I know that the hype of the Disney animated movie Frozen has probably melted a bit by now, but I saw it for the first time a little later than most (about a month ago) and have been meaning to write about it since. First, however, I feel the need to express a few unsolicited opinions about this surprisingly popular film.
I'm a bit ambivalent about this movie. Touted as the "best Disney animated motion picture since The Lion King," it has a heck of a lot to live up to. I would be hard pressed to say it was any more entetaining than Mulan or more poetically beautiful than The Hunchback of Notre Dame. And I think it's pretty obvious why it can't be called the best since The Little Mermaid or Aladdin. That's because The Lion King is pretty much unsurpassable. I'll give Frozen this much: it did make me feel like a kid again watching some of those Disney classics. All that withstanding, I take issue with a few elements of the movie.
1. Where did Elsa get these icy powers in the first place. They bear no connection with anyone she is related to. Is she a like an X-Men mutant? In which case, I'd love to see a sequel in which she gets called upon by a time-traveling Professor Xavier. Not really, but you can see it happening, right?
2. I understand that she accidentally almost killed her sister when they were playing as children, but I don't see why it was so necessary for Anna's memory of Elsa's magic to be erased. After the little rock trolls cured Anna, I think everyone could have just taken a deep breath and figured out a sensible way of handling the situation without begetting Elsa's agoraphobic neurosis or Anna's painful separation from her sister and playmate. But then, I guess we would never have heard that tear-jerker of a tune, "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" - or had much of a story-line to follow. *sniff* All she wanted was to play with her big sister. *sniff*
3. Speaking of the rock trolls, what was up with those guys anyway? If they were fulfilling the role of some wise fairy, I think just one would have sufficed. Even three would have made sense, but a clan of unexplained, random, quasi-magical critters known only by a select few humans? I don't know, but they just didn't seem that necessary.
4. Maybe I missed some presumed, great time lapse, but to me it seemed like the majority of the story took place within no more than a few days. This probably shouldn't bother me that much, but it seems a little hasty for Ana to refer to it as an "eternal winter" when the snow has only covered the ground for less than 72 hours. Perhaps I'm being nit-picky.
In any case, my purpose is not to dog the movie Frozen. On the contrary, I was quite edified by one of its themes in particular: fear. "Fear will be your enemy," said the chief troll to Elsa. An unfortunate self-fulfilling prophecy delivered by an oddly conceptualized character, it is nevertheless a very true maxim not only for the ice princess, but for all of us. Fear is the real adversary of this film, even more so than Hans or that greedy old man (whatever his name was). It is the motivation behind Elsa's desire to shut out the world or even run away from her kingdom to set up camp in an icy palace. And yes, I'd say it is even the impetus of that catchy, Oscar-winning hit, "Let It Go." It may sound like a song of personal liberation and the celebration of being oneself. That's all fine and dandy, and certainly fear is no longer holding her back from expressing who she is, but... she's still isolating herself from everyone (did you get the pun in the song?) and subjecting everybody to a winter in the middle of springtime. Why? Because she's still afraid. She's afraid of hurting people, and she's probably afraid of being judged or harassed. But the whole time she's hurting not only her sister, but herself.
Fear in my own life is a most notorious stumbling block. Being the indecisive person that I am, I recently made two hefty lists of pros and cons concerning a major decision in my life. As I was compiling them, however, I realized I needed to make a separate column on both lists: "reasons based on fear." It certainly put into perspective just how much fear played a part in my choices. I had a spiritual director, Sr. Barbara Anne*, who once told me that there are two phrases I should surgically remove from my vocabulary: "What if" and "If only." Whereas the latter is more about regrets, the first is more relevant to this topic. All the "What ifs," that's what I was afraid of. What if this makes me unhappy? What if I regret not doing that? What if people talk? What if some folks are upset? Decisions, however, cannot be based on fear; otherwise we will never truly be satisfied and we will never be able to fully give of ourselves to others. Look at Elsa.
Fear, I think, is also the root of much sin and suffering in the world. I don't believe people often intentionally try to "miss the mark" (a more precise understanding of sin). Sometimes they are just afraid for themselves. They're insecure and are trying to protect themselves from getting hurt or losing their resources. People are often faced with two choices that are both legitimately good in some way. Sometimes it's a choice between protecting themselves or aiding another. They might miss the mark, however, when the decision is not rooted in love. I can't count the number of times I avoided saying something compassionate to someone who is suffering simply because I was afraid of a cold response or making the other person feel worse? On other occasions I have been stingy with my means or time because I was afraid "I won't have enough for myself." We can be afraid of being vulnerable because we might get hurt if we open up to someone. And you know what? It's absolutely true; we can get hurt, and probably will at some point.
From interpersonal relationships to a national or even global scale, consider all the wars that have been fought or have been on the brink of commencing because of fear and mistrust of the "other." Take for example the arms race between the United States and the Soviet Union. Or how about the hazardous obsession with the right to bear arms? Do weapons become protection or a manifestation of insecurities with the express potential of maiming or killing other people? And this whole rant has not even begun to touch upon the issues of racism, sexism and homophobia (note the inclusion of the Greek word for fear in the last one). Talk about fear of the "other." In any case, one can see how fear inhibits healthier, more human relationships but also, left unchecked, can potentially cause a nuclear war! Or, in the case of Frozen, it can inflict a paralyzing winter upon an entire kingdom.
