting prelude to the Messiah himself.

    Elijah the Prophet, Nicholas Roerich (1931) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikiart.

    To help us remember Elijah’s superhero status, the Lectionary provides us with an excerpt from Sirach, praising him. “How awesome are you, Elijah, in your wondrous deeds! Whose glory is equal to yours?” Sirach goes on to recount a number of his deeds, including ones not included in this excerpt like raising from the dead, healing, sending kings to their destruction. Fire figures prominently in Sirach’s account, especially the famous “whirlwind of fire, in a chariot with horses of fire” that carried him to heaven. We have reflected this Advent on how fire is a symbol of God’s purity. Elijah, surrounded by fire, was a prophet seemingly closer to God than other men in every way.

    The gospel reading picks up the Elijah thread. It is pulled from right after the Transfiguration (which, of course, featured Elijah as well). The disciples are walking down the mountain, asking Christ about Micah’s prophecy. Jesus answers that “Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but they did to him whatever they pleased. So also the Son of Man is about to suffer at their hands.” They understand he is speaking of John the Baptist. What’s the connection between the two? Well, there are many: they both preached in the wilderness, apart from communities of men and women; they both dressed as wild men, with a leather belt around their waist; both set themselves against kings and had high-profile enemies; and both preached repentance. This last point, in particular, is how they both prepared humanity for the coming of Jesus Christ, and it is in this that Jesus can explain that Elijah has come as John the Baptist.

    But Jesus also speaks about Elijah in the future tense: “Elijah is indeed coming and will restore all things.” What are we to make of this? Was Jesus just confused at that moment? Clearly not – he was just transfigured and shared the company of Moses, Elijah, and his Father! Was this a misprint in the gospel or maybe Matthew just got it wrong? Not at all – Matthew faithfully reported Jesus’s words and many manuscripts have faithfully reproduced these seemingly contradictory statements. How can Elijah still be coming and yet have already come?

    We know that God stands outside of time – that the Christ Event explains the the history that came before it and forms the future after it, that the Word can speak to the prophets and also be made flesh in Mary’s womb and be coming for the Last Judgement. In this way, it makes sense to speak of the Son of God having spoke in the past, being present in humanity and still coming at the end of history. All three tenses apply and make perfect sense in reference to God, who stands outside of time. If we think of Elijah in these same moments – as a prophet to whom the Word spoke, as John the Baptist in the “present” of the gospel, and as some yet-to-come Elijah just before the end of history – then Jesus’s statements make perfect sense as well.

    We might also imagine who Elijah is after he is taken into heaven on the burning chariot. We are told he was taken into heaven body and soul, but we must admit that he exists primarily on the spiritual plane where the spirit is perhaps more “real” (as we would consider things of the body more “real” here on earth). Perhaps the spiritual mode of existence in heaven alongside God allows Elijah to inherit some of His characteristics and ability to exist outside of time. After all, we are working to purify our souls so that we can be worthy of union with God. True union with God is our deification, our sharing in His Godliness. Perhaps, also, the “spirit of Elijah” can inhabit John without detracting from John’s own personhood, much like the Spirit of God can work in us. We don’t know the answers to these musings, but it is not beyond the scope of even our impoverished human imaginations to consider how it might be so.

    St. John the Forerunner, Angel of the Desert, Lyuba Yatskiv (2019) | Image from artandtheology.org.

    In any case, the fact that Jesus tells his disciples that Elijah has already come as John is enough for us to accept it. I try not to question the teaching of my God, but try to humbly and happily accept it. The take-home message is that all of the prophecy regarding Jesus’s coming really did happen, including the prophecy of Elijah coming before Jesus. Probably more prophecy was fulfilled than we could ever know.

    John, like Mary, accepted the role that God had for him. He is an amazing prophet and role model for us. For this reason, we should listen to him and Elijah and repent for our sins, for the Kingdom of God is near.

     

  • How Receptive Are You?

    Friday of the Second Week of Advent, Year A: Isaiah 48:17-19, Matthew 11:16-19.

