You know how it is, in the spring, when you've had a few days of melting snow such that the edge develops an icy "lip" over the sidewalk? And you know how under that lip is where the melting water runs on its way into the storm sewer?
Yeah, that.
I've discovered that stepping on that icy ledge creates an infinitely satisfying "CRUNCH!" when stepped on.
Ah...the joys of childhood that never die...
Friday, February 18, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Canon Law and Catholic Publications
Last week there was a huge fiasco regarding the iphone app for Roman Catholics, leading major media outlets to conclude, erroneously, that the Church had just approved the Sacrament of Confession outside of the Confessional. Why? Because "A Catholic Bishop gave the application an Imprimatur". Unfortunately, too many people don't know what that means and indeed, the terms and what they imply can be confusing if one is not familiar with them.
As usual, definitions are important here; both of the subject matter and what "approval" entails.
I'm going to focus on, specifically, publications. This can include scripture translations, books, prayers, or as we're seeing recently, applications. What does it take, then, for the Church to approve a publication? And if it is approved, what does that really mean? Does it change theology?
Let's look at the process involved, step by step, in the publication of a document, the applicable Code of Canon Law, and what is revealed within that.
1. First, the author of a publication submits it to the Local Ordinary (The Bishop).
2. The Local Ordinary assigns a Censor to review the work. [The Bishop does not review the work himself]
Canon 830.1 states:
Note what the Canon states about the Censor:
Note that either the Conference of Bishops compiles this list for the sake of the diocesan curias or establishes a commission for the Local Ordinaries to consult.
Note further that the Local Bishop's authority over to whom he is willing to entrust a publication remains intact; of the pool of censors, that means the Local Ordinary still gets to choose who will review the work.
The Censor has an important role, and there's a great deal to it which also involves the obligations of the Bishop to both the Censor and the Author.
Canon 830.2 states:
Nota Bene:
Canon 830.3 states:
Let's take a look at that canon, because it reveals a great deal about the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur:
Let's just say I use my Master's degree to write a book about Catholic doctrine and its relevance to our culture today. It would be thousands of pages long, of course. It's also very likely every other student in my graduating class compiled the same kind of book with varying areas of specialization.
Because of the subject matter of my book and the submissions of my friends, and the fact that we want to be taken seriously as legitimate theologians in contributing something to the Church, we submit our works to our local Bishop.
The Bishop doesn't look at the work himself; he's far too busy. Even if I knew him personally as a good friend, he probably still wouldn't read the book himself both to avoid the temptation of favoritism (explicitly prohibited by the Law) and because he's actually got better things to do - like preach and provide for the Sacraments.
Thus, as Canon Law established, the good Bishop takes my work and the work of all my fellow graduates and assigns each of these tomes to a Censor who has been appointed either by the Conference of Bishops or from a designated pool of Censors. In other words, he entrusts this work to, typically, a lay person with good knowledge of doctrine and a sense of prudence.
Now, that appointed Censor might not like what I'm saying in my book, or may actually love it completely and want to make me a Saint because of it. However, the Censor cannot offer a visceral reaction. On the contrary, that Censor is obligated to objectively evaluate my book on the basis of Catholic faith and morals. Does anything I say in the book contradict the Faith outright? Does it state something contrary to the moral teachings of the Church?
Mind you..there's a lot of leeway there...the Censor must use prudent judgment; perhaps some of my wording is imprecise and perhaps I don't work from definitions, and perhaps my work can be a bit wishy-washy in that regard. However, in the fair judgment of the Censor, does my work actually contradict, outright, the Faith and Morals of Catholicism?
There are many factors there such as: how well has this Censor been formed? All theological degrees are not equal; the fact is, some universities are more faithful than others, some provide a more complete theology, others are...uh...lacking, to put it charitably. The fact is, the Censor is using his or her own judgment given their specific knowledge, no matter where it falls on the very broad spectrum. The Censor might actually be completely mis-informed about some areas of Catholic faith/morals, yet the Bishop may still trust his or her judgement with regard to my work.
So let's just say that the Censor read my thousand-page book and acted in accordance to Canon Law. If he thought my work did not contradict Church teaching on faith and morals, he must give that approval in writing to the Bishop (Nihil Obstat - nothing obstructing), and the Bishop, unless he has reason to believe the Censor is way off, will accept that judgment and put his stamp (Imprimatur) on the publication...because he has to.
Now, to the contrary, if the Censor thought I was off my rocker, he must also tell the Bishop that, and even if the Censor gave his approval and the Bishop got an inkling maybe said Censor was wrong and looked further, discovering that I'm a total heretic, the Bishop must inform me that my work cannot be published and what I did wrong. That would give me a chance to correct my book and then re-submit it. Or choose apostasy.
Further, does that help to reveal the fact that the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur on various questionable publications does not serve as "Church approval" by any means? There are some Bishops who are more prudent than others in those they allow to censor work in their name, as we all know. There are also a large number of people, Catholics included, who take these "stamps" to mean that the Bishop himself read and approved certain things. I assure you he did not, but for perhaps a few rare cases.
As a friend of mine suggested, why doesn't the work get assigned to a Canon Lawyer? Answer: Canon Lawyers are overworked and underpaid as it is. They have even less time than the Bishop to read the myriad of works submitted!
That still leaves one question:
According to Canon 824, Any writings intended for publication and distribution should be submitted.
More specifically:
* Can 826.3 Prayer books for public or private use - required submission.
* Can. 827 Catechisms and catechetical materials require approval of the local ordinary.
* Can 827.2 Textbooks of scripture, theology, canon law, ecclesiastical history, or religious / moral disciplines require approval of "competent authority" in order to be used. (The authority referred to here may go beyond the local ordinary or require more than just the local Bishop's approval)
* Can 827.3 Books about about scripture, theology, canon law, ecclesiastical history, religious / moral disciplines not used as textbooks are recommended to be submitted to the local ordinary [the type of thing I'm most likely to write]
Good question, isn't it?
Well, this is where Canon Law has not caught up with social media, which itself is in a constant state of flux. All we bloggers can do is take what we have and see how the law applies. We are encouraged to use social media to share our faith, to evangelize, to teach. However, we ARE subject to canon law; virtue and prudence should be our guides in what we publish.
Certainly, we are not asked or required to submit our blogs to the Bishop for approval. However, if I decided to publish my blog as a Catholic book, intended for distribution, it would be recommended that I submit it to my Ordinary. If I wrote a more formal work on the theology of the Church, or compiled prayers, I would be required to submit it, which, naturally, makes sense. After all, in the latter case I would be doing so as an act formal to the role of theologian; I would be trying to contribute to the theology of the Church in some formal way.
Disclaimer: With all that said, and with all I have written here, although I have tried to do this faithfully and with reference to the materials I received in graduate school, and with reference to the specific Canons, I have to offer this disclaimer: my blog is not approved by the Bishop. It has not been submitted to a Censor and it's quite possible I am wrong on some point or have stated something improperly. Blogs should NEVER be used for formal study, although they can be useful to point to further information.
It disturbs me, though, that so many people put their faith in the stamps "Nihil Obstat" and "Imprimatur" when really, those approvals mean very little. They are only as good as the understanding, faithfulness, and integrity of the person reading the work.
Keep that in mind the next time you look at a work, and judge it not by those designations but rather by the actual content of the publication.
Your soul is worth far more than a faulty Imprimatur or mistaken Nihil Obstat.
And your intellect is worth far more than the media's interpretation of Catholic terms they don't even try to understand.
Faith and reason go together, my friends. Know the terms, know what they mean, and if you don't understand them don't ever be afraid to ask! :-)
What does it mean for a publication to have Church approval?
As usual, definitions are important here; both of the subject matter and what "approval" entails.
I'm going to focus on, specifically, publications. This can include scripture translations, books, prayers, or as we're seeing recently, applications. What does it take, then, for the Church to approve a publication? And if it is approved, what does that really mean? Does it change theology?
Let's look at the process involved, step by step, in the publication of a document, the applicable Code of Canon Law, and what is revealed within that.
1. First, the author of a publication submits it to the Local Ordinary (The Bishop).
2. The Local Ordinary assigns a Censor to review the work. [The Bishop does not review the work himself]
Canon 830.1 states:
"The conference of bishops can compile a list of censors outstanding in knowledge, correct doctrine, and prudence to be available to diocesan curias or can also establish a commission of censors which local ordinaries can consult; the right of each local ordinary to entrust judgment regarding books to persons he approves, however, remains intact. " (The Latin is far more precise that what can be translated in the vernacular).
Note what the Canon states about the Censor:
1. Outstanding in knowledge
2. Outstanding in correct doctrine
3. Outstanding in prudence
Note that either the Conference of Bishops compiles this list for the sake of the diocesan curias or establishes a commission for the Local Ordinaries to consult.
Note further that the Local Bishop's authority over to whom he is willing to entrust a publication remains intact; of the pool of censors, that means the Local Ordinary still gets to choose who will review the work.
What about the obligations of the Censor?
The Censor has an important role, and there's a great deal to it which also involves the obligations of the Bishop to both the Censor and the Author.
Canon 830.2 states:
In fulfilling this office, laying aside any favoritism, the censor is to consider only the doctrine of the Church concerning faith and morals as it is proposed by the ecclesiastical magisterium.
Nota Bene:
* The Censor cannot show favoritism
* The Censor must consider ONLY the doctrine of the Church concerning faith/morals
* That, as proposed by the magisterium [as opposed to popular fly-by-night ideas, etc.]
Canon 830.3 states:
A censor must give his or her opinion in writing: if is favorable, the ordinary, according to his own prudent judgment, is to grant permission for publication to take place, with his name and the time and place of the permission granted expressed. If he does not grant permission, the ordinary is to communicate the reasons for the denial to the author of the work.
Let's take a look at that canon, because it reveals a great deal about the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur:
* A Censor must give his or her opinion in writing
* If it is favorable, [Nihil Obstat - "nothing obstructing"] the Bishop (according to his own prudent judgment, ie: does he trust the Censor?) MUST grant permission for the work to be published.
* And, if this is the case, the Bishop must let it be published with his name, time, and place of the permission granted. [Imprimatur: "It may be published"]
* If the Bishop does not grant permission, he must communicate the reason for the denial to the author.
Let's use a simple example of this process.
Let's just say I use my Master's degree to write a book about Catholic doctrine and its relevance to our culture today. It would be thousands of pages long, of course. It's also very likely every other student in my graduating class compiled the same kind of book with varying areas of specialization.
Because of the subject matter of my book and the submissions of my friends, and the fact that we want to be taken seriously as legitimate theologians in contributing something to the Church, we submit our works to our local Bishop.
The Bishop doesn't look at the work himself; he's far too busy. Even if I knew him personally as a good friend, he probably still wouldn't read the book himself both to avoid the temptation of favoritism (explicitly prohibited by the Law) and because he's actually got better things to do - like preach and provide for the Sacraments.
Thus, as Canon Law established, the good Bishop takes my work and the work of all my fellow graduates and assigns each of these tomes to a Censor who has been appointed either by the Conference of Bishops or from a designated pool of Censors. In other words, he entrusts this work to, typically, a lay person with good knowledge of doctrine and a sense of prudence.
Now, that appointed Censor might not like what I'm saying in my book, or may actually love it completely and want to make me a Saint because of it. However, the Censor cannot offer a visceral reaction. On the contrary, that Censor is obligated to objectively evaluate my book on the basis of Catholic faith and morals. Does anything I say in the book contradict the Faith outright? Does it state something contrary to the moral teachings of the Church?
Mind you..there's a lot of leeway there...the Censor must use prudent judgment; perhaps some of my wording is imprecise and perhaps I don't work from definitions, and perhaps my work can be a bit wishy-washy in that regard. However, in the fair judgment of the Censor, does my work actually contradict, outright, the Faith and Morals of Catholicism?
There are many factors there such as: how well has this Censor been formed? All theological degrees are not equal; the fact is, some universities are more faithful than others, some provide a more complete theology, others are...uh...lacking, to put it charitably. The fact is, the Censor is using his or her own judgment given their specific knowledge, no matter where it falls on the very broad spectrum. The Censor might actually be completely mis-informed about some areas of Catholic faith/morals, yet the Bishop may still trust his or her judgement with regard to my work.
So let's just say that the Censor read my thousand-page book and acted in accordance to Canon Law. If he thought my work did not contradict Church teaching on faith and morals, he must give that approval in writing to the Bishop (Nihil Obstat - nothing obstructing), and the Bishop, unless he has reason to believe the Censor is way off, will accept that judgment and put his stamp (Imprimatur) on the publication...because he has to.
Now, to the contrary, if the Censor thought I was off my rocker, he must also tell the Bishop that, and even if the Censor gave his approval and the Bishop got an inkling maybe said Censor was wrong and looked further, discovering that I'm a total heretic, the Bishop must inform me that my work cannot be published and what I did wrong. That would give me a chance to correct my book and then re-submit it. Or choose apostasy.
Does that make sense?
Further, does that help to reveal the fact that the Nihil Obstat and Imprimatur on various questionable publications does not serve as "Church approval" by any means? There are some Bishops who are more prudent than others in those they allow to censor work in their name, as we all know. There are also a large number of people, Catholics included, who take these "stamps" to mean that the Bishop himself read and approved certain things. I assure you he did not, but for perhaps a few rare cases.
As a friend of mine suggested, why doesn't the work get assigned to a Canon Lawyer? Answer: Canon Lawyers are overworked and underpaid as it is. They have even less time than the Bishop to read the myriad of works submitted!
That still leaves one question:
What kinds of publications must be submitted to the Local Ordinary?
According to Canon 824, Any writings intended for publication and distribution should be submitted.
More specifically:
* Can 826.3 Prayer books for public or private use - required submission.
* Can. 827 Catechisms and catechetical materials require approval of the local ordinary.
* Can 827.2 Textbooks of scripture, theology, canon law, ecclesiastical history, or religious / moral disciplines require approval of "competent authority" in order to be used. (The authority referred to here may go beyond the local ordinary or require more than just the local Bishop's approval)
* Can 827.3 Books about about scripture, theology, canon law, ecclesiastical history, religious / moral disciplines not used as textbooks are recommended to be submitted to the local ordinary [the type of thing I'm most likely to write]
Where does that leave bloggers?
