In love with Christ; in love with the Church

"You have seduced me, O Lord, and I let myself be seduced."
--Jeremiah 20:7a

Catholic theologian Tim Muldoon, reflecting on Father Robert Barron's Catholicism series, recently pondered over the meaning of the Catholic faith in today's world.  "I find myself dwelling on the basic question of how one can describe this faith, this Church, this tradition, this religion, this community, this worldview, this theology," he writes.  "It is an impossible task!"

Muldoon describes the standard narrative (SN) of the history of the faith and its place in helping build Western civilization, but concludes the standard narrative is no longer sufficient for explaining the hold Catholicism continues to have on over one billion believers worldwide.  No, Muldoon argues, Catholic Christianity continues to thrive because it answers the deepest need and longing of the human heart:

Unlike what many of its critics seem to think, [Catholicism] is not fundamentally about a kind of military-like uniformity of taking orders from the general. It is much more like the way that beachgoers watch the ocean: we go because we respond to a summons from the heart. What the SN cannot convey, and what the critics tend to miss, is that Catholicism is fundamentally about a real encounter with the risen Christ, a response to God's own initiative to seduce us into falling in love with him...[A]t the grass roots, it is about an individual person coming to know another individual person, and repeating what the centurion said at the foot of the cross: surely this is the Son of God.

Muldoon remind me of how I have often described my own journey to the Catholic faith, which I consummated by being Confirmed in the church eleven years ago.  "When you fall in love with someone, it doesn't mean you agree with everything they say or always feel peace and bliss in the relationship," I have said many times, "But it does mean you can't imagine living without them in your life."


And that's true of my relationship with the Church, but increasingly I see that it is so much more.  My faith is more than my love of the Church and what keeps me there is not always the same thing that led me there, as Abbot Christopher Jamison says in his book Finding Sanctuary: Monastic Steps for Everyday Life, of his own vocation as a monk.  "I do not know why I became a monk," he writes, "because the reason I joined is not the reason I stayed."

Originally, I fell in love with the Church - its beauty, its history, its majesty, its people.  Then gradually, I fell in love with Christ, a response to how He first loved me, and relentlessly pursued me and seduced my soul.  Now, I remain in the Church because it is there, through its beautry, its history, its majesty, its people, that I find so many wonderful ways to love Him and be loved by Him still.

O Lover of my soul, you have seduced me and I am so glad I have let myself be seduced!  Continue to woo us through your earthly Church, O Lord, and draw us ever deeper into your love.  Amen.

Of Godly Men

Last night I finally had the awesome experience of watching Of Gods and Men, the critically-acclaimed French film featuring the true story of Trappist monks caught up in the religious violence of the mid-1990's Algeria Civil War.  Based closely on James Kiser's book, The Monks of Tribhirine, the movie describes how the eight monks, led by Dom Christian de Cherge, prayerfully struggle with how to respond to the escalating threat from Islamic extremists and their violent crusdade against foreigners and "infidels." 

The monks are frightened by the risks, but feel compelled to remain at their monastery, despite entreaties from the French government and local authorities to leave for their own safety.  The monks provide medical services and have close personal ties to the local Muslim population and are loathe to abandon them.  They fight to maintain neutrality between the corrupt government and the militant insurgents and are caught between both in an ever-increasing spiral of danger.

I don't want to give too much away if any readers aren't familiar with the story, but I did find this film to be extremely compelling and inspiring from a faith perspective.  The modern secularist will probably be puzzled by the monks seemingly suicidal decision to hold their ground, as will perhaps a lot of Christians.  But this is no story of religious fanaticism, but rather the story of having a moral purpose and in meeting one's commitments to others in faithfulness that some things in life are worth grave risks.  The world would do well to learn about the kind of love (Christ-imitating love) that leads one to give everything for another, even those who look differently and believe differently than one's self.

Indeed, Of Gods and Men is, in part, a statement of a love that transcends religious differences.  As the situation in Algeria deterioriated in December 1993, the real Dom Christian began to prepare for his own possibly martyrdom, and wrote a beautiful "Last Testament" describing his decision to stay.  The entire text, and a lovely discussion about it, is featured in this 2007 article for Spiritual Life.  De Cherge wrote, in conclusion, an a priori message to the man who might someday take his life:

The final words, in Arabic, are the classic Muslim conclusion to any statement of worth, "God willing."
 