    A few years ago, Thomas Nichols published a book entitled, The Death of Expertise: The Campaign against Established Knowledge and Why it Matters. It captures the zeitgeist of our age in regards to knowledge – everyone thinks he or she is an expert in everything. Nichols laments, “I fear we are witnessing the death of the ideal of expertise itself, a Google-fueled, Wikipedia-based, blog-sodden collapse of any division between professionals and laypeople, students and teachers, knowers and wonderers” (3). It is tempting to agree with Nichols; we’ve all met (or have been ourselves) someone who preaches to everyone about their opinion as if it was the only truth despite their surface understanding of the issue. We can certainly agree that this is an unprecedented moment in history when Wikipedia and Google have made so much information available to so many people. Other internet-driven tools have amplified the voices of everyone using and reacting to this information. It certainly seems like uninformed opinions are running rampant, drowning out informed opinions.

    I suspect that Nichols (and many others) are experiencing a bit of confirmation bias – that is, they have a hypothesis and they find a bunch of new examples that confirm it. And with the rise of platforms that give voice to all these unformed opinions, there is certainly a glut of examples. Other writers are also pointing out that noise, as opposed to bias, is just as troublesome in cultural systems in terms of formulating hypotheses around major trends (see the recent New York Times article, Bias is a Big Problem, But So is ‘Noise’).

    Self-portrait, Rembrandt (1630, age 24) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia.

    But the reason I’m bringing this up today is that I think Nichols’s book demonstrates that our culture is hopelessly lost in a dream of mastering knowledge all on our own. Nichols lionizes those who spend their lives learning and gaining expertise (at the same time he laments that most people are undermining them). He sees this loss of human expertise as one of the worst problems facing us: “These are dangerous times. Never have so many people had so much access to so much knowledge and yet have been so resistant to learning anything. . . Not only do increasing numbers of laypeople lack basic knowledge, they reject fundamental rules of evidence and refuse to learn how to make a logical argument” (2-3). One thing I can agree with: these are dangerous times, but not for the reasons Nichols presents. Frankly, I think its sort-of amusing to see a lament for the loss of rationality after we have put on a pedestal the power of the human mind to solve all the problems in the universe since the Enlightenment. We forget that we live in a time when human rationality as the only, correct paradigm for understanding the world is so dominant. We mistakenly think that this is, in fact, the primary example of how humans have progressed from dark times of superstition to a superior life thanks to technology. This is a huge historical bias.

    Those of us who lament the loss of faith centuries ago might be excused for a little chuckle over the sense of alarm.

    The fact is, there are other ways of understanding apart from relying on facts we can measure in the physical world. These ways of understanding, found often in religious traditions, acknowledge that we are more than just animal beings. For Catholics, our divine soul makes up an equal part of our being, and it is attuned to God’s voice. But this last sentence requires faith – faith in a soul, faith in our God, and faith that we can glean any kind of understanding, wisdom, or knowledge from listening to God. Fundamentally, the “dangerous” part of our times is the astounding lack of faith in these things. The cult of expertise that Nichols so loves thrives on skepticism, on testing hypotheses with evidence that can be tested, and this skepticism has been disastrous for faith and spiritual knowledge, which resists the ability to be measured.

    I would like to ask Nichols and others like him what they make of today’s readings, where Isaiah shares God’s Word: “I, the LORD, your God, teach you what is for your good, and lead you on the way you should go.” Our ancestors in faith and the prophets took this as the fundamental basis for how we should understand the universe. God teaches us what is good and leads us through life. The simple promise that God gives us is that if we listen to Him, we will prosper: “If you would hearken to my commandments, your prosperity would be like a river.”

    Do we “hearken” to God throughout our days? Have we aligned our ways of acting, thinking, loving, disagreeing, etc. with what He teaches? Let’s step back, do we even know how to “hearken” to God?? It starts with acknowledging that He exists and has something to teach us. It then demands that we are receptive.

    Jesus presents us with a terrifying question: “To what shall I compare this generation?” The Judge of the Universe is paying attention. He has suffered and died for us, given us baptism to take away our original sin and a Way to heaven to follow in his footsteps. And yet, we want to be the judges ourselves, like those in his time who criticized John the Baptist for not eating and drinking and then criticized Jesus for doing the opposite. They were not receptive to John or Jesus, but instead were committed to making meaning for themselves. This is what Nichols sees in us, who read something on Wikipedia and decide we know it, they go about making judgements based on limited information. But I also see it in so many of the experts he loves, who have determined their own parameters and give us their opinions that he thinks should be the law.