Good question, isn't it?
Well, this is where Canon Law has not caught up with social media, which itself is in a constant state of flux. All we bloggers can do is take what we have and see how the law applies. We are encouraged to use social media to share our faith, to evangelize, to teach. However, we ARE subject to canon law; virtue and prudence should be our guides in what we publish.
Certainly, we are not asked or required to submit our blogs to the Bishop for approval. However, if I decided to publish my blog as a Catholic book, intended for distribution, it would be recommended that I submit it to my Ordinary. If I wrote a more formal work on the theology of the Church, or compiled prayers, I would be required to submit it, which, naturally, makes sense. After all, in the latter case I would be doing so as an act formal to the role of theologian; I would be trying to contribute to the theology of the Church in some formal way.
Disclaimer: With all that said, and with all I have written here, although I have tried to do this faithfully and with reference to the materials I received in graduate school, and with reference to the specific Canons, I have to offer this disclaimer: my blog is not approved by the Bishop. It has not been submitted to a Censor and it's quite possible I am wrong on some point or have stated something improperly. Blogs should NEVER be used for formal study, although they can be useful to point to further information.
It disturbs me, though, that so many people put their faith in the stamps "Nihil Obstat" and "Imprimatur" when really, those approvals mean very little. They are only as good as the understanding, faithfulness, and integrity of the person reading the work.
Keep that in mind the next time you look at a work, and judge it not by those designations but rather by the actual content of the publication.
Your soul is worth far more than a faulty Imprimatur or mistaken Nihil Obstat.
And your intellect is worth far more than the media's interpretation of Catholic terms they don't even try to understand.
Faith and reason go together, my friends. Know the terms, know what they mean, and if you don't understand them don't ever be afraid to ask! :-)
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Belonging
I've been watching a lot of cop/fire shows lately. For years I simply couldn't do it; Hollywood always gets it wrong and those things they get wrong used to drive me so crazy it would make me angry. I couldn't enjoy that kind of "entertainment" that made the rookie mistakes I made...and paid for a thousand times over.
I remember sitting at certain restaurants with my fellow officers, picking at my food while they talked "fantasy football." We rarely hung with the other female officers, most of whom were on other shifts. Usually it was just the FTO's (Field Training Officers) or ex-FTO's...and me. The guys in my department were just as cliquey as a bunch of 7th grade girls and quite honestly...even more nasty.
I was the third wheel, a fish out of water, the kid sister no one wanted around. In other words...the untried rookie. I could deal with that, for I expected that to be the case, but what I hadn't expected was all the subtle psychological sabotage.
Every so often they'd joke with me but I had that little nagging sixth sense that they reason things weren't better was because we both knew I wouldn't be sticking around. I just didn't yet know the reason, nor had I had a chance to live up to any reason to stay or to leave.
My friend was in line to be hired by a big city but hadn't started yet and was interested in my rookie experiences. Logically, he was perplexed that I could put on a Kevlar vest, a badge, a gun, go to morning briefing, don a radio and drive a squad car and still not "feel like a cop." I was perplexed, too.
I don't in any way mean to say the department was all bad. In fact, that October the other six or seven women in the department, represented by two of them, waylaid me one afternoon to invite me "Up North" with them on a weekend fishing trip.
"We already checked your schedule", Officer T. said to me. "We know you're off! Do you want to come?"
Ha! If I'd wanted to say no, at that point I would have had to have a great excuse! It was clear they WANTED me to go with them, and in fact, they were all very helpful to me. Perhaps things would have been different if I'd realized early enough which help to request and when. I had allies in ALL the other women in that department, for they'd been where I was, at least in a sense, and knew the struggles I was facing.
...one particular officer, not an FTO, seemed to want to make things especially difficult for me. My training officers and a couple other cops warned me about him in vague but menacing terms. It wasn't that he was a "hound", but it was more intimated that he hated women, was a jerk, not a good cop...whatever. That very much put me on my guard and made me suspicious even though he'd always been at least polite to me, if aloof and cynical.
Well, one day I came in and put my radio on the charger before roll call. It was pretty much ready to go as I'd used my home charger, but I figured it could use a few minutes while we were in briefing.
This particular anti-woman Officer in question was called out of the briefing room to go to dispatch, and as he passed me in his hurry, he stopped me and requested that I put his radio on the charger for him. I saw that every docking station was taken, and, knowing that mine was OK, I removed my own radio, replacing it with his. I passed him a couple minutes later and confirmed I'd placed his radio in a docking station as he'd asked, and he thanked me kindly. Fine. Done. I thought nothing of it.
I was quite surprised and offended, therefore, that after briefing, this very angry, very large hulk of a man confronted me very loudly with, "You LIED to me!"
Taken aback, I asked him what he was talking about. He pointed dramatically to his radio in the charger, orange light glowing, and demanded to know why I didn't just TELL him that there wasn't a spot available. He claimed that I just set it aside and lied to him about it.
"No, I didn't!"
"YES you did! Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"
At this point he was bending down to meet my eyes, cornering me, his very angry, shouting face only inches from mine.
I denied lying, stated clearly (and loudly to overcome his own protests), that I DID put his radio in the charger at the expense of my own. I told him next time to be more responsible and charge it overnight like I did, and don't blame me when his equipment isn't ready. I further told him that if someone else took it out of the charger that wasn't my problem, and went on to inform him, quite loudly and in language that might have made a sailor blush, where, exactly in his anatomy he could place his radio from that point onward.
This little scene gathered quite a crowd of badges as you might imagine, (although none intervened given this was a verbal skirmish) and this angry officer backed off quite considerably in the face of my charged verbal onslaught.
I went down to the women's locker room in a huff to gather a couple things, then headed out with my training officer who naturally told me I needed to watch my language and cautioned me that my outburst probably did some serious damage to the reputation I didn't even have yet. I was ashamed. He told me he was glad I wouldn't let anyone walk all over me but that I really needed to be more guarded and...professional.
He was right and I knew it. Thankfully he kept it off his observation reports for that day.
But something funny happened as a result of that scene; the officer I'd been so warned about suddenly became my best friend. He would go out of his way to assist me on calls, or, if I was working on paperwork he'd offer advice on little tricks my FTO hadn't told me about. One day when we walked in to the station he loudly proclaimed that I was his "favorite rookie."
And the scary thing is, to this day I think he actually meant it. In fact, I think that the whole radio thing was a setup by my own FTO, who was hoping I'd make an enemy instead of a friend. And I think that my new friend realized it while I was going off on him, which is why he become my buddy after that. (Yeah, I know something about psychology and depravity, too.)
For some odd reason, I make the best friends through massive confrontations on first meetings.
Still, I knew I didn't belong there. The whole time I wore a badge and carried a gun, I felt like I was playing dress-up. Cops and robbers. It was a pretense, even when I actually did manage to do something right.
The Fire department was much the same, albeit without the big explosive confrontation with a co-worker. That particular year was more interior conflict than exterior, and the camaraderie was there but there came a point that I knew, once again, I was in the wrong place entirely.
The sense of relief on the day I was laid off can't even be expressed in words. It's like I'd faced a dragon and learned it was a fixed match with someone's trained pet, ending in a draw where both of us walked away with medals of honor.
Religious life was different, though.
With all my trepidation and gun-shyness from so many bad work experiences, bad discernment, etc., the communities I visited made me feel like family from the very beginning. That's not to say I was "home" but rather, it was like the sense one gets when visiting beloved relatives. When I left, I couldn't imagine not being there again, I couldn't imagine my life not knowing these Sisters.
And you know..it wasn't about the superficial ideal of "camaraderie" or a lack therof; it was simply a shared love for God. No matter how hard it was at times on those visits, I never felt like I had something to "prove" to anyone. I had only to "be."
That is why I press on. That is why I continue to pray, in spite of my obvious obstacles. There is no Easter Sunday without a Good Friday, and for now, whether I'm called to religious life or not, I have a huge burden to bear and carry up Calvary.
I've written often about being in the shadow of the Cross, and I see that as the sun sets, that shadow becomes longer and longer, and I know that it's leading into a long, dark night. Still, I walk because I know that what I choose, what I believe I am called to do, isn't going to be easy. It is not an escape from life, but rather, makes life more real, more intense...more...true.
I chuckle now at the conflicts of the past. They are nothing in comparison to what I currently confront. I see, clearly now, that all those jobs, all those conflicts, were only preparation for what is happening in this very moment.
~ from Psalm 127
Apart from God our labors are worthless
There was more to it than the technical malfunctions of the screen writers, though; the "camaraderie" of the actors on the set was just that: acting.
I remember sitting at certain restaurants with my fellow officers, picking at my food while they talked "fantasy football." We rarely hung with the other female officers, most of whom were on other shifts. Usually it was just the FTO's (Field Training Officers) or ex-FTO's...and me. The guys in my department were just as cliquey as a bunch of 7th grade girls and quite honestly...even more nasty.I was the third wheel, a fish out of water, the kid sister no one wanted around. In other words...the untried rookie. I could deal with that, for I expected that to be the case, but what I hadn't expected was all the subtle psychological sabotage.
Every so often they'd joke with me but I had that little nagging sixth sense that they reason things weren't better was because we both knew I wouldn't be sticking around. I just didn't yet know the reason, nor had I had a chance to live up to any reason to stay or to leave.
That distinct lack of belonging was something I couldn't put to words. As I told one of my friends from Skills training, "I don't feel like a cop."
My friend was in line to be hired by a big city but hadn't started yet and was interested in my rookie experiences. Logically, he was perplexed that I could put on a Kevlar vest, a badge, a gun, go to morning briefing, don a radio and drive a squad car and still not "feel like a cop." I was perplexed, too.
I don't in any way mean to say the department was all bad. In fact, that October the other six or seven women in the department, represented by two of them, waylaid me one afternoon to invite me "Up North" with them on a weekend fishing trip.
"We already checked your schedule", Officer T. said to me. "We know you're off! Do you want to come?"
Ha! If I'd wanted to say no, at that point I would have had to have a great excuse! It was clear they WANTED me to go with them, and in fact, they were all very helpful to me. Perhaps things would have been different if I'd realized early enough which help to request and when. I had allies in ALL the other women in that department, for they'd been where I was, at least in a sense, and knew the struggles I was facing.
Meanwhile, back at the Station...
...one particular officer, not an FTO, seemed to want to make things especially difficult for me. My training officers and a couple other cops warned me about him in vague but menacing terms. It wasn't that he was a "hound", but it was more intimated that he hated women, was a jerk, not a good cop...whatever. That very much put me on my guard and made me suspicious even though he'd always been at least polite to me, if aloof and cynical.
Well, one day I came in and put my radio on the charger before roll call. It was pretty much ready to go as I'd used my home charger, but I figured it could use a few minutes while we were in briefing.
This particular anti-woman Officer in question was called out of the briefing room to go to dispatch, and as he passed me in his hurry, he stopped me and requested that I put his radio on the charger for him. I saw that every docking station was taken, and, knowing that mine was OK, I removed my own radio, replacing it with his. I passed him a couple minutes later and confirmed I'd placed his radio in a docking station as he'd asked, and he thanked me kindly. Fine. Done. I thought nothing of it.
I was quite surprised and offended, therefore, that after briefing, this very angry, very large hulk of a man confronted me very loudly with, "You LIED to me!"
Taken aback, I asked him what he was talking about. He pointed dramatically to his radio in the charger, orange light glowing, and demanded to know why I didn't just TELL him that there wasn't a spot available. He claimed that I just set it aside and lied to him about it.
"No, I didn't!"
"YES you did! Why didn't you just tell me the truth?"
At this point he was bending down to meet my eyes, cornering me, his very angry, shouting face only inches from mine.
I didn't take very kindly to being cornered and accused like that, so I struck back with all of my 5 feet, 4 inches of Pure Attitude.
I denied lying, stated clearly (and loudly to overcome his own protests), that I DID put his radio in the charger at the expense of my own. I told him next time to be more responsible and charge it overnight like I did, and don't blame me when his equipment isn't ready. I further told him that if someone else took it out of the charger that wasn't my problem, and went on to inform him, quite loudly and in language that might have made a sailor blush, where, exactly in his anatomy he could place his radio from that point onward.This little scene gathered quite a crowd of badges as you might imagine, (although none intervened given this was a verbal skirmish) and this angry officer backed off quite considerably in the face of my charged verbal onslaught.
I went down to the women's locker room in a huff to gather a couple things, then headed out with my training officer who naturally told me I needed to watch my language and cautioned me that my outburst probably did some serious damage to the reputation I didn't even have yet. I was ashamed. He told me he was glad I wouldn't let anyone walk all over me but that I really needed to be more guarded and...professional.
He was right and I knew it. Thankfully he kept it off his observation reports for that day.
But something funny happened as a result of that scene; the officer I'd been so warned about suddenly became my best friend. He would go out of his way to assist me on calls, or, if I was working on paperwork he'd offer advice on little tricks my FTO hadn't told me about. One day when we walked in to the station he loudly proclaimed that I was his "favorite rookie."
And the scary thing is, to this day I think he actually meant it. In fact, I think that the whole radio thing was a setup by my own FTO, who was hoping I'd make an enemy instead of a friend. And I think that my new friend realized it while I was going off on him, which is why he become my buddy after that. (Yeah, I know something about psychology and depravity, too.)
For some odd reason, I make the best friends through massive confrontations on first meetings.
Still, I knew I didn't belong there. The whole time I wore a badge and carried a gun, I felt like I was playing dress-up. Cops and robbers. It was a pretense, even when I actually did manage to do something right.
That's why I never went back to law enforcement; I wanted to grow up and become who I was, not make myself into what I could only pretend to be.
The Fire department was much the same, albeit without the big explosive confrontation with a co-worker. That particular year was more interior conflict than exterior, and the camaraderie was there but there came a point that I knew, once again, I was in the wrong place entirely.
The sense of relief on the day I was laid off can't even be expressed in words. It's like I'd faced a dragon and learned it was a fixed match with someone's trained pet, ending in a draw where both of us walked away with medals of honor.
Religious life was different, though.