Of Gods and Men is moving, awe-inspiring, and compelling for anyone, believer or no-believer alike.

And also you, the friend of my final moment, who would not be aware of what you were doing.
Yes, I also say this THANK YOU and this A-DIEU to you, in whom I see the face of God.
And may we find each other, happy good thieves, in Paradise, if it pleases God, the Father of us both. Amen. In sha ‘Allah.

A Church Meeting Postmortem

From The Praying Life blog comes this gem, a "Church Meeting Postmortem:"

I cannot for the life of me
figure out
how people who love God,
good people
faithful people

are able to spend so much time
talking about God
reading about God
and running here and there
doing God's work

and not have time to stop.
And bow.
Awestruck.
Lost in love.

Every five minutes or so.
I know the sweet seduction
of anxiety, power, and that little harlot
ego.

I have fallen for their whispered lies,
and empty promises.

I have wakened from a night
in their arms,
unsatisfied, restless, and fretful.

But, I ask you,
do we not have a clue,
that the Beloved is in the room
disrobing
right before our eyes?

How many ephiphanies are omitted
from the minutes
of last month's meeting?

How can we go on pretending
that Holiness is not breathing
shivers of ecstasy
down our necks?

Am I crazy?
Probably.

But I am also sick and weary of sitting on this Wonder.
Don't be surprised then,
when I rise up and prostrate
myself
during Carl Mitchell's report
on the cost of replacing the pews
with moveable chairs.

I just couldn't go on pretending any longer,
and this hungry Love has taken me

beyond propriety,
decency,
and order.

Check out the whole blog here.

Glimpses of Glory

Thursday, 30th Week of Ordinary Time

"When we catch even the tiniest glimpse of God we are filled with joy.  To be aware of his presence, even for a split second, so fills our hearts with love that we must break into praise."
--Fr. Benignus O'Rourke, OSA, Finding Your Hidden Treasure: The Way of Silent Prayer

This is true, but the trouble for me at least (and I always speak for me), is that the instant that glimpse passes, I forget it.  I go immediately back into my grim, relentless push to get things done and check things off my list (a list that never ends or even gets any shorter, by the way).

What a shame.  Because those moments are truly glimpses of glory.  They come on totally unexpectedly.  My daughter looks at me and grins, I get the sudden whiff of rich, earthy fall leaves, I hear the lonesome song of crickets, pining away from a now-faded summer.  And in those moment, there is pure delight, and my heart leaps in praise.

Perhaps my defacto assumption is that, when the moment passes, God is no longer near.  But we know this is untrue.  It is only our openness, our listening, or faith, that has ceased.  These are moments of grace, meant to sustain and inspire us through the ordinary moments, which are never quite as ordinary as we think, when we open our eyes to the shimmering glory all around us.

As St. Paul reminds us today, "I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities,
nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38-39).  Nor checklists, nor grocery shopping, nor bills, nor traffic, nor politics, nor any other distraction we choose to see as more important.

Holy One, I give praise for this glorious moment, just as it is, and pray for the heart of faith to know we are never apart.  Amen.

The Final Word

"The spirit comes to the aid of our weakness;
for we do not know how to pray as we ought,
but the spirit Himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings."
--Romans 8:26

Word comes to us today that a family friend who is battling cancer is slowly losing the fight. His condition has moved beyond human treatment. Body systems fail. Pain overwhelms. A family suffers.

I do not know how to pray for such needs. Words seem empty and hollow.

But this longing for peace, for ourselves and others, this longing for the reconciliation and a resolution to all grief and pain, that longing itself, that is the prayer. Yesterday St. Paul proclaimed that all of creation itself is groaning in labor pains for the fulfillment of our deepest needs and longings.

Creation cries out with us. The Spirit itself cries out in response.

We wail for God and God wails back, like a separated mother and child crying out for one another.

A thundering chorus of unformed words, the torrent of all longing and desire, echoes all around us in a mighty, cosmic roar.

We are not alone in this, even when we feel most alone, and this suffering is not the final word.

The final word is one of sheer silence, which we find at the foot of the Cross, where this great call and response reaches its climax and we are finally made One.