    Detail from Adoration of the Magi, Sandro Botticelli (1476) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia. I have cropped about half of this painting to show the interesting facial details that Botticelli included in this masterpiece. It is fitting that scholars believe that the leftmost young man was Lorenzo de’ Medici, who became one of the most powerful, enthusiastic and influential proponent of the Italian Renaissance. As we see, Lorenzo and his friends are on the fringe of the composition, more interested in themselves than the birth of the Savior. The third man in the trio is looking back at Lorenzo with his hand stretched to the Christ child, as if asking Lorenzo what his opinion is of this event. Whether Botticelli (who was a friend of this most powerful of patron families) meant to critique this or not, it stands that these figures, standing in for the overwhelming belief that man can do anything, including control his own destiny, have a haughty, distanced appearance. They don’t seem particularly receptive to divine teaching.

    Jesus has an ominous sounding response for us: “But wisdom is vindicated by her works.” Jesus teaches this concept in many ways, notably during the Sermon on the Mount: “A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will know them by their fruits” (Mt 7:18-20). Let us take a look at our culture and see what fruits are abundant. Huge income gaps, worldwide suffering and discord, rampant selfishness found in the amassing of personal goods and property. These bad fruits point to a bad tree, and we know what will happen to them (fire!).

    We can also take a look at ourselves, which is really more productive. This is the message today in Advent – are we receptive to God’s teaching and will? Are we producing good fruit? This is really what we must worry about because God is concerned with us personally and individually. As we await our Savior, we must be clad in the armor of light because “you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” (Mt 24:44). If we truly believe this, if we truly worry about going to heaven versus hell, if we love God and want to be with him in ultimate love and goodness, then let’s be receptive, for God will “teach you what is for your good, and lead you on the way you should go.”

     

  • Understanding the Immaculate Conception

    Understanding the Immaculate Conception

    Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary: Genesis 3:9-15, 20, Ephesians 1:3-6, 11-12, Luke 1:26-38.

    I grew up in a Catholic family and attended a Catholic school, so veneration of the Blessed Virgin Mary was a part and parcel of my faith. I never found it odd, or over the top, nor did I feel like we worshipped her as we worship our Triune God. It wasn’t until college that I became aware of the fact that Protestants and other denominations criticize Catholics for their Marian devotions. These criticisms struck me as superstitious, but I understand that they were earnest. So, I wanted to write about the deep devotion the Church has had since its inception for the Mother of God and hopefully help explain the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

    Mary, Mother of God (20th Century), provenance unknown | Image from draganbachev.wordpress.com.

    Perhaps the hardest Catholic dogma for non-Catholics to accept is the Immaculate Conception. Yet, if we follow today’s readings closely, we can understand both the deep theology and Biblical underpinnings of the doctrine behind this Solemnity. It starts, unsurprisingly, with Adam and Eve. We are reminded of the original sin: “You have eaten, then, from the tree of which I had forbidden you to eat!” Adam immediately recognizes his sin and his own fallen state: “I heard you in the garden; but I was afraid, because I was naked, so I hid myself.” He is afraid of retribution because he knows he has disobeyed God. He is naked both physically (loss of innocence) and spiritually before his maker. This is our founding, fundamental story of humanity.

    Whether we think of this story as literal or allegorical is not the point — all Christians agree that we have inherited a fallen nature thanks to the sin committed by the first man and woman. In the Catholic Church, this sin has a number consequences:

    • The dominion of death. As God tells Adam, “By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Clearly, this was “baked into” Adam and Eve, meaning it is a genetic inheritance for us. The consequence of their sin was passed down to us: to toil on the earth and eventually return biologically back to it.
    • Genetic inheritance of death is but one type of inheritance! We are body and soul, and our spiritual inheritance from this first sin is our tendency to fall into sin (the fancy term would be concupiscence). Just as Eve was tempted by the serpent, we have that inclination to be tempted by Satan throughout our lives. 
    • Perhaps the worst of our curse, however, is not the physical death or inclination to sin, but being deprived of the sanctifying grace of God at our birth. As the Catechism states: “Although it is proper to each individual, original sin does not have the character of a personal fault in any of Adam’s descendants. It is a deprivation of original holiness and justice” (CCC, 405). Original holiness and justice describe the state of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden before they sinned. This is the real original sin that we “contract” from Adam and Eve (as opposed to “commit”). Our shorthand for this is “fallen state,” but thanks to Jesus Christ, who came to baptize with the Holy Spirit and fire, we are cleansed of original sin through our Christian baptism. Lest we get too cocky, though, “Baptism, by imparting the life of Christ’s grace, erases original sin and turns a man back towards God, but the consequences for nature, weakened and inclined to evil, persist in man and summon him to spiritual battle” (CCC, 405). 