With all my trepidation and gun-shyness from so many bad work experiences, bad discernment, etc., the communities I visited made me feel like family from the very beginning. That's not to say I was "home" but rather, it was like the sense one gets when visiting beloved relatives. When I left, I couldn't imagine not being there again, I couldn't imagine my life not knowing these Sisters.
And you know..it wasn't about the superficial ideal of "camaraderie" or a lack therof; it was simply a shared love for God. No matter how hard it was at times on those visits, I never felt like I had something to "prove" to anyone. I had only to "be."
That is why I press on. That is why I continue to pray, in spite of my obvious obstacles. There is no Easter Sunday without a Good Friday, and for now, whether I'm called to religious life or not, I have a huge burden to bear and carry up Calvary.
I've written often about being in the shadow of the Cross, and I see that as the sun sets, that shadow becomes longer and longer, and I know that it's leading into a long, dark night. Still, I walk because I know that what I choose, what I believe I am called to do, isn't going to be easy. It is not an escape from life, but rather, makes life more real, more intense...more...true.
I chuckle now at the conflicts of the past. They are nothing in comparison to what I currently confront. I see, clearly now, that all those jobs, all those conflicts, were only preparation for what is happening in this very moment.
From the Liturgy of the Hours, Series III (Midafternoon)
If the Lord does not build the house,
in vain do its builders labor;
if the Lord does not watch over the city
in vain does the watchman keep vigil.
In vain is your earlier rising,
your going later to rest,
you who toil for the bread you eat:
when he pours gifts on his beloved while they slumber.
~ from Psalm 127
Apart from God our labors are worthless
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
A Little Wisdom from St. Teresa of Avila
A couple weeks ago Paraclete Press sent me a review copy of a little daily wisdom - through the year with saint teresa of avila, compiled by Bernard Bangley.
The book begins with an introduction about St. Teresa's life and writings. Bangley included a short section on definitions of words common to St. Teresa's writings (such as "His Majesty" and "recollection"), followed by a listing of works from which he took excerpts, and finally, followed by a list of people to whom she wrote, and who they were.
As the title implies, there is a reading for each day of the year, some very short, others two to three paragraphs.
I admit that as of this writing, I have not completely read through that book; this is one that must be savored. The readings are not arranged topically, but rather, some are stories of her life, others advice on prayer, some of her own lamentations or poetry, or other spiritual lessons designed to help another soul advance in holiness.
If you are indeed looking for a daily devotional or even some spiritual reading divided into something you can read quickly, or if perhaps you simply would like an introduction to St. Teresa of Avila, this may be exactly the book for you.
Paraclete Press is also coming out with this year's lenten offerings, so go have yourself a peruse!
The book begins with an introduction about St. Teresa's life and writings. Bangley included a short section on definitions of words common to St. Teresa's writings (such as "His Majesty" and "recollection"), followed by a listing of works from which he took excerpts, and finally, followed by a list of people to whom she wrote, and who they were.
As the title implies, there is a reading for each day of the year, some very short, others two to three paragraphs.
I admit that as of this writing, I have not completely read through that book; this is one that must be savored. The readings are not arranged topically, but rather, some are stories of her life, others advice on prayer, some of her own lamentations or poetry, or other spiritual lessons designed to help another soul advance in holiness.
If you are indeed looking for a daily devotional or even some spiritual reading divided into something you can read quickly, or if perhaps you simply would like an introduction to St. Teresa of Avila, this may be exactly the book for you.
Paraclete Press is also coming out with this year's lenten offerings, so go have yourself a peruse!
Monday, February 07, 2011
Muslims
I've been pondering a great deal about the average people of Islam; their reality versus what those of us "outside" think about them.
The recent stories from Cairo, Egypt have given us some snapshot; such as all the average men and women who rallied to protect the Coptic Christians as they celebrated Christmas after the attacks by Muslim extremists. The return favor of the Christians banding together to protect the Muslims from similar attacks (from their own Muslim extremists) was beauty to behold.
I've gone on record in various places stating that I am opposed to the Mosque being built at Ground Zero, especially considering the Orthodox Church which was stymied even though it existed long prior to 9/11 and was destroyed on that day. I protest the injustice and the imprudence of the Mosque there...which is not the same thing as saying I deny Muslims the right to build a Mosque somewhere else. Somewhere more prudent and more respectful.
I don't want this post to be about that political issue however and I won't get into that topic in the combox.
Rather, I wanted to discuss my own limited connections with people who profess Islam, and where the stereotypes end and relationship begins.
Relationship
There can't be a relationship with dialogue (conversation) and without connection.
I do not personally have any Muslim friends as they simply are not near me and as I work in a Catholic Church, of course my co-workers are mostly Catholic.
When I worked in Insurance, however, I had customers from all over the globe, of every system of belief. Usually faith was not a topic of conversation, although I knew that my Somali customers were Muslim, religion did not affect their claim; our biggest problem tended to be communication and sometimes...culture.
Because I handed thefts and fires, I had some very interesting interactions. One woman's claim was that she'd had an engine fire, and she described for me what had happened. I suspected over the phone that it wasn't really a fire, but wouldn't know until I saw the car. My heart sank when she gave me the name of the shop and the address...a Somali shop.
I admit here my own fears, my own prejudices, and I admit them as a woman.
I'd "learned" years prior that "Muslim men do not respect women" and of course, I know that as a Christian woman, I am an infidel. So be it. That latter label has no real meaning in my local area. But I knew the Somalis in my area were tight, they seemed like a very closed group and I feared not only that this woman, my customer, might not get a fair shake, that there would be a double whammy because I, too, am a woman outside their Somali and therefore Islamic community.
But I went in to work and I dutifully went to the shop where the woman's car awaited my inspection. I'd called in advance in case they were very busy and also to get more specific directions. The men on the phone were kind and although a bit difficult to understand at times, were gracious. When I arrived one of the mechanics, maybe the shop owner, stepped out with me to the car, lifted the hood and told me very directly that what the woman claimed was a fire...wasn't.
He pointed out with a light and a pointer something I'd seen many times over: a hole in the engine block. Her car had thrown a rod. Indeed she'd seen flames and smoke, but only from that one point of massive mechanical failure. He looked me in the eye and told me that he knew her claim was not covered by insurance.
He also helped me to get the photos I needed for the file.
I thanked him for his help and told him I would call our mutual customer to explain things. We were both sorrowful, for the lady was in a bad spot. He told me to call him with any questions.
I walked away surprised, for my encounter with this shop, being the minority there, was far more positive than I'd expected; he was honest both with me as the representative of what universally, everyone recognizes as the "evil Insurance company" and with the woman, our customer. He wasn't taking sides; he was interested, as I was, in truth.
Accident
On another occasion, I handled a claim for my customer, who had liability only, and was not at fault in an accident where the other party, a Muslim man, I believe he was also Somali, ran a light and struck him. The other party kept asking me what I was going to do about his car. I kept explaining he was at fault and owed my customer. He didn't seem to understand at all...I believe it was simply a failure to understand the laws.
As it was, he took my client to court, so I went with him, provided him the documentation he needed and listened during the hearing. Both drivers were honest about what had happened. I knew we'd won when the hearing officer told the other man that he was in the wrong and explained the law and what it means. He nodded his understanding. A week or so later we received the judgment...in our favor.
I saw in the notes that on that day, the other party took it upon himself to contact the subrogation department to set up a payment schedule; he didn't have insurance on his own vehicle.
I sat back, shocked at his honesty; it was a trait I rarely saw...anywhere.
More Honesty
On a recovered stolen vehicle, I had another female Muslim customer, not sure where she was from, but she, too, was an immigrant. My relationship with her was a bit troubled for some days she liked me, other days I seemed to be Satan Incarnate. Again, I believe this was much a matter of her not understanding the laws, and me not doing a very good job of explaining them.
In any case, she brought her car to a shop owned by a Muslim, and I went there with the same trepidation as with the other shop; expecting to be "taken in".
Instead, he showed me where the car was, he had his mechanics lift it for me so I could see the undercarriage and the damage being claimed, and later returned to answer my questions. He told me, in all honesty, that much of what the lady was claiming was simply not related to the fact of loss. He stated outright that she was trying to claim damages that were long-term wear and tear versus something a thief would have done in 30 minutes of road driving.
I have several customers' cars go to that shop and always...he was honest. His workers, all from various places (many Mexican and Guatamalan mechanics) were also very helpful and it came to pass that if a customer's car was going there, I knew I could relax - all would be treated fairly and honestly.
Why do I bring this up?
I don't really know. Perhaps to reveal how limited information and prejudices we don't intend often may lead to misunderstandings. Maybe to reveal how simply being a professional goes a long ways towards understanding another.
Perhaps I write it to shine a light on our own inconsistency and where we get our information. To direct us to look to the integrity of the source of our knowledge.
Or perhaps I'm just writing so I can hear myself think and bore you all to tears with it as well.
We Catholics, we complain that too many people get their info about the Church from disgruntled Catholics who got mad and left, taking all their misinformation and grudges to spread around with impunity. We do indeed have a right to protest that, yet I know so many people who will accept the testimony of a disgruntled ex-Muslim or ex-Baptist or ex-Buddhist or what-have-you as the be-all and end-all of their religion. Double standard much?
I did not learn much about Islam in my professional relationship with Muslim auto body or mechanical shops, nor did I learn much about the Somali culture by getting a few recorded statements regarding vehicle mishaps. I learned about individual people and about individual businesses but what I did learn taught me to put my prejudices aside for the sake of a greater good. Because of that, I saw honesty where I expected to be distrusted and I experienced a good business relationship where I expected to have problems.
Perhaps in the end, this post, like most of my posts, doesn't really say anything at all. Maybe it's just an exhortation to integrity with regard to our fundamental questions about the beliefs of others.
It is good to ask questions, to learn about one another...and to do so in security, knowing what we believe ourselves and holding on to that while still respecting the beliefs and differences of others.
My ponderings tell me I must begin to ask questions, for I want to understand...but I also want objective truth and not the twisted thoughts of a disgruntled soul. That latter helps no one, and least of all..the soul originally affected.
If you have any thoughts, please share them below:
The recent stories from Cairo, Egypt have given us some snapshot; such as all the average men and women who rallied to protect the Coptic Christians as they celebrated Christmas after the attacks by Muslim extremists. The return favor of the Christians banding together to protect the Muslims from similar attacks (from their own Muslim extremists) was beauty to behold.
I've gone on record in various places stating that I am opposed to the Mosque being built at Ground Zero, especially considering the Orthodox Church which was stymied even though it existed long prior to 9/11 and was destroyed on that day. I protest the injustice and the imprudence of the Mosque there...which is not the same thing as saying I deny Muslims the right to build a Mosque somewhere else. Somewhere more prudent and more respectful.
I don't want this post to be about that political issue however and I won't get into that topic in the combox.
Rather, I wanted to discuss my own limited connections with people who profess Islam, and where the stereotypes end and relationship begins.
Relationship
There can't be a relationship with dialogue (conversation) and without connection.
I do not personally have any Muslim friends as they simply are not near me and as I work in a Catholic Church, of course my co-workers are mostly Catholic.
When I worked in Insurance, however, I had customers from all over the globe, of every system of belief. Usually faith was not a topic of conversation, although I knew that my Somali customers were Muslim, religion did not affect their claim; our biggest problem tended to be communication and sometimes...culture.
Because I handed thefts and fires, I had some very interesting interactions. One woman's claim was that she'd had an engine fire, and she described for me what had happened. I suspected over the phone that it wasn't really a fire, but wouldn't know until I saw the car. My heart sank when she gave me the name of the shop and the address...a Somali shop.
I admit here my own fears, my own prejudices, and I admit them as a woman.
I'd "learned" years prior that "Muslim men do not respect women" and of course, I know that as a Christian woman, I am an infidel. So be it. That latter label has no real meaning in my local area. But I knew the Somalis in my area were tight, they seemed like a very closed group and I feared not only that this woman, my customer, might not get a fair shake, that there would be a double whammy because I, too, am a woman outside their Somali and therefore Islamic community.
But I went in to work and I dutifully went to the shop where the woman's car awaited my inspection. I'd called in advance in case they were very busy and also to get more specific directions. The men on the phone were kind and although a bit difficult to understand at times, were gracious. When I arrived one of the mechanics, maybe the shop owner, stepped out with me to the car, lifted the hood and told me very directly that what the woman claimed was a fire...wasn't.
He pointed out with a light and a pointer something I'd seen many times over: a hole in the engine block. Her car had thrown a rod. Indeed she'd seen flames and smoke, but only from that one point of massive mechanical failure. He looked me in the eye and told me that he knew her claim was not covered by insurance.
He also helped me to get the photos I needed for the file.
I thanked him for his help and told him I would call our mutual customer to explain things. We were both sorrowful, for the lady was in a bad spot. He told me to call him with any questions.
I walked away surprised, for my encounter with this shop, being the minority there, was far more positive than I'd expected; he was honest both with me as the representative of what universally, everyone recognizes as the "evil Insurance company" and with the woman, our customer. He wasn't taking sides; he was interested, as I was, in truth.
Accident
On another occasion, I handled a claim for my customer, who had liability only, and was not at fault in an accident where the other party, a Muslim man, I believe he was also Somali, ran a light and struck him. The other party kept asking me what I was going to do about his car. I kept explaining he was at fault and owed my customer. He didn't seem to understand at all...I believe it was simply a failure to understand the laws.
As it was, he took my client to court, so I went with him, provided him the documentation he needed and listened during the hearing. Both drivers were honest about what had happened. I knew we'd won when the hearing officer told the other man that he was in the wrong and explained the law and what it means. He nodded his understanding. A week or so later we received the judgment...in our favor.
I saw in the notes that on that day, the other party took it upon himself to contact the subrogation department to set up a payment schedule; he didn't have insurance on his own vehicle.
I sat back, shocked at his honesty; it was a trait I rarely saw...anywhere.
More Honesty
On a recovered stolen vehicle, I had another female Muslim customer, not sure where she was from, but she, too, was an immigrant. My relationship with her was a bit troubled for some days she liked me, other days I seemed to be Satan Incarnate. Again, I believe this was much a matter of her not understanding the laws, and me not doing a very good job of explaining them.