Oh my God, words fail. I release all these unspeakable needs to you, listening for your voice crying out to us in response. Enter into our suffering once more, and let us abide in this veil of tears with hope for all that you are about to reveal. Amen.

A Biblical Perspective on Purgatory

The latest issue of First Things features an excellent article by Gary A. Anderson, professor of Old Testament and Hebrew at University of Notre Dame, on the biblical origins of the doctrine of purgatory. Link here but unfortunately it's only available to subscribers at the moment. Will post an update when the full text becomes available.

The essence of Anderson's argument (and I hope I can do it justice here) is that while the atoning and redeeming work of Christ's self-sacrifice effects total forgiveness for the believer, the effect of sin remains, not as a punishment but as a necessary and natural consequence of our actions. We are forgiven but still must undergo sanctification to experience the full richness of the Beatific Vision. To be sure, we don't sanctify ourselves; that's still the work of God's grace and mercy. What we do is continue to surrender ourselves wholly and completely to Christ's redeeming love until that work of sanctification is complete in us - and for most of us that work will not be complete at the time of death.

In support of his point Anderson points to bibical narratives about King David's patience in suffering the long consequences of his own sin, King Nebuchadnezzar's alms-giving after his own repentence, and how the widows who benefitted from Tabitha's charity in the book of Acts appeal for mercy on her in the Acts story of Peter raising Tabitha from the dead.

St. Augustine would have had no trouble with this improbably juxtaposition of grace (free gift) and merit: Through the divine grace, human beings are enabled to participate in the work of God. Though they win merits for themselves, the merits are themselves the fruit of gifts in the first place. A close analogy might be the young girl who buys a Christmas gift for her mother. From one perspective it is no gift at all; the mother simply gives back what she provided in the first place. But from another
angle the gift allows the child to participate in the exchange of love that is basic to the family itself. Her enthusiastic desire to show her love "wins" anew the love her mother has already given her.

We respond to Christ's totally self-giving love, not simply with cries of mercy and an acceptance of forgiveness, but in a return of totally self-giving love. And yes, it was all Christ's love to being with, but now we participate in it fully. And for our loved ones who have crossed over, we can pray for them that this circle of love may be completed and that we might join in it when our own sanctification is complete:

Salvation is, after all, both individual and communal in nature, and the doctrine of purgatory reminds us that our lives are not ours alone. We are linked in a great chain of being (one body, many members, to invoke Paul) to all of our beloved ancestors. We don't have to pretend that all are saved and by so doing make a mockery of our moral choices, but neither must we commend our beloved to eternal suffering.

I've not done Anderson's article justice with these few short paragraphs, but I commend it to others for their study and prayerful consideration. For me personally, I responded deeply to Anderson's metaphor of the child who gives her mother a Christmas gift which the mother herself undoubtedly paid for. I've been meditating lately on the prologue to the Rule of St. Benedict, where the first sentence commands, "Listen, child of God, to the guidance of
your teacher," and pondering over what it means to be God's child. This metaphor gives me new
insight.

Beloved, all that I have comes from you. I am utterly helpless without your grace and mercy. Let your love sanctify me so that I might reflect your light and love back upon you and the world. Amen.

The Greatest of These

Father Robert Barron's mini-series documentary Catholicism has been shown in excerpt the last two Sundays on PBS. I've been deeply moved by this passionate, deeply historical, and extremely thoughtful look at the origins of our faith. See a trailer for the series here, which is scheduled to shown on EWTN during the month of November.

Last night's episode examined the critical role of Saints Peter and Paul in the shape and spread of early Christianity, and culminated with a lovely meditation on Paul's "hymn to love" found in the thirteenth chaper of 1 Corinthians.

Fr. Barron pointed out (and I'm paraphrasing here) that in heaven, there is no faith and hope, only love. This seemed startling at first, but makes perfect sense. There will be no need for faith, because we will know God and our True Selves intimate, face-to-face. There will be no need for hope because all longing will be fulfilled. But there will be love, infinite, abiding, overflowing love. Faith and hope will have reach their ultimate end in this eternal dance of love.


As today's first reading points out, "we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ" (Romans 8:16-17). We are heirs to unsurpassing love.


Holy One, strengthen our faith, strengthen and sanctify our hope, but above all, conform us to your love, which is our destiny and birthright. Amen.