    Adam and Eve started this great drama of humanity’s distance from God, yet as far back as this very passage from the Book of Genesis, we learn that God promises to rectify it. Many people don’t realize this, but the pinnacle of today’s first reading is contained in these lines, spoken to the serpent:

    I will put enmity between you and the woman,
            and between your offspring and hers;
        he will strike at your head,
            while you strike at his heel.

    This is referred to as the Protoevangelium. With this pronouncement, God is gracing us with a natural hatred of evil, to counteract our tendency to be drawn towards it. What’s more, he is hinting at the Messiah, the offspring of Eve, who will strike Satan’s head while Satan strikes at his heel. As the Catechism tells us: “After his fall, man was not abandoned by God. On the contrary, God calls him and in a mysterious way heralds the coming victory over evil and his restoration from his fall. Hence, this passage in Genesis is called the Protoevangelium (“first gospel”): the first announcement of the Messiah and Redeemer, of a battle between the serpent and the Woman, and of the final victory of a descendant of hers” (CCC, 410). We Christians call Jesus Christ the “New Adam” because he crushes the serpent (while being struck on his “heel” by the Cross), and his mother, Mary, is the “New Eve.” This fulfillment of a promise from Genesis through Mary and Jesus is so central to our faith that it can be found in popular hymns, such as Charles Wesley’s carol, Hark, the Herald Angels Sing:

    Come, Desire of Nations, come, Fix in us Thy humble home.
    Rise the woman’s conquering Seed, Bruise in us the serpent’s head.
    Adam’s likeness now efface, Stamp Thine image in its place,
    Second Adam from above, Reinstate us in Thy love,
    Hark, the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn King.

    Saint Paul expounds upon God’s plan in the second reading today: “he chose us in him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and without blemish before him.” We can’t overstate how important the words “holy” and “without blemish” are to our faith. As we reflected in the past week, God is pure goodness, pure love, and in order to be suitable to be united with Him in heaven, we must also work to become purified through our faith. What Paul is saying is that it has always been God’s plan, since “before the foundation of the world” that we should be united with him in holiness and purity. Theologically, this resonates with the problem of original sin. If we have contracted the lack of “original holiness and justice” from Adam and Eve, then restoring original holiness is a major step to reunification with God – thus, Christ comes to reinstate our holiness through baptism.

    But original sin also poses a particular problem for the New Eve, Mary. Like the holy Ark of the Covenant that held the commandments, the Aaron’s rod, and manna from heaven, this Ark of the New Covenant that will hold Jesus must be holy, too. Remember that the acacia wood-covered-in-gold ark upon which a giant slab of gold and two angels in gold rested was the place where God manifested Himself to the Jews. Remember, too, that poor Uzzah was stricken dead when he tried to steady the Ark in the cart being transported by King David to Jerusalem. The holiness of the Ark was so great that God’s commandments regarding who could touch it were inviolate.

    Detail from Joshua passing the River Jordan with the Ark of the Covenant, Benjamin West (1800) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia. If such prayerful care and ceremony was given to the Ark of the Covenant, why would someone be surprised that we give equal veneration to Mary, the Ark of the New Covenant?

    So, if the original Ark was holy, how much more must the Ark of the New Covenant be if it is to hold the incarnate God?

    All of this is drawing to a logical conclusion: that Mary must be holy, that is, lacking even original sin, if she is to bear Jesus. But let’s not assume that our dogma comes about because of a logic puzzle. Nor does it exist out of some kind of sentimental, emotional attachment to Mary, who is Our Lady, most pure. No, the Church did not acknowledge the dogma of the Immaculate Conception either because it was logically convenient or because it seemed fitting to support the cult of devotion to Mary that had developed over the centuries.