In any case, she brought her car to a shop owned by a Muslim, and I went there with the same trepidation as with the other shop; expecting to be "taken in".
Instead, he showed me where the car was, he had his mechanics lift it for me so I could see the undercarriage and the damage being claimed, and later returned to answer my questions. He told me, in all honesty, that much of what the lady was claiming was simply not related to the fact of loss. He stated outright that she was trying to claim damages that were long-term wear and tear versus something a thief would have done in 30 minutes of road driving.
I have several customers' cars go to that shop and always...he was honest. His workers, all from various places (many Mexican and Guatamalan mechanics) were also very helpful and it came to pass that if a customer's car was going there, I knew I could relax - all would be treated fairly and honestly.
Why do I bring this up?
I don't really know. Perhaps to reveal how limited information and prejudices we don't intend often may lead to misunderstandings. Maybe to reveal how simply being a professional goes a long ways towards understanding another.
Perhaps I write it to shine a light on our own inconsistency and where we get our information. To direct us to look to the integrity of the source of our knowledge.
Or perhaps I'm just writing so I can hear myself think and bore you all to tears with it as well.
There's one big question, though: Where do we get our information?
We Catholics, we complain that too many people get their info about the Church from disgruntled Catholics who got mad and left, taking all their misinformation and grudges to spread around with impunity. We do indeed have a right to protest that, yet I know so many people who will accept the testimony of a disgruntled ex-Muslim or ex-Baptist or ex-Buddhist or what-have-you as the be-all and end-all of their religion. Double standard much?
I did not learn much about Islam in my professional relationship with Muslim auto body or mechanical shops, nor did I learn much about the Somali culture by getting a few recorded statements regarding vehicle mishaps. I learned about individual people and about individual businesses but what I did learn taught me to put my prejudices aside for the sake of a greater good. Because of that, I saw honesty where I expected to be distrusted and I experienced a good business relationship where I expected to have problems.
Perhaps in the end, this post, like most of my posts, doesn't really say anything at all. Maybe it's just an exhortation to integrity with regard to our fundamental questions about the beliefs of others.
It is good to ask questions, to learn about one another...and to do so in security, knowing what we believe ourselves and holding on to that while still respecting the beliefs and differences of others.
My ponderings tell me I must begin to ask questions, for I want to understand...but I also want objective truth and not the twisted thoughts of a disgruntled soul. That latter helps no one, and least of all..the soul originally affected.
If you have any thoughts, please share them below:
Sunday, February 06, 2011
Lamentation
The other day I went into the Church and it was abandoned. No one working, no one practicing "music", no one doing maintenance...no one there. I could have gone to the Adoration Chapel, but I wanted...needed...to be alone with Our Lord.
At first I thought of how alone He is in so many of the tabernacles throughout the world, and in those parishes that have Perpetual Adoration, the fact that so many don't realize they can be with Him as fully even when He is hidden.
I guess that is my little secret..the one Jesus and I share together.
When I really need to be alone with Him, I don't go to the Adoration chapel, but to the tabernacle in all its solitude, knowing that even though I am in that particular place, I am with Him at EVERY tabernacle.
This solitude..this solitude of Christ...and my own solitude, has made me contemplate the loneliness of Christ in His life. How his Apostles did not understand Him, and yet, He had so much patience for their absolute density. We honor the Apostles now, but let's face it, y'all...none of them were the brightest bulbs on the tree.
When it comes down to it, every dang one of the Apostles was fatally flawed, lacking in intelligence of most kinds and followed Our Lord simply because He called and they were attuned enough to Him (through no merit of their own) to recognize and respond to that Call.
Read the scriptures...read how Jesus had to enlightened these men unto His lessons, for even though they recognized His Call, they still couldn't figure out what He was saying to them. With ultimate patience, He explained so much, leaving the rest to mystery; to the Holy Spirit to fill in the rest, all so that we would grow in faith because none of us is smarter than the Apostles.
I don't know what He is asking of me.
I thought I had it figured out...at least, the earthly goal.
As it turns out, I still have no idea what He wants. I thought He was calling me to religious life (and we all know how long it took me to actually ACCEPT that idea) but ever since I've made that "decision", my mountain of debt has continued to grow, I am no closer to entrance than I ever was, and a Sister of one of the communities I once considered has told me she now believes I don't have a Vocation to religious life at all.
She may be right. I think she probably is correct.
Tonight Mom called and told me the rest of the Family (believe me, I'm from the equivalent of the 12 Tribes of Israel, aka the bona fide Holy Catholic Mob) is asking her when I'm going to "go into the Convent."
She keeps telling them I'll go when I pay my debt. They ask how much. She tells them she doesn't know. Before tonight I wouldn't tell her because, well...she can't keep her mouth shut when it comes to her brothers and sisters.
But tonight, I told her the stakes and the fact that in 20 days, my grad loan company will be reporting to the Credit Bureau. Because I can't pay.
I told her how much I owe in student loans alone. I only alluded to the credit cards that have been used over the last 3 years of Church employment - books for grad school, repairs on the car (like the partial rebuild on the engine), bills not covered by my employment over the last 3 summers (I didn't mention Christmas and Birthday gifts, all modest things, but all unaffordable through my paycheck.)
Yeah...it's life.
My situation sucks, and I'm to the point where I'm willing to give up on religious life; so far I've given up on everything other than survival.
I can't any more look to the future; all I have is the present, and almost every night I wake up in a near-panic, wondering how I'm going to handle all of this overwhelming debt. Never mind the repairs on the house, the stuff that is breaking down, the stuff I simply don't have the funds to fix and which will cost the next homeowner thousands to repair.
There is nowhere to go. There is no one who can help, for there is no purpose for helping. I won't even pretend that any help is to advance me to religious life; to say so would be disingenuous.
Jesus, in His solitude in the Garden, prayed to the Father that this cup would pass from him, and in His prayer, he surrendered his Holy Will to that of the Father, unified, that "Thy Will be done." And so it was.
Sometimes I simply feel crushed by the burden of my life, all the unanswered questions, listening to the ticking hands of the clock, certain I am wasting my life. Wasting it because I cannot move on. Frustrated by others who keep telling me if I really wanted to go, I would just go. Frustrated because those who say such things have never carried the burdens I carry now and from which I cannot simply flee.
Our Lord does not want us to flee our responsibilities.
I don't know what He is asking of me, although it is clear He demands I pass, in apparent solitude, through this cross.
Perhaps that religious Sister is right; perhaps Our Lord does not really want me as His Bride. I know He has not and will not call me to Marriage. And so...I am left in this terrible solitude...a solitude I never wanted, yet here it is.
Thy Will be done.
Look to the clock on the wall
Hands hardly moving at all
I can't stand the state that I'm in
Sometimes it feels like the wall's closing in
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Try and burn my troubles away
Drown my sorrow the same way
It seems no matter how hard I try
It feels like there's something just missing inside
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Oh Lord what can I say
How many rules can I break
How many lies can I make
How many roads must I turn
To find me a place where the bridge hasn't burned
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Oh Lord what can I say
~ Brandi Carlile
At first I thought of how alone He is in so many of the tabernacles throughout the world, and in those parishes that have Perpetual Adoration, the fact that so many don't realize they can be with Him as fully even when He is hidden.
I guess that is my little secret..the one Jesus and I share together.
When I really need to be alone with Him, I don't go to the Adoration chapel, but to the tabernacle in all its solitude, knowing that even though I am in that particular place, I am with Him at EVERY tabernacle.
This solitude..this solitude of Christ...and my own solitude, has made me contemplate the loneliness of Christ in His life. How his Apostles did not understand Him, and yet, He had so much patience for their absolute density. We honor the Apostles now, but let's face it, y'all...none of them were the brightest bulbs on the tree.
When it comes down to it, every dang one of the Apostles was fatally flawed, lacking in intelligence of most kinds and followed Our Lord simply because He called and they were attuned enough to Him (through no merit of their own) to recognize and respond to that Call.
Read the scriptures...read how Jesus had to enlightened these men unto His lessons, for even though they recognized His Call, they still couldn't figure out what He was saying to them. With ultimate patience, He explained so much, leaving the rest to mystery; to the Holy Spirit to fill in the rest, all so that we would grow in faith because none of us is smarter than the Apostles.
I'm no different.
I don't know what He is asking of me.
I thought I had it figured out...at least, the earthly goal.
As it turns out, I still have no idea what He wants. I thought He was calling me to religious life (and we all know how long it took me to actually ACCEPT that idea) but ever since I've made that "decision", my mountain of debt has continued to grow, I am no closer to entrance than I ever was, and a Sister of one of the communities I once considered has told me she now believes I don't have a Vocation to religious life at all.
She may be right. I think she probably is correct.
Tonight Mom called and told me the rest of the Family (believe me, I'm from the equivalent of the 12 Tribes of Israel, aka the bona fide Holy Catholic Mob) is asking her when I'm going to "go into the Convent."
She keeps telling them I'll go when I pay my debt. They ask how much. She tells them she doesn't know. Before tonight I wouldn't tell her because, well...she can't keep her mouth shut when it comes to her brothers and sisters.
But tonight, I told her the stakes and the fact that in 20 days, my grad loan company will be reporting to the Credit Bureau. Because I can't pay.
I told her how much I owe in student loans alone. I only alluded to the credit cards that have been used over the last 3 years of Church employment - books for grad school, repairs on the car (like the partial rebuild on the engine), bills not covered by my employment over the last 3 summers (I didn't mention Christmas and Birthday gifts, all modest things, but all unaffordable through my paycheck.)
Yeah...it's life.
My situation sucks, and I'm to the point where I'm willing to give up on religious life; so far I've given up on everything other than survival.
I can't any more look to the future; all I have is the present, and almost every night I wake up in a near-panic, wondering how I'm going to handle all of this overwhelming debt. Never mind the repairs on the house, the stuff that is breaking down, the stuff I simply don't have the funds to fix and which will cost the next homeowner thousands to repair.
There is nowhere to go. There is no one who can help, for there is no purpose for helping. I won't even pretend that any help is to advance me to religious life; to say so would be disingenuous.
If This Cup Would Pass From Me...
Jesus, in His solitude in the Garden, prayed to the Father that this cup would pass from him, and in His prayer, he surrendered his Holy Will to that of the Father, unified, that "Thy Will be done." And so it was.
Sometimes I simply feel crushed by the burden of my life, all the unanswered questions, listening to the ticking hands of the clock, certain I am wasting my life. Wasting it because I cannot move on. Frustrated by others who keep telling me if I really wanted to go, I would just go. Frustrated because those who say such things have never carried the burdens I carry now and from which I cannot simply flee.
Our Lord does not want us to flee our responsibilities.
I don't know what He is asking of me, although it is clear He demands I pass, in apparent solitude, through this cross.
Perhaps that religious Sister is right; perhaps Our Lord does not really want me as His Bride. I know He has not and will not call me to Marriage. And so...I am left in this terrible solitude...a solitude I never wanted, yet here it is.
Thy Will be done.
Look to the clock on the wall
Hands hardly moving at all
I can't stand the state that I'm in
Sometimes it feels like the wall's closing in
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Try and burn my troubles away
Drown my sorrow the same way
It seems no matter how hard I try
It feels like there's something just missing inside
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Oh Lord what can I say
How many rules can I break
How many lies can I make
How many roads must I turn
To find me a place where the bridge hasn't burned
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Oh Lord what can I say
I'm so sad since you went away
Time time tickin' on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord what can I say
Oh Lord what can I say
~ Brandi Carlile
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Death on a Stick
A couple weeks ago, Ironic Catholic recollected her novice days in Minnesota, wherein she pondered our seeming obsession with the weather. As she was to learn, "Weather kills you in this state!"
In college, I was on the Nordic Ski team, and our differing class schedules combined with the individual nature of our sport meant that we all tended to practice when we had time as opposed to a more regulated schedule as demanded by team sports.
So it was that when the temps dipped after a storm, I was all excited to hit the bluffs for a good training session. I was even MORE excited when our University cancelled classes, citing the danger of the -75 windchill, can't recall the actual temps but they might have been about -50.
Taking my opportunity, I bundled up in a layer or two more than usual and went to the College Center to get the key to the ski room. Looking at me oddly, the freshman work-study student handed me the key and as soon as I had my stuff, I headed out to the groomed trails, recognizing immediately that they didn't make a wax for these temps; the snow was stickier than styrofoam and much....grippier!
Doggedly I continued, though, until, maybe a half mile or so further, I couldn't feel my fingers.Unfortunately I couldn't turn around yet. I was already deep in the bluffs when I finally recognized I was really in trouble.
My entire body had begun to go numb. I kid you not. The headwall was before me, but....could I even make it that far, or would the wind from my descent cause me to freeze in place even half-way down?
I'd never been so relieved to see a turnaround, and realized it had been built for idiots such as me, so I used it without another thought, pulling my mask further up, wishing I'd taken my team-mates' advise to invest in goggles for days like this.
There wasn't another soul out there that day, and even the ubiquitous deer were smart enough to huddle in some shelter...leaving me to realize my utter solitude and very real likelihood of death should I falter at all.
I was truly frightened that day, certain I would freeze to death, shocked at how easy it would be.
In 6th grade as part of a Great Books program, I'd read "To Build a Fire" and wondered when I'd start to feel warm...and knew that if that happened, it was finished. I couldn't start a fire...I had all kinds of wood but no spark and no shelter and no kindling.
As I skied back home, out of the bluffs, I knew I had one choice only: to get back..
I knew I was a total idiot for setting out in the first place!
The warm light of the College Center was a mirage; I didn't believe it was really there until I'd descended to store my equipment and then turn in the key. I'm quite certain I was very blue or purple by the time I handed that thing over...the girl at the desk stared at me in horror, paused, asked me if I was all right, and let me go on my frigid way.
It took me the rest of the day to warm up.
I never told my coach I went out that day..I'm quite certain he'd have had a lot to say to me about that, but my lesson was learned just the same.
Yeah, we in the cold climates learn to live with it and play in it, and we find all sorts of sticks to play with in the snow...but ultimately, if we forget that this stuff will kill us, then we've lost the game entirely.
As I nearly did that day.
Take this post as a warning, ya'all. No matter how tough you are, the weather will one-up you every time.