I began writing this post on Pentecost Sunday with the belief that there was some great connection I could make between the Solemnity and this Disney film, but as I am an incredibly slow and easily distracted writer, I finished this entry later than intended. As it turns out, there isn't really much of a link between the two anyway. In the account of Pentecost in the Acts of the Apostles, it merely states, "they were all in once place together." It doesn't say why, and Acts doesn't seem to indicate that they were afraid. After all, it had been over a month since the resurrection by that time. Sunday's Gospel reading from John, on the other hand, tells a different story - not a story of Pentecost, but of Jesus' appearance to the disciples on the evening of Easter Sunday. The disciples were in a locked room because they were afraid, and they had every right to be. Their leader had just been executed two days prior! But the risen Jesus entered into their midst anyway and imparted upon them the gift of the Holy Spirit. At least according to John's Gospel, this didn't actually conquer the disciples' fear. In fact, they were found the next day again in a locked room. Slowly, however, they managed to do what apostles do: go out and preach the Good News to the world - fearful or not. In Luke's account in Acts we get a very explicit scenario of the apostles miraculously preaching to the masses in languages each person is able to understand. And maybe some of them were still scared of the terrible consequences they could and often did eventually face, but something bigger was motivating them, moving them forward: the Spirit and the love of the Lord, Jesus Christ.
I'm not saying that fear is a bad thing all the time or that it is something that must be totally eradicated. Take Elsa's character for example. After nearly killing her own sister twice, I'd imagine she'd still have some reservations about her powers. But love is ultimately what melts the heart of Anna and saves the kingdom from the less-than-eternal but still frightfully dreadful winter, even if she still had inner fears. So to wrap things up, even though I have some critiques about the movie Frozen, its message that fear can wound an individual and relationships but that love heals and unites is one that we can all take to heart - whether we're giddy grade-schoolers watching a Disney flick or world leaders with vast militaries and weapons of mass destruction at their disposal.
* I highly recommend Sr. Barbara Anne's blog by the way: http://euge2001a.wordpress.com/
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
In Defense of Pollyanna
It has certainly been much longer since my last post than anticipated, but I still want to keep up the habit of writing - if for no one else's benefit other than my own. I'm also sorry that I never wrote anything for Easter week, but I realize it's not my responsibility to expound on every significant moment in the liturgical year of the Church anyway. That is another's vocation. In any case, the first few weeks of Easter were crazy-busy with the demands of a term paper for Hebrew on the word, ḥērem (devoting things to destruction and total annihilation, not a ruler's special group of female consorts). Happy Easter, by the way!
That all being said, one of the things I feel moved to write about after a six-week hiatus is none other than that little optimistic girl of fiction, Pollyanna. Mildly random, I know, but she's worth reflecting upon.
If you're like me, you've probably used her name is a pejorative manner to describe some saccharine, positive person or outlook on life. Few people can stand it when they're going through a rough time and someone chimes in with a thought or opinion from the "bright side," and I don't blame them for getting a little peeved. Sorrow, anger, grief, loneliness, confusion, etc. are all bitter and difficult experiences in life, but must be felt and lived through to be fully human. They can't just be eschewed in the name of unwavering happiness or some other pleasant emotion. In this sense, the proverbial "Pollyanna" does more harm than good if she tries to drag people out of their pain before they're ready, and chances are she'll piss those people off even more in the meantime.
Truth be told however, I don't think the character Pollyanna ever really did that. Now I've never read the book Pollyanna by Eleanor Porter, but I grew up watching the 1960 Walt Disney film adaptation starring the superbly cast Haley Mills. I highly recommend it. It was kind of a family favorite, especially for my Dad who is one of the least spiteful people I know. And although it may be deemed schmaltzy and outdated, and even though my memory of it may be hazy, I still stand by it and its central message.
For those of you who don't know, the main plot of the movie is that a poor, orphaned girl comes to live with her wealthy aunt who wields a lot of influence in the town. Pollyanna, however, meets and befriends many of the townsfolk - some of the most difficult, in fact. Among them are the fire-and-brimstone-preaching minister, the reclusive and curmudgeonly Mr. Pendergast, and the cantankerous hypochondriac, Mrs. Snow. She touches the lives of these and many others in a way that makes them better, fully human people. And when Pollyanna is severely injured at the end of the film, they return the favor with their offerings of love and support.
It's a watered down summary, but you get the idea. And frankly, I don't know what so wrong or worthy of a hrumph about lives being changed for the better through the innocence of a child. Jesus was always chatting up children, like when he says, "unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven" (Mt. 18:3). Now granted, such a line may have more to do with being totally dependent upon God than about being disarming, but I think it speaks volumes either way.
What I think people actually take issue with - even people who have never seen the movie versions or read the book - is Pollyanna's tendency to try to find the positive in certain (although