    From the earliest moments of the Church, the apostles and Church Fathers believed that Mary had special grace and purity beyond all other humans. The dogma of the Church, although not formalized until 1854 by Pope Pius IX, stands firmly in a tradition that was held from the very beginning of the Church. And even before tradition, we have the scriptural basis, the words of the Angel Gabriel as we hear them in today’s gospel reading:

    Ancient Greek:  χαῖρε, κεχαριτωμένη, ὁ κύριος μετὰ σοῦ.
    “Greeklish”:      Chaire, kecharitōmenē, ho kyrios meta sou!
    English:             Hail, “Full of Grace,” the Lord is with you!

    I want to dwell on the actual Greek text here because it’s very important. The Angel Gabriel bestows on Mary a one-of-a-kind greeting, and “Full of Grace” doesn’t quite sum up the name he calls her, Kecharitōmenē (pronounced keh-kah-rih-toe-MEN-ee). Notice that the root of his first two words is the same: χαῖρε (chaire) and χαριτω (charitō), which would have sounded a bit like heavenly wordplay coming from the Angel Gabriel, or at least a doubling or emphasis. “Kai-ray, keh-kah-rih-toe-MEN-ee,” he said. This root word χαριτω (charitō) means “grace”; χαῖρε (chaire) means “hail!” or “greetings!” and is clearly meant to be a happy greeting since the addition of -τε makes χαίρετε (chairete), meaning “rejoice!”

    Our Lady of Peace tapestry (printed on cotton), photo of tapestry hanging in the author’s home. The artwork was originally created in the workshop of Hendrik Slabbinck in Bruges, Belgium during World War II.

    Kecharitōmenē is only used once in scripture and never in secular writings. That’s right, this one-of-a-kind word is invoked by the Angel Gabriel at that moment, used uniquely as a title for Mary. The common English translation is “full of grace,” which is fairly close, but does not express its true depth. In fact, “full of grace” is properly written as πληρης χαριτος (pleres charitos), which is used in reference to Christ in the prologue of the Gospel of St. John (Jn 1:14) and in reference to St. Stephen in the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 6:8).

    But Kecharitōmenē is not a description like “full of grace.” It is a noun, a title, and would be better translated as “The One Who has Been Perfectly and Permanently Graced.” You see, Kecharitōmenē is the perfect passive participle of the verb charitŏō, “to be graced.” Passive, meaning this was not Mary’s doing but God’s. Perfect, meaning completed in its entirety yet ongoing. Gabriel is telling the unsuspecting young Mary that she has been perfectly graced by God from the beginning and continues to be pure. Even before she learns that she is to bear God in her womb, she trembles with the fear of God at the revelation of her own holiness. The Magisterium has always understood this to mean that it was God’s will that she be born without original sin. Thus, we have the scriptural, theological basis for the Immaculate Conception right here in the queenly title acknowledged by Gabriel.

    So, let us celebrate the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception today with a true grasp of the dogma, with a love of God and His amazing plan for humanity, and with a thankfulness that the New Eve said yes to the Father and bore unto us our Savior.

  • Hope, Rest, and Renewal in Christ

    Hope, Rest, and Renewal in Christ

    Memorial of Saint Ambrose, Bishop and Doctor of the Church; Second Wednesday of Advent: Isaiah 40:25-31, Matthew 11:28-30.

    What soothing words of hope and security we find in today’s readings! With so many trials and difficulties in our lives, this reminder couldn’t come at a better time. As we prepare and wait for the Lord this Advent, we wait like adoring adults gazing at the Christ child in the manger as well as frightened children in need of a Savior to carry us to the finish line. Christ is of course both of these – incarnate in ultimate fragility and yet the most powerful being in the universe. Today, we remember this second aspect: the fact that he is God, able to bear our burdens with us and renew our vigor. Appropriately, we also celebrate St. Ambrose, a towering Doctor of the Church from the 4th century who also acts as a force of solidity and strength in our faith.

    St Ambrose barring Theodosius from Milan Cathedral, Anthony van Dyck (1619-1620) | Creative Commons, courtesy Wikimedia. Talk about a figure of strength and moral fortitude! In 390 AD, St. Ambrose wouldn’t let Emperor Theodosius into the Milan Cathedral to receive communion until he made a public show of penance for the Roman troops’ Massacre at Thessalonica. While there is evidence of this exchange in letters between Ambrose and Theodosius, as well as Theodosius’s eventual presence for Mass at Christmas, the scene above probably didn’t happen this way, although it makes for great artistic fodder.