In college, I was on the Nordic Ski team, and our differing class schedules combined with the individual nature of our sport meant that we all tended to practice when we had time as opposed to a more regulated schedule as demanded by team sports.
So it was that when the temps dipped after a storm, I was all excited to hit the bluffs for a good training session. I was even MORE excited when our University cancelled classes, citing the danger of the -75 windchill, can't recall the actual temps but they might have been about -50.
In any case, those actual ambient temps were probably the lowest I'd ever known, and I grew up in these frigid states...and wasn't about to be waylaid by mere cryogenics!
Taking my opportunity, I bundled up in a layer or two more than usual and went to the College Center to get the key to the ski room. Looking at me oddly, the freshman work-study student handed me the key and as soon as I had my stuff, I headed out to the groomed trails, recognizing immediately that they didn't make a wax for these temps; the snow was stickier than styrofoam and much....grippier!
Doggedly I continued, though, until, maybe a half mile or so further, I couldn't feel my fingers.Unfortunately I couldn't turn around yet. I was already deep in the bluffs when I finally recognized I was really in trouble.
My entire body had begun to go numb. I kid you not. The headwall was before me, but....could I even make it that far, or would the wind from my descent cause me to freeze in place even half-way down?
I'd never been so relieved to see a turnaround, and realized it had been built for idiots such as me, so I used it without another thought, pulling my mask further up, wishing I'd taken my team-mates' advise to invest in goggles for days like this.
There wasn't another soul out there that day, and even the ubiquitous deer were smart enough to huddle in some shelter...leaving me to realize my utter solitude and very real likelihood of death should I falter at all.
I was truly frightened that day, certain I would freeze to death, shocked at how easy it would be.
In 6th grade as part of a Great Books program, I'd read "To Build a Fire" and wondered when I'd start to feel warm...and knew that if that happened, it was finished. I couldn't start a fire...I had all kinds of wood but no spark and no shelter and no kindling.
As I skied back home, out of the bluffs, I knew I had one choice only: to get back..
I knew I was a total idiot for setting out in the first place!
The warm light of the College Center was a mirage; I didn't believe it was really there until I'd descended to store my equipment and then turn in the key. I'm quite certain I was very blue or purple by the time I handed that thing over...the girl at the desk stared at me in horror, paused, asked me if I was all right, and let me go on my frigid way.
It took me the rest of the day to warm up.
I never told my coach I went out that day..I'm quite certain he'd have had a lot to say to me about that, but my lesson was learned just the same.
Yeah, we in the cold climates learn to live with it and play in it, and we find all sorts of sticks to play with in the snow...but ultimately, if we forget that this stuff will kill us, then we've lost the game entirely.
As I nearly did that day.
Take this post as a warning, ya'all. No matter how tough you are, the weather will one-up you every time.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Truth and Beauty
I would be remiss if I did not direct you to one of the most truthful posts about beauty you could ever read in the modern blogosphere:
Read this short treatise on Beauty and Truth from the beginning, for it is only 2-3 short paragraphs longer than that which I have written here. And I omitted some of it to ensure that if I quiz you, you'll be able to identify it.
Read it and nod, and then...and then.....
PRAY
Beauty makes the soul soar and it's as essential to the spirit as food and water is to the body. Yet it's mocked as sentimentality. Foolishness. It's wiped out of churches and removed from school curriculums. Even art school's favor is with modern art and beauty is turned into profanity.
On any given day I am not overly exposed to beauty. I sit in traffic each morning staring at grey asphalt, then I ride through treeless streets lined with ugly buildings and spend the remainder of my day in a cube. I imagine most people go through these typical mundanities daily and my day is not unlike the majority.
It used to be churches were where regular people could experience that overwhelming awe inspiring spiritual soaring. Churches used to make the soul sing for God. Beauty in the Church is essential. I don't want God brought down from the Heavens and made "relatable" to me. I want to carried up to Christ so I can meet Him there and be in awe surrounded by beauty.
People often justify their ugly little parishes by saying they don't believe in wasting money for garnishments, money that could serve the poor. Little do they realize that their bleak and barren churches are spiritually depriving the poor, starving their very souls. Denying them the one place where their senses should be swimming in beauty, the refuge from the ugly harsh world. The Church.
Beauty picks up where words leave off. It breaks my hurt every time I step into a white washed church devoid of beauty and love. I am reminded of an interaction between two small children I met in a library several years ago. They hungered for beauty like a baby hungers for milk. This is our instinct. God intended us to enjoy beauty, that is why He gave us the ability to create. To deny beauty is to deny God.
Read it and nod, and then...and then.....
PRAY
Midnight - Part II
I'd awake to the sound of our little dog barking her greeting, quickly hushed as she went about the business of greeting the Master of the house, but none could stifle her excited whines or the musical chime of the tags jangling on her collar.
The door would close and if I listened hard, I could hear him take off his coat and hang it up, in my mind's eye envisioning the fog of condensed air arising from him as he came in, if it was especially frigid outdoors.
Snug and warm in my bed, I'd watch the play of shadows on my wall, listening, waiting for the right time. Sometimes I'd hear my brother emerge from his room; maybe he'd be a "barometer" to predict the weather, for if he was rebuked I'd remain where I was, but if he was welcomed I'd listen further to discern whether this was his night or mine, our ours together.
Usually there would be hushed conversation as Mom greeted Dad, and the clump of his shoes on the entryway floor. There would be noises in the kitchen and finally I'd hear Mom head to bed, finally content that Dad was safe at home.
If my brother hadn't already made his entrance, I'd wait to hear Mom's shadow enter my room, for it was never there without her slippered feet. I could hear her walk through our long, rambling livingroom only to stop at my door to look in, and then, with her silhouette blocking the lamplight, I would query sleepily (sometimes feigned) "What time is it?"
She'd answer in a hushed tone, "Midnight", and move away, into their bedroom. I'd watch the light come on in the closet between us, comforted by that crack of illumination, still listening to the sounds of Dad in the kitchen, wondering if I could go, wondering if sleep would overtake me once again, or whether I would this time fall prey to the monster in my closet or the ghost under the bed.
I remember most clearly, though, entering the brightness of the kitchen to greet my Daddy, and ask to join him in his evening snack. Sometimes it would be cheese and crackers, which is something my brother acutely recalls, but my most vivid memory is my introduction to sardines.
Dad told me at first that I wouldn't like them, but I was curious, and he said that it was good that I wanted to try. He told me how to eat them on the crackers, and said that if I didn't like mine, it would not go to waste for he would eat what I left.
Carefully Dad lifted a sardine from the little tin-sealed pack, which had carefully been peeled with a little "key". He placed the oily, dripping piece of fish on a cracker and told me to take a bite, holding a napkin under my chin so that I would not have to change my clothes before bed.
I recall clenching my eyes shut against the fishy odor, certain I would not like it, for although I loved fishing with my Daddy, I did not love the flavor (or terrible smell!) of the creatures.So it was that I expected to be disgusted.
In great surprise, however, I rather enjoyed the crunchy, salty flavor of sardines, and in delight that exceeded my own, Dad loaded up another saltine, thrilled to share his Midnight snack
Our little Midnight meetings became a bit of a ritual over time, and Dad delighted in spending some of his late evenings with me, splitting them with my brother who would sometimes join us.
Dad would help me wash up then send me off with a kiss, sometimes tuck me back into bed..and other times Mom would get up and drag me away, insisting that I must sleep no matter how exited I was for Dad to be home with a new can of sardines to share with me.
In Church, whenever we heard about Jesus eating fish with the Apostles, I thought about the sardines Dad and I shared. Even now, as an adult, when I consider the passage in Luke's gospel where the Risen Lord consumes the fish in their presence, I imagine sardines and recall a similar midnight snack, and even though Dad is now long gone, I like to imagine him sitting on the beach with Jesus, sharing sardines on saltine crackers.
It's midnight as I finish this, and although I recently bought sardines in a fit of nostalgia, somehow they just aren't the same without someone else with whom to share them properly.
Good night, Dad.
The door would close and if I listened hard, I could hear him take off his coat and hang it up, in my mind's eye envisioning the fog of condensed air arising from him as he came in, if it was especially frigid outdoors.
Snug and warm in my bed, I'd watch the play of shadows on my wall, listening, waiting for the right time. Sometimes I'd hear my brother emerge from his room; maybe he'd be a "barometer" to predict the weather, for if he was rebuked I'd remain where I was, but if he was welcomed I'd listen further to discern whether this was his night or mine, our ours together.
Usually there would be hushed conversation as Mom greeted Dad, and the clump of his shoes on the entryway floor. There would be noises in the kitchen and finally I'd hear Mom head to bed, finally content that Dad was safe at home.
If my brother hadn't already made his entrance, I'd wait to hear Mom's shadow enter my room, for it was never there without her slippered feet. I could hear her walk through our long, rambling livingroom only to stop at my door to look in, and then, with her silhouette blocking the lamplight, I would query sleepily (sometimes feigned) "What time is it?"
She'd answer in a hushed tone, "Midnight", and move away, into their bedroom. I'd watch the light come on in the closet between us, comforted by that crack of illumination, still listening to the sounds of Dad in the kitchen, wondering if I could go, wondering if sleep would overtake me once again, or whether I would this time fall prey to the monster in my closet or the ghost under the bed.
I remember most clearly, though, entering the brightness of the kitchen to greet my Daddy, and ask to join him in his evening snack. Sometimes it would be cheese and crackers, which is something my brother acutely recalls, but my most vivid memory is my introduction to sardines.
Dad told me at first that I wouldn't like them, but I was curious, and he said that it was good that I wanted to try. He told me how to eat them on the crackers, and said that if I didn't like mine, it would not go to waste for he would eat what I left.
Carefully Dad lifted a sardine from the little tin-sealed pack, which had carefully been peeled with a little "key". He placed the oily, dripping piece of fish on a cracker and told me to take a bite, holding a napkin under my chin so that I would not have to change my clothes before bed.
I recall clenching my eyes shut against the fishy odor, certain I would not like it, for although I loved fishing with my Daddy, I did not love the flavor (or terrible smell!) of the creatures.So it was that I expected to be disgusted.
In great surprise, however, I rather enjoyed the crunchy, salty flavor of sardines, and in delight that exceeded my own, Dad loaded up another saltine, thrilled to share his Midnight snack
Our little Midnight meetings became a bit of a ritual over time, and Dad delighted in spending some of his late evenings with me, splitting them with my brother who would sometimes join us.
Dad would help me wash up then send me off with a kiss, sometimes tuck me back into bed..and other times Mom would get up and drag me away, insisting that I must sleep no matter how exited I was for Dad to be home with a new can of sardines to share with me.
In Church, whenever we heard about Jesus eating fish with the Apostles, I thought about the sardines Dad and I shared. Even now, as an adult, when I consider the passage in Luke's gospel where the Risen Lord consumes the fish in their presence, I imagine sardines and recall a similar midnight snack, and even though Dad is now long gone, I like to imagine him sitting on the beach with Jesus, sharing sardines on saltine crackers.
It's midnight as I finish this, and although I recently bought sardines in a fit of nostalgia, somehow they just aren't the same without someone else with whom to share them properly.
Good night, Dad.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Engaging the World
Yesterday was the Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, my blog patron, so I had initially intended to write this post in his honor.
A few weeks ago I was doing an internet search for a project at work, and came across a book written by one of my college professors, Dr. Benjamin Wiker. The book in question, 10 Books that Screwed Up the World: and 5 Others that Didn't Help, which takes on the work of Nietzsche, Marx, Hitler and others, invited me by the title alone to click on the link to Amazon.com. My curiosity piqued by the numerous reviews, both good and bad, I decided to read a few to see what they contained and why this book seemed to be getting such extreme reactions (from many 5-stars to many 1-stars).
The positive reviews engaged the work itself and the research, contained some constructive criticism, some criticism that revealed the person in question had perhaps missed the point of the book but enjoyed it nevertheless, encouraged others to read it, etc. Some reviews were more detailed than others. Some were written by other professors, others by people just like you and I, mere pewsitters seeking to engage our intellects.
The negative reviews were often a mishmash of ad hominim attacks, strawmen, slinging labels around, casting aspersions upon Catholics specifically, Christians and Christianity in general. A few blustery people identifying themselves as professors ranted that Dr. Wiker's book is what is going wrong in academia today, and very few of the negative reviews were objective, taking on only the work and not getting personal. In other words, very very few of the negative reviews (of those I read) actually had any merit whatsoever.
As a disclaimer, I have not read Dr. Wiker's book so this post is not about its merits or disqualifications. Rather, I'm using this as an example of something I see in the Catholic world, to encompass the entire Christian worldview, as being a factor in why so many people seem to be making an exodus from Christianity, and I'm doing this because one negative review in particular stood out as something diametrically opposed to what we as Catholics have always done and need to do...but aren't doing.
Is your interest piqued yet?
One of the commenters on the negative side identified himself as a Christian (I think he called himself specifically an "Evangelical Christian" but I'm not certain) and said he read the book, thought it a waste of time and quite arrogant to take on such great minds. The gist of his opinion was that if one does not like those philosophers, one should not study them and leave them instead to others who agree with them. He did not see any value in taking a critical look at their thoughts and his review outright told people not to buy the book, but instead save their money and put it in the collection basket at Sunday services.
Wow.
That one left me scratching my head. A Christian saying it is arrogance to be critical of the thoughts and writings of those who have had a huge impact on the world we live in today? A Christian stating it is a waste of intellect? Really?
Truly, that attitude was condemned long ago, for it was Tertulllian who decided that since philosophy was not divine revelation, it was useless. Instead of using philosophy at the service of theology, he threw it all out.
The Catholic Church has ALWAYS engaged the world, from the very beginning. She has used the philosophy of Aristotle and Plato, has engaged philosophers both ancient and those emerging, throughout history, using what is good, refuting objectively what is contrary to natural law and Divine Revelation.
To state that we should not engage "great minds" is in fact one of the most anti-intellectual things I have ever read, and yet...it does not surprise me that a Christian would state it. I am grateful that it was not a Catholic who said such a thing, although it would not surprise me. As it is I know very few average Catholics who would even glance at such a book, much less ask why it is important or not important.
The commenter I cited above still gets some credit; he did, after all, read the book, and then simply gave his opinion based upon his own philosophy without wasting words. Fair enough. I'll not be taking his advice, however!
Anti-Intellectualism in the Church
There seems to be an epidemic of this in some circles, although it takes different forms.
There are those who refuse to watch any television at all, for they disagree with the content, ergo it is all bad, every bit. There are those who refuse to go to movies because Hollywood produces so many immoral works, ergo, anything on the big screen is morally damaging.
There are books that contain bad theology, philosophy, or bring up moral issues in a way that is contrary to Catholic teaching...ergo they must be avoided at all cost and nothing like them ever allowed into the house.
Yes, I am giving some extreme examples, and I certainly am not trying to imply that those making certain personal decisions about these things is necessarily anti-intellectual. Rather, I am simply trying to give some common examples to illustrate my point - I leave it to you, the reader, to determine what fits.
I am going to give one specific example from my own position, and it's one that may shock some or many of you.
Over Thanksgiving, my brother introduced me to a Shotime production, Dexter.
For those who are not familiar with it, Dexter is a forensic technician; a blood-splatter specialist working in the Miami PD. He also happens to be a serial killer who takes out other serial killers and notorious criminals. In the show, we hear his thoughts, his interior struggles, the psychology of his condition, his attempts at normal relationships with others, etc.
I'll admit it; I was hooked!
Looking at the show through a theologian's eyes, I'm intrigued by the moral dilemma that makes us, the viewers, root for Dexter to get away with his objectively evil crimes. I'm intrigued by the other characters in the show facing their own moral problems, which seem to be exacerbated by a total lack of religion at all. It is almost a completely secular show, with only random insertions of Catholicism or other religions by way of symbols or celebrations that reveal the background of a character. Still, religion and spirituality do not play a part other than to set a particular scene - it is merely wallpaper having no bearing on the lives of the characters we see.
Now...I'll watch the show, and as an adult with a certain moral formation and professional background, looking at it through a particular filter, I see Dexter as an opportunity to engage the world and the culture, as I'm doing now by discussing it here in a place seemingly as unlikely as a Catholic blog. Yet, this is the PERFECT place for it is exactly what the great Catholic intellectuals would have done.
DISCLAIMER! I would not, if I had children, allow them to see it, and I would never suggest that a sensitive person see it, someone who can't handle violence or is not prepared to handle the strong moral dichotomies presented. Therefore, dear readers, do understand I am not giving this show a blanket promotion, but rather, using it to illustrate the fact that we must engage the world if we are to convert it.
What do I mean? Why am I even TALKING about this?
I mean that we must be familiar with those things that are popular, and be prepared to discuss those things. Doing so is not necessarily apologetics, but simply an acknowledgement that there's a LOT of stuff out there that IS affecting people and their moral formation, both positive and negative. We cannot just stick our heads in the sand and pretend it isn't there, then send our children out to be traumatized. Parents are in a delicate place, trying to protect their young, yet needing to prepare them for what will bombard them when they leave their homes.
Those of us who can, should be taking note of what's going on around us, and using the intellect that we have to engage it, to think critically about it, to see what is good, what can be used as an illustration, what can be used an an example of moral degeneration.
All too often, shows such as Dexter reveal a great deal about our society as a whole, giving a snapshot, for example, of the truth that where religion is merely wallpaper, virtue cannot flourish.
It can't stop there, though; what does that tell us? How does recognizing that point drive us to action on behalf of the Kingdom of God? What does that cause us to realize about the moral condition of people everywhere, in a country where more and more faith is a mere decoration? What does that say about where we are headed, and what, as Catholics, can we do about it?
I'm no expert
However, if you want a great example of someone engaging the world on the world's terms, check out Fr. Barron's Word on Fire. He has several video commentaries addressing popular movies, shows, etc., and I admit that his way of doing this is what has inspired me to lose my own fear of confronting, head-on, things that I know up front are contrary to my own beliefs.
We can't run away from the problems in our society or what causes them, but we can confront them, criticize them, take what is good and in the light of the intellect God gave us, reveal the shadows that seek to destroy our souls.
Now, all that said...
I need to go find a copy of Dr. Wiker's book, 10 Books that Screwed Up the World: and 5 Others that Didn't Help because all the snarky, anti-intellectual, and outright nasty reviews tell me that a certain faction wants this book quashed, and the ethicist who wrote it quashed as well. Given the state of our world today, that means I should be reading this book so that I can better engage the bad philosophies that have done so much damage. ;-)
St. Thomas Aquinas - pray for us!
Friday, January 28, 2011
Midnight
In those long car rides, I remember watching the landscape pass by in a blur, the hours moving slowly, yet I always had a sense of excited anticipation to penetrate through the boredome. I was always ready to “go” somewhere, to reach our destination.
The semis would rock the car sometimes when they passed, and if it was raining the water would spray up on the windows. Whoever was driving (usually Dad) would turn the wipers to “high” so he could see. My brother would look to see what kind of truck it was and what it was carrying. Mom would tell stories of helpful truckers and speak of road "manners" around those huge metal beheamoths.
The sound of tires on the pavement at 55 mph sometimes created a rhythmic cycle, sedating us with the gentle motion and song of the highway lullabye. We’d pass through exotic places, watching exotic signs, rivers, towns. The light would fade from the sky as we passed by Green Bay (which really wasn’t very green from what we could tell), and slowly those wide-open industrial areas would close in with trees, we’d begin to get glimpses of Lake Michigan and get excited thinking we were “almost there.”
But we forgot that Lake Michigan was much bigger than we could fully understand, and eventually we’d fall prey to the tranquilizing darkness and highway lullabye. In the half-sleep I remember hearing the whine of the transmission when Dad pulled off for gas or a “pit stop”. I recall the slamming car doors, opening and closing, Mom and Dad taking turns so one would always be with us as we slept. Sometimes they would wake us to eat something and then we’d return to our slumber, too bored and tired to stay awake, the darkened landscape no longer able to keep our attention – shadows aren’t very interesting to look at when they pass by so quickly.
I’d hear the fascinating familiar-yet-not-familiar names of towns as Mom and Dad discussed routes or remembered past trips together. The musical names like “Menominee” could almost be felt in my mouth, turning over, taking form, only to be replaced with the kid-friendly “Oshkosh (by gosh!)”, leading me to ponder, deeply in my semi-conscious state, the tag on some of the clothing Mom had packed for me. I wondered if we’d ever turn into Oshkosh (by gosh!), and if we did, would everyone be wearing the same thing?
We passed by exits for “Oconto” and “Oconto Falls”, while arrows on big green signs directed us toward “Marinette” (which always sounded like a place for puppets), but first, first…we had to go through “Peshtigo”, and like “Menominee”, I loved the feel of those words in my mouth, so different, so interesting, and in the case of Peshtigo…so historical.
I always wanted to be awake as we went through Peshtigo, as Dad always told us about the great Peshtigo fire, and promised that if we could, we’d stop at the Fire Museum there on the way home. It was one of those big events that, except for Wisconsin and Michigan locals, had nearly passed into oblivion as it occurred on the same day of the Great Chicago Fire…even though the one in Peshtigo had done far more damage and had taken far more lives.
I couldn’t always stay awake, although I recall waking in the darkness of one trip and asking sleepily where we were.
“Peshtigo”, Dad said. I tried to wake up to look around, but the sleepiness and the rhythm of our travel, the whine of the accelerating transmission, the turning of the car from this corner to that, the glow of the streetlights…all were too much and sent me back into my dreams, all aglitter with the backdrop of Peshtigo and the surrounding forest lands and the great expanse of water, water everywhere on the other side.
Finally, we’d arrive at our destination, and my haze of sleep would be penetrated by the changing movement of the car. Mom and Dad would be speaking softly to each other, and slowly, as we entered Escanaba, (where I’d once asked if Eskimos lived), the rhythm from the tires would combine with the emerging rhythm of street lamps, taking us from light into darkness back into light. I didn’t lift my head, too tired to do so, but I knew we must be close as the car was slowing now, taking more turns, Mom’s and Dad’s voices were growing a little louder now, speaking more urgently as pilots must, I suppose, as they approach their landing.
Mom would turn and try to get brother and me to awake.
“What time is it?” I would ask, rubbing my eyes.
“Midnight”, Dad said, turning into Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway.
He’d pull past the steps that led into the house, leaving room for the car to be unpacked. They had already decided whether to perhaps unpack fully that night or tomorrow, so when they got out of the car to greet Dad’s waiting parents, Mom could get my brother and I from our comfortable temporary cocoons and bring us into the shockingly bright light but comfortably warm kitchen with all the decorative Swedish tiles and the slight scent of gingerbread and potroast.
We’d be whisked upstairs, Grandma leading the way to our assigned rooms, leaving Mom and Dad to help us get changed and back to sleep. They’d finish unpacking the car while we went back to dreamland, resting on crisp clean feather pillows in the same place where Dad grew up.
Midnight.
The semis would rock the car sometimes when they passed, and if it was raining the water would spray up on the windows. Whoever was driving (usually Dad) would turn the wipers to “high” so he could see. My brother would look to see what kind of truck it was and what it was carrying. Mom would tell stories of helpful truckers and speak of road "manners" around those huge metal beheamoths.
The sound of tires on the pavement at 55 mph sometimes created a rhythmic cycle, sedating us with the gentle motion and song of the highway lullabye. We’d pass through exotic places, watching exotic signs, rivers, towns. The light would fade from the sky as we passed by Green Bay (which really wasn’t very green from what we could tell), and slowly those wide-open industrial areas would close in with trees, we’d begin to get glimpses of Lake Michigan and get excited thinking we were “almost there.”
But we forgot that Lake Michigan was much bigger than we could fully understand, and eventually we’d fall prey to the tranquilizing darkness and highway lullabye. In the half-sleep I remember hearing the whine of the transmission when Dad pulled off for gas or a “pit stop”. I recall the slamming car doors, opening and closing, Mom and Dad taking turns so one would always be with us as we slept. Sometimes they would wake us to eat something and then we’d return to our slumber, too bored and tired to stay awake, the darkened landscape no longer able to keep our attention – shadows aren’t very interesting to look at when they pass by so quickly.
I’d hear the fascinating familiar-yet-not-familiar names of towns as Mom and Dad discussed routes or remembered past trips together. The musical names like “Menominee” could almost be felt in my mouth, turning over, taking form, only to be replaced with the kid-friendly “Oshkosh (by gosh!)”, leading me to ponder, deeply in my semi-conscious state, the tag on some of the clothing Mom had packed for me. I wondered if we’d ever turn into Oshkosh (by gosh!), and if we did, would everyone be wearing the same thing?
We passed by exits for “Oconto” and “Oconto Falls”, while arrows on big green signs directed us toward “Marinette” (which always sounded like a place for puppets), but first, first…we had to go through “Peshtigo”, and like “Menominee”, I loved the feel of those words in my mouth, so different, so interesting, and in the case of Peshtigo…so historical.
I always wanted to be awake as we went through Peshtigo, as Dad always told us about the great Peshtigo fire, and promised that if we could, we’d stop at the Fire Museum there on the way home. It was one of those big events that, except for Wisconsin and Michigan locals, had nearly passed into oblivion as it occurred on the same day of the Great Chicago Fire…even though the one in Peshtigo had done far more damage and had taken far more lives.
I couldn’t always stay awake, although I recall waking in the darkness of one trip and asking sleepily where we were.
“Peshtigo”, Dad said. I tried to wake up to look around, but the sleepiness and the rhythm of our travel, the whine of the accelerating transmission, the turning of the car from this corner to that, the glow of the streetlights…all were too much and sent me back into my dreams, all aglitter with the backdrop of Peshtigo and the surrounding forest lands and the great expanse of water, water everywhere on the other side.
Finally, we’d arrive at our destination, and my haze of sleep would be penetrated by the changing movement of the car. Mom and Dad would be speaking softly to each other, and slowly, as we entered Escanaba, (where I’d once asked if Eskimos lived), the rhythm from the tires would combine with the emerging rhythm of street lamps, taking us from light into darkness back into light. I didn’t lift my head, too tired to do so, but I knew we must be close as the car was slowing now, taking more turns, Mom’s and Dad’s voices were growing a little louder now, speaking more urgently as pilots must, I suppose, as they approach their landing.
Mom would turn and try to get brother and me to awake.
“What time is it?” I would ask, rubbing my eyes.
“Midnight”, Dad said, turning into Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway.
He’d pull past the steps that led into the house, leaving room for the car to be unpacked. They had already decided whether to perhaps unpack fully that night or tomorrow, so when they got out of the car to greet Dad’s waiting parents, Mom could get my brother and I from our comfortable temporary cocoons and bring us into the shockingly bright light but comfortably warm kitchen with all the decorative Swedish tiles and the slight scent of gingerbread and potroast.
We’d be whisked upstairs, Grandma leading the way to our assigned rooms, leaving Mom and Dad to help us get changed and back to sleep. They’d finish unpacking the car while we went back to dreamland, resting on crisp clean feather pillows in the same place where Dad grew up.
Midnight.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Salt of the Earth
Last weekend our Townhome Association hired a roofing company to come out and clean the several feet of snow and ice dams off of our roofs. The pressure from the snow and ice was wreaking havoc on our very building construction, although I didn't know until the pressure was gone that THAT was the reason my front door screen wasn't opening and closing properly.
Because I was home when they did their work, I watched as the avalanche of snow and ice pelted down upon the sidewalk beneath the eaves, nearly snowing me in, this time from a man-made job. I watched as they came through with the snowblower, chopping up the compact, heavy snow in the subzero temps, leaving a thin layer that couldn't be gobbled up by the blades.
Yesterday was "warm", though, and even this morning before I left for work I heard water dripping from above. It doesn't take much sunlight light to melt what is left above, but I didn't think to lay down any salt, certain it was going to be too cloudy today, and thinking there really wasn't enough snow to create much ice.
Well...I was wrong. In the evening when I came home, I entered through the garage as usual, grabbed my dog's leash and set out through the front door to take her on a walk.
As I opened the door, I saw the rock salt littering the sidewalk and even my doormat. The sight gave me pause; taking in our surroundings, I saw that the snow mound was coated with a glowing sheen of frozen water. There were slices of ice like broken glass sticking up along the sides, clearly the work of an industrious shoveler utilizing the salt to help him break down the luge course that our sidewalk had turned into during the daytime hours.