    I love how Isaiah asks us incredulously in today’s reading, “Do you not know or have you not heard?” as if his listeners were ignorant of the God of Abraham and Moses. In breathless earnestness he proceeds to tell us, “The LORD is the eternal God, creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint nor grow weary.” Clearly, he thought we needed a reminder (then and now). And he immediately transitions from describing God’s attributes to describing what He does for us: “He gives strength to the fainting; for the weak he makes vigor abound.” This is a crucial point: our God is a selfless God who gives endlessly to His People. He is no pagan god who toys with his people and expects sacrifice in exchange for favors.

    Isaiah points out that hope, not even sacrifice or ritual, engages God in this transfer of vigor to His People: “They that hope in the LORD will renew their strength, they will soar as with eagles’ wings.” This is extraordinary, especially in comparison to the world’s other religions. Isaiah is reminding us of the intensely personal nature of our relationship with God. He knows us so well that the very act of hope – wherein we align our thoughts and our will toward Him as the ultimate One who can help us – is enough for Him to work in and through us.

    Hope, in this instance, is a form of prayer where we give God our allegiance and in humility tell him that He is the only true source of aid. Ours is a God who cares so much for every single one of the countless people He has created that He enters their minds and hearts to have communion with them.

    Jesus gives voice to this wish of the Father: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.” How extraordinary! What mere Messiah figure speaks like this? What mere holy man? These words don’t come across as braggadocio, or as hollow promises. This is the voice of God, sharing His desire for all of His People to come to Him. 

    Taking a closer look, though, there is a seeming paradox in these words of comfort. While he promises everyone who comes to him rest, he also states that he is waiting with a yoke for them. Which is it, rest or work? Can they exist together? He promises to teach them, but notes that he is meek and humble of heart so they can rest in his teachings. Which is it, active learning or rest? These are exactly the tensions that find their harmony in Christ. “For my yoke is easy, and my burden light.” This is the key — the yoke is uncompromising love. Love itself is easy and light, it does give you rest and regeneration.

    Yet living in a state of grace is also work and takes training to achieve. All of our moral teachings and commandments stem from love as God defines it. Constant prayer is a fundamental aspect of living a life of love. Extending mercy and forgiveness to everyone in your life is the way of love. To stand up and put on this yoke every day takes dedication, as our brothers and sisters in monasteries and convents attest. 

    detail from Jesus and Peter on the Water, Gustave Brion (1863) | Image from gallery19c.com.

    All of the sudden, the yoke seems hard. And, without Christ and the Holy Spirit active in our lives, it might be. These things would become a chore, but God makes them a joy. This is the promise of renewed vigor and rest. Think of how your soul soars when you help someone in need without a thought of recompense. Or of how a time of intense prayer gives you a new perspective on your day-to-day life. God is with us, all the time. All we have to do is open ourselves to Him.

    And no one says it more clearly than Saint Ambrose, who we honor today. Here is a concise exposition he wrote on this very subject:

    Open wide your door to the one who comes. Open your soul, throw open the depths of your heart to see the riches of simplicity, the treasures of peace, the sweetness of grace. Open your heart and run to meet the Sun of eternal light that illuminates all men. . . . Blessed is he, therefore, at whose door Christ comes knocking. Faith is the door of the soul, and if it is strong then it fortifies the whole house. Through this door Christ enters. . . . Open to him, therefore: he wishes to come in, the Bridegroom wishes to find you keeping watch. (from Commentary on Psalm 118).

    St. Ambrose reminds us that faith is the door through which Christ enters. He is waiting at the door of everyone’s soul, but if faith is shriveled, if it is nonexistent, there is no way to greet Christ and find refuge in him. It is almost too obvious to point out, but this is why faith is so important. It is why Satan tries so hard to erode our faith in God, and perhaps it is why God makes Himself invisible to our senses, so that we strengthen our faith like a muscle. We must pray to God to continually strengthen our faith, especially in times when we doubt a Church teaching or even God’s presence in our lives.

    May Saint Ambrose intercede for us today as we celebrate Advent, prepared and waiting for the Sun of eternal light to shine on us all.