Carefully I stepped out and walked past my neighbor's door, knowing this was HIS work and not the work of the roofing company or the Association. They would do the big stuff, but it was up to we homeowners to make sure we didn't get sued should someone slip. It's not the first time my neighbor has salted our adjoined walks, and I know this also won't be the last.
My neighbor doesn't think in legal terms. His actions are according to Christ; he just does what he knows is right. The salt he buys is pet-safe salt, simply because he's a pet-owner too, and even if he wasn't he cares about his neighbor's pets who must walk on the stuff.
He wasn't out, but I will remember to thank him, and hopefully, return the favor should the situation present itself.
In November, I think it was, we had an ice storm and although I was supposed to be at work early that Sunday and attend Mass there, I heeded the advice of the Minnesota State Patrol to delay any travel until at least 10 am. The Mass readings that day were quite pertinent for they spoke of the faithful as the "salt of the earth".
As I left the Church to attempt a venture into work, Father was standing at the exit door. When his eyes lit upon me he quipped, "You are the salt of the earth...now go out and salt the roads!"
Although I couldn't carry out that particular task that day, I was grateful for those who could and DID, and today, I wonder if perhaps my own neighbor heard that admonition and simply decided to carry it out on his own!
Mother Teresa has famously said that we should know our own neighbors. Catholic Social Teaching, lately through the voice of Pope Benedict XVI, reminds us of the same thing: we should have care and concern for our neighbor. To do good, we don't have to travel the world, but simply look next door and respond to the needs of those around us, no matter how simple.
How much better off would we all be if we could follow that simple adage whenever possible?
Because I was home when they did their work, I watched as the avalanche of snow and ice pelted down upon the sidewalk beneath the eaves, nearly snowing me in, this time from a man-made job. I watched as they came through with the snowblower, chopping up the compact, heavy snow in the subzero temps, leaving a thin layer that couldn't be gobbled up by the blades.
Yesterday was "warm", though, and even this morning before I left for work I heard water dripping from above. It doesn't take much sunlight light to melt what is left above, but I didn't think to lay down any salt, certain it was going to be too cloudy today, and thinking there really wasn't enough snow to create much ice.
Well...I was wrong. In the evening when I came home, I entered through the garage as usual, grabbed my dog's leash and set out through the front door to take her on a walk.
As I opened the door, I saw the rock salt littering the sidewalk and even my doormat. The sight gave me pause; taking in our surroundings, I saw that the snow mound was coated with a glowing sheen of frozen water. There were slices of ice like broken glass sticking up along the sides, clearly the work of an industrious shoveler utilizing the salt to help him break down the luge course that our sidewalk had turned into during the daytime hours.
Carefully I stepped out and walked past my neighbor's door, knowing this was HIS work and not the work of the roofing company or the Association. They would do the big stuff, but it was up to we homeowners to make sure we didn't get sued should someone slip. It's not the first time my neighbor has salted our adjoined walks, and I know this also won't be the last.
My neighbor doesn't think in legal terms. His actions are according to Christ; he just does what he knows is right. The salt he buys is pet-safe salt, simply because he's a pet-owner too, and even if he wasn't he cares about his neighbor's pets who must walk on the stuff.
He wasn't out, but I will remember to thank him, and hopefully, return the favor should the situation present itself.
"You are the Salt of the Earth"
In November, I think it was, we had an ice storm and although I was supposed to be at work early that Sunday and attend Mass there, I heeded the advice of the Minnesota State Patrol to delay any travel until at least 10 am. The Mass readings that day were quite pertinent for they spoke of the faithful as the "salt of the earth".
As I left the Church to attempt a venture into work, Father was standing at the exit door. When his eyes lit upon me he quipped, "You are the salt of the earth...now go out and salt the roads!"
Although I couldn't carry out that particular task that day, I was grateful for those who could and DID, and today, I wonder if perhaps my own neighbor heard that admonition and simply decided to carry it out on his own!
Mother Teresa has famously said that we should know our own neighbors. Catholic Social Teaching, lately through the voice of Pope Benedict XVI, reminds us of the same thing: we should have care and concern for our neighbor. To do good, we don't have to travel the world, but simply look next door and respond to the needs of those around us, no matter how simple.
How much better off would we all be if we could follow that simple adage whenever possible?
Monday, January 24, 2011
What Would You Do About It?
Today is the March for Life in Washington, DC, and you know...I haven't seen a single secular, mainstream news report on it.
That's fine; we will not be silent and those who MUST be reached, WILL be reached: even we who have already been reached and are already horrified by the blood of infant sacrifice.
Just as this morning while scanning blog post titles, I came across this gem from Michelle at Rosetta Stone.
Here's an excerpt:
Michelle's post is well worth reading and considering, and is much better than anything I can write on this subject. So, my friends, please, go and read the rest.
Oh, and don't just leave it at reading. Let her words, let the reality of the situation inspire you into action.
That's fine; we will not be silent and those who MUST be reached, WILL be reached: even we who have already been reached and are already horrified by the blood of infant sacrifice.
Just as this morning while scanning blog post titles, I came across this gem from Michelle at Rosetta Stone.
Here's an excerpt:
Suppose we found out that the town, or the state, had decided that raping women on that particular street corner was legal. We would probably be outraged that such a despicable crime were permitted under any conditions anywhere. Some of us might fight to abolish that law. Some of us might stand vigil on that street to warn women. Some who stand vigil might see women being dragged there by men who want to rape them and know they can legally do it only on that corner. Some standing vigil might be roused to violence in defense of the woman about to be victimized.
Suppose, despite all these efforts, the act remained legal on that corner and in other parts of the country. Suppose after a decade, hundreds or thousands of women were being raped every day, legally. How would we, as a society, cope with that?
Would the outrage remain? Would we get tired of trying to protect women? Would we stop the daily vigil and only show up on days that weren't quite as hectic (no soccer practice today, guess I have time to go rage against the violence)?
Would we have less horror of the act of rape? After a decade of being told that rape was OK, under certain circumstances, would youth brought up in that environment think rape is a big deal at all? Would we begin to justify it, perhaps thinking that the women deserved it?
Michelle's post is well worth reading and considering, and is much better than anything I can write on this subject. So, my friends, please, go and read the rest.
Oh, and don't just leave it at reading. Let her words, let the reality of the situation inspire you into action.
Friday, January 21, 2011
The Spiritual Life and Agility Training
This week, I had the wonderful opportunity of introducing my dog to a couple Agility obstacles. I'll admit to being a bit nervous before we began since I haven't worked with her much on obedience lately. Much to my surprise, though, once we were "at bat", she ignored the children watching this training exercise, and the other dog that had otherwise dominated her attention.
(It helped that I had her favorite "high value" treat: freeze-dried liver.)
Teaching her to go through the tunnel turned out to be very easy. I'd introduced her to it when the obstacle was brought in. She wasn't fearful of it in any way although she had no interest in exploring its depths. I tried to get her to go in but she simply turned away and I didn't push her - it wasn't time yet.
Awhile later the trainer pulled the tunnel into the middle of the classroom and scrunched it up to make it as small as possible so that the dog could look through it and see that I was on the other side. When I called, she came and gobbled up the treat. The trainer lengthend the tunnel so that it was just a little longer than the length of her body. Again, no problem. My dog came through and gobbbled up the treat. We continued this process until the tunnel was at full length, requiring the trainer to stand at the entrance with the leash in her hand while I walked to the other end to coax my dog with the nummy treat.
Finally, though, we had to take the next step: put a curve in the tunnel so that she couldn't look through and see me at the other end. The trainer explained to the children (and of course, to me) that this obstacle is an exercise in trust. The dog had to come to understand that when she entered the tunnel, she would meet me on the other side. She'd already been through it so knew what the tunnel was, but the question was...would she be frightened away by the curve that did not allow her to view the nice treat and enthusiastic praise awaiting her at the end?
We gave the command and I walked the tunnel, ready to greet her on the other end. Sure enough, she came through but this time was different; after she'd reached the straightaway, she was so comfortable inside that she paused to investigate an interesting scent. I explained to the children what she was doing, much to their delight. This was a good sign and a necessary part of her training that would help her with other obstacles later.
Finally satisfied, my dog completed the tunnel and came to me for her treat. I took her leash and brought her back to the start. As the trainer explained to the children that although rewards are used in initial training, they must be taken away. You see, the dog discovers that the obstacle is fun all on its own; the obstacle becomes its own reward, so they have to learn to pass through it then look to their master to be directed to the next event.
As the trainer spoke, holding the leash, my dog took it upon her own iniative to enter the tunnel. Realizing that this must be encouraged and rewarded, I gave her the command (not that she needed it that time!) and ran to the end to meet her as she emerged, smiling her happy doggy smile.
Mission accomplished; that ended her tunnel lesson for the day. She "got" the lesson, she discovere the tunnel was fun, that I would meet her on the other end, and she had learned to instinctively look for me as she exited. Should I get the chance to work with her further on Agility, I will no longer use the high value treats, or any treat for that matter. Instead I'll be learning how to direct her to the next thing.
Agility and the Spiritual Life
It may sound strange, but my dog learning this obstacle is a nearly-perfect analogy for our own spiritual lives.
In the beginning, as we come to know God, He gives us many rewards to entice us to enter a life of prayer and communion with Him. So it is that we receive many consolations, but once we have established that we understand and plan to continue our prayer lives, God slowly withdraws the consolations, leaving us with "spiritual dryness."
He asks us to pass through that tunnel, first so that we can see Him, eager to receive His reward for us, and then maybe He throws in a bit of an obstacle, asking us to trust that He will be there even if we can't see him right away. And then, once we have reached that level of trust, even though it is a very basic level, he asks us to pass through that darkness again - but this time not to receive a reward, but rather, to grow in our faith, learning to look not for a reward, but another lesson that will build our relationship with God.
Of course, this is where the analogy ends; we are not dogs. A dog only knows what is in front of it and needs our constant guidance to understand what we want them to do; they cannot reason, they cannot know their final ends, and they can not act in a way so as to "choose the good." That is a purely human privilege.
Sometimes when we pass through that dark obstacle, we come out, as my dog did, looking for God, but He isn't there. As the trainer demonstrated yesterday, she went and stood on the other side of the tunnel so when her dog exited, she looked in the wrong direction and had to pause to find her Master. That's exactly what we do!
In our Pride, sometimes when we pass through spiritual trials we make an assumption about what God is doing, so when we are released, we are looking in the wrong direction. Then we get frustrated and lose our peace.
Indeed, it is good that we are seeking God, but not finding Him where we expect becomes a lesson in humility on the way to deeper trust. We must continually learn deeper and deeper trust, for although Our Lord may not always be where we expect, we can be assured He is still there, waiting, ready as soon as we are to take us more deeply into the lessons He has for us.
Some days, it seems I learn more from my dog than she does from me. No wonder dogs are man's best friend; they certainly must be one of God's closest allies in getting us to Heaven! ;-)
Teaching her to go through the tunnel turned out to be very easy. I'd introduced her to it when the obstacle was brought in. She wasn't fearful of it in any way although she had no interest in exploring its depths. I tried to get her to go in but she simply turned away and I didn't push her - it wasn't time yet.
Awhile later the trainer pulled the tunnel into the middle of the classroom and scrunched it up to make it as small as possible so that the dog could look through it and see that I was on the other side. When I called, she came and gobbled up the treat. The trainer lengthend the tunnel so that it was just a little longer than the length of her body. Again, no problem. My dog came through and gobbbled up the treat. We continued this process until the tunnel was at full length, requiring the trainer to stand at the entrance with the leash in her hand while I walked to the other end to coax my dog with the nummy treat.
Finally, though, we had to take the next step: put a curve in the tunnel so that she couldn't look through and see me at the other end. The trainer explained to the children (and of course, to me) that this obstacle is an exercise in trust. The dog had to come to understand that when she entered the tunnel, she would meet me on the other side. She'd already been through it so knew what the tunnel was, but the question was...would she be frightened away by the curve that did not allow her to view the nice treat and enthusiastic praise awaiting her at the end?
We gave the command and I walked the tunnel, ready to greet her on the other end. Sure enough, she came through but this time was different; after she'd reached the straightaway, she was so comfortable inside that she paused to investigate an interesting scent. I explained to the children what she was doing, much to their delight. This was a good sign and a necessary part of her training that would help her with other obstacles later.
Finally satisfied, my dog completed the tunnel and came to me for her treat. I took her leash and brought her back to the start. As the trainer explained to the children that although rewards are used in initial training, they must be taken away. You see, the dog discovers that the obstacle is fun all on its own; the obstacle becomes its own reward, so they have to learn to pass through it then look to their master to be directed to the next event.
As the trainer spoke, holding the leash, my dog took it upon her own iniative to enter the tunnel. Realizing that this must be encouraged and rewarded, I gave her the command (not that she needed it that time!) and ran to the end to meet her as she emerged, smiling her happy doggy smile.
Mission accomplished; that ended her tunnel lesson for the day. She "got" the lesson, she discovere the tunnel was fun, that I would meet her on the other end, and she had learned to instinctively look for me as she exited. Should I get the chance to work with her further on Agility, I will no longer use the high value treats, or any treat for that matter. Instead I'll be learning how to direct her to the next thing.
Agility and the Spiritual Life
It may sound strange, but my dog learning this obstacle is a nearly-perfect analogy for our own spiritual lives.
In the beginning, as we come to know God, He gives us many rewards to entice us to enter a life of prayer and communion with Him. So it is that we receive many consolations, but once we have established that we understand and plan to continue our prayer lives, God slowly withdraws the consolations, leaving us with "spiritual dryness."
He asks us to pass through that tunnel, first so that we can see Him, eager to receive His reward for us, and then maybe He throws in a bit of an obstacle, asking us to trust that He will be there even if we can't see him right away. And then, once we have reached that level of trust, even though it is a very basic level, he asks us to pass through that darkness again - but this time not to receive a reward, but rather, to grow in our faith, learning to look not for a reward, but another lesson that will build our relationship with God.
In short, we stop looking for mere treats and instead look joyfully for trials.
Of course, this is where the analogy ends; we are not dogs. A dog only knows what is in front of it and needs our constant guidance to understand what we want them to do; they cannot reason, they cannot know their final ends, and they can not act in a way so as to "choose the good." That is a purely human privilege.
Sometimes when we pass through that dark obstacle, we come out, as my dog did, looking for God, but He isn't there. As the trainer demonstrated yesterday, she went and stood on the other side of the tunnel so when her dog exited, she looked in the wrong direction and had to pause to find her Master. That's exactly what we do!
In our Pride, sometimes when we pass through spiritual trials we make an assumption about what God is doing, so when we are released, we are looking in the wrong direction. Then we get frustrated and lose our peace.
Indeed, it is good that we are seeking God, but not finding Him where we expect becomes a lesson in humility on the way to deeper trust. We must continually learn deeper and deeper trust, for although Our Lord may not always be where we expect, we can be assured He is still there, waiting, ready as soon as we are to take us more deeply into the lessons He has for us.
Some days, it seems I learn more from my dog than she does from me. No wonder dogs are man's best friend; they certainly must be one of God's closest allies in getting us to Heaven! ;-)
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Please, if you would....
...please take off your coat and stay awhile!
I welcome all my new readers from ThePulp.it and other venues, but as I say in my new ABOUT YOU page, it would be nice to get to know the people who spend so much time with me.
Please, if you would, step on into the next room, have a cuppa coffee or tea, or whatever you please, and have a chat with me. Help me to get to know you!
Welcome, and thanks for stopping in! My door is always open!
Mind the dog, though...she'll slobber and shed all over you if you let her!
I welcome all my new readers from ThePulp.it and other venues, but as I say in my new ABOUT YOU page, it would be nice to get to know the people who spend so much time with me.
Please, if you would, step on into the next room, have a cuppa coffee or tea, or whatever you please, and have a chat with me. Help me to get to know you!
Welcome, and thanks for stopping in! My door is always open!
Mind the dog, though...she'll slobber and shed all over you if you let her!
The Distinction between "Ministry" and "Apostolate" and Why it Matters
Question: On the importance of the distinction between the terms “ministry” and “apostolate”
Objection 1: It would seem that the term “apostolate” would apply to the successors of the apostles and the term “ministry” has a more universal application and understanding.
Objection 2: One who engages in ministry should be termed “minister”.
Objection 3: It seems the distinction is unnecessary because many who minister are in an apostolate and vice versa. To wit; it is unnecessary because the terms are not mutually exclusive nor are they necessarily mutually inclusive.
On the Contrary, it is important to draw the distinction in terms, for, as many theologians have noted, a lack of distinction in terms has led to larger consequences as it applies to doctrines taught by the Church with regard to ministry. In 1994 John Paul II stated, “It must be admitted that the language becomes doubtful, confused and hence not helpful for expression the doctrine of the faith whenever the difference ‘of essence and not merely of degree’ between the baptismal priesthood and the ordained priesthood is in any way obscured." (LG, 10) He also stated in the same document, “We cannot increase the communion and unity of the church by ‘clericalizing’ the lay faithful or by ‘laicizing’ priests.” (1)
I answer that although the definitions of the two terms, “Apostolate” and “Ministry” have not been formally defined to complete satisfaction, in a review of several official Church documents it becomes clear that the words do have specific applications. We can note especially that the Vatican II documents (see especially Apostolicam Actuositatem, Decree on the Apostolate of the Laity) exclusively used the term “Apostolate” to apply to the work of the laity in carrying out the mission of the Church in the world. The word “minister” and “ministry”, in fact, has both historically and, as emphasized in Vatican II only applied to those who have received Holy Orders.
Reply to Objection 1: It would seem that the term “Apostolate” has a wider application. “Every activity of the Mystical Body with this in view goes by the name of “apostolate”; the Church exercises it through all its members, though in various ways.” (2) However, throughout history, the term “ministry” has been restricted to apply only to the activities that flow from Holy Orders in the sacred actions of word and sacrament. Vatican II, as well was very specific in its use of “ministry” as applicable to the work of the Ordained Ministers, and the term “Apostolate” to the work of the laity, especially as it applies in the world. Apostilicam Actuositatem emphasized especially the right and duty of the Catholic faithful to carry out apostolic activity in the Church’s work of sanctifying the world. “From the fact of their union with Christ the head flows the laymen’s right and duty to be apostles. Inserted as they are in the Mystical Body of Christ by baptism and strengthened by the power of the Holy Spirit in Confirmation, it is by the Lord himself that they are assigned to the apostolate.” (3) It would seem, therefore, that the term “Ministry” applies properly to the Ministerial Priesthood which is granted specifically through Holy Orders, and the term “Apostolate” applies to the Lay Faithful which is granted and nourished by Baptism and Confirmation.
Reply to Objection 2: The use of the term “minister” has been reserved for the ministerial priesthood; that is, those who have received the Sacrament of Holy Orders and have taken on the character of the priesthood of Jesus Christ. The work of the priest, that is, his ministry, flows from that sacramental character to minister to the people of God in exercising the offices of Priest, Prophet, and King. The 1983 Code of Canon Law extended the privilege of admitting some of the laity to participate in certain liturgical or catechetical offices. This work of the laity in those offices, however, flows not from Holy Orders itself, but out of their own foundation in Baptism and Confirmation, and granted only through the commission of a Priest or a Bishop. Those of the laity who participate in the work of the Priest in the work that does not absolutely require Clergy, such as in liturgical positions (Cantor, Lector, Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion) have an extraordinary character; it is a privilege, not a right and it has limited scope.
In Christifideles laici, John Paul II discussed the fact that although the 1983 Code of Canon Law allowed for lay persons to exercise certain ministries normally belonging to clergy, “…the exercise of such tasks does not make the lay faithful pastors: in fact a person is not a minister simply in performing a task, but through sacramental ordination. Only the Sacrament of Orders gives the ordained minister a particular participation in the office of Christ…” (4)
It would be totally inappropriate for one who serves as a Lector, for example to refer to himself as a “Minister”. It is proper in that case, however, for him to understand that he participates in ministry. Likewise, the teaching office of the Church which flows through Holy Orders may be carried out, through commission, by the laity. In this case, it would be proper for the lay people who do the work of catechesis, that is, handing on the Faith, to recognize that their work is a ministry which is a participation in the ministry of the Priesthood. However, a catechist is not a minister; but rather, enjoys a participation in the ministry.
Reply to Objection 3: Certainly it can be observed that the Clergy participates also in Apostolate, and in some cases, the Lay Faithful are granted the privilege of participating in the Ministry of the Priesthood. However, this does not make the terms mutually exclusive or inclusive, which is why the distinction in terms is clearly necessary. Christifideles laici revealed that in the Synod Assembly, there was a critical judgment voiced regarding a too-indiscriminate use of the word “ministry”. This over-use caused “…the confusion and equating of the common priesthood and the ministerial priesthood, the lack of observance of ecclesiastical laws and norms…the tendency towards a ‘clericalization’ of the lay faithful and risk of creating…an ecclesial structure of parallel service to that founded on the Sacrament of Holy Orders.” (5) As stated above, in the replies to the first and second objections, the use of terms in Objection 3 are founded upon a lack of definition of terms and thus a misunderstanding of the character belonging to each term and inherent mission indicated by it. To properly distinguish “ministry” and “apostolate” is truly revelatory of the mission of the Church and the complimentary roles and charisms that belong to both clergy and laity from within their specific areas of responsibility. The Church cannot exist without the Lay Apostolate; nor can the Lay Apostolate exist without the Ministry of the Priesthood.
----------------
ENDNOTES:
1. Address of John Paul II, April 22, 1994
2. Apostolicam Actuositatem, 2
3. ibid, 3
4. Christifideles laici, 23
5. ibid.
Note: This was a paper written for Pastoral Theology in May, 2010.
Objection 1: It would seem that the term “apostolate” would apply to the successors of the apostles and the term “ministry” has a more universal application and understanding.
Objection 2: One who engages in ministry should be termed “minister”.
Objection 3: It seems the distinction is unnecessary because many who minister are in an apostolate and vice versa. To wit; it is unnecessary because the terms are not mutually exclusive nor are they necessarily mutually inclusive.
On the Contrary, it is important to draw the distinction in terms, for, as many theologians have noted, a lack of distinction in terms has led to larger consequences as it applies to doctrines taught by the Church with regard to ministry. In 1994 John Paul II stated, “It must be admitted that the language becomes doubtful, confused and hence not helpful for expression the doctrine of the faith whenever the difference ‘of essence and not merely of degree’ between the baptismal priesthood and the ordained priesthood is in any way obscured." (LG, 10) He also stated in the same document, “We cannot increase the communion and unity of the church by ‘clericalizing’ the lay faithful or by ‘laicizing’ priests.” (1)
I answer that although the definitions of the two terms, “Apostolate” and “Ministry” have not been formally defined to complete satisfaction, in a review of several official Church documents it becomes clear that the words do have specific applications. We can note especially that the Vatican II documents (see especially Apostolicam Actuositatem, Decree on the Apostolate of the Laity) exclusively used the term “Apostolate” to apply to the work of the laity in carrying out the mission of the Church in the world. The word “minister” and “ministry”, in fact, has both historically and, as emphasized in Vatican II only applied to those who have received Holy Orders.
Reply to Objection 1: It would seem that the term “Apostolate” has a wider application. “Every activity of the Mystical Body with this in view goes by the name of “apostolate”; the Church exercises it through all its members, though in various ways.” (2) However, throughout history, the term “ministry” has been restricted to apply only to the activities that flow from Holy Orders in the sacred actions of word and sacrament. Vatican II, as well was very specific in its use of “ministry” as applicable to the work of the Ordained Ministers, and the term “Apostolate” to the work of the laity, especially as it applies in the world. Apostilicam Actuositatem emphasized especially the right and duty of the Catholic faithful to carry out apostolic activity in the Church’s work of sanctifying the world. “From the fact of their union with Christ the head flows the laymen’s right and duty to be apostles. Inserted as they are in the Mystical Body of Christ by baptism and strengthened by the power of the Holy Spirit in Confirmation, it is by the Lord himself that they are assigned to the apostolate.” (3) It would seem, therefore, that the term “Ministry” applies properly to the Ministerial Priesthood which is granted specifically through Holy Orders, and the term “Apostolate” applies to the Lay Faithful which is granted and nourished by Baptism and Confirmation.
Reply to Objection 2: The use of the term “minister” has been reserved for the ministerial priesthood; that is, those who have received the Sacrament of Holy Orders and have taken on the character of the priesthood of Jesus Christ. The work of the priest, that is, his ministry, flows from that sacramental character to minister to the people of God in exercising the offices of Priest, Prophet, and King. The 1983 Code of Canon Law extended the privilege of admitting some of the laity to participate in certain liturgical or catechetical offices. This work of the laity in those offices, however, flows not from Holy Orders itself, but out of their own foundation in Baptism and Confirmation, and granted only through the commission of a Priest or a Bishop. Those of the laity who participate in the work of the Priest in the work that does not absolutely require Clergy, such as in liturgical positions (Cantor, Lector, Extraordinary Ministers of Holy Communion) have an extraordinary character; it is a privilege, not a right and it has limited scope.
In Christifideles laici, John Paul II discussed the fact that although the 1983 Code of Canon Law allowed for lay persons to exercise certain ministries normally belonging to clergy, “…the exercise of such tasks does not make the lay faithful pastors: in fact a person is not a minister simply in performing a task, but through sacramental ordination. Only the Sacrament of Orders gives the ordained minister a particular participation in the office of Christ…” (4)
It would be totally inappropriate for one who serves as a Lector, for example to refer to himself as a “Minister”. It is proper in that case, however, for him to understand that he participates in ministry. Likewise, the teaching office of the Church which flows through Holy Orders may be carried out, through commission, by the laity. In this case, it would be proper for the lay people who do the work of catechesis, that is, handing on the Faith, to recognize that their work is a ministry which is a participation in the ministry of the Priesthood. However, a catechist is not a minister; but rather, enjoys a participation in the ministry.
Reply to Objection 3: Certainly it can be observed that the Clergy participates also in Apostolate, and in some cases, the Lay Faithful are granted the privilege of participating in the Ministry of the Priesthood. However, this does not make the terms mutually exclusive or inclusive, which is why the distinction in terms is clearly necessary. Christifideles laici revealed that in the Synod Assembly, there was a critical judgment voiced regarding a too-indiscriminate use of the word “ministry”. This over-use caused “…the confusion and equating of the common priesthood and the ministerial priesthood, the lack of observance of ecclesiastical laws and norms…the tendency towards a ‘clericalization’ of the lay faithful and risk of creating…an ecclesial structure of parallel service to that founded on the Sacrament of Holy Orders.” (5) As stated above, in the replies to the first and second objections, the use of terms in Objection 3 are founded upon a lack of definition of terms and thus a misunderstanding of the character belonging to each term and inherent mission indicated by it. To properly distinguish “ministry” and “apostolate” is truly revelatory of the mission of the Church and the complimentary roles and charisms that belong to both clergy and laity from within their specific areas of responsibility. The Church cannot exist without the Lay Apostolate; nor can the Lay Apostolate exist without the Ministry of the Priesthood.
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ENDNOTES:
1. Address of John Paul II, April 22, 1994
2. Apostolicam Actuositatem, 2
3. ibid, 3
4. Christifideles laici, 23
5. ibid.
Note: This was a paper written for Pastoral Theology in May, 2010.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Introducing....
Catholic music artist Miriam Marston!
I’m trying to get the word out into the Catholic blogosphere about some new music – I released my second album a few months ago, called “The Luggage of an Optimist” (based on a chapter title in GK Chesterton’s “Manalive”). I’ve been featured on a Catholic radio station out in Oregon, and getting opportunities here and there around the Boston area where I work and live.You can listen to her music here, and to purchase it at iTunes, Amazon, or through
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/miriammarston2
Seriously, go check out her music! When I listened the other day I loved what I heard and can tell you Ms. Marston deserves any publicity we can give her.
Oh, and my friends, don't stop with just listening - pony up a little dough and PURCHASE her music - that's what sends the biggest message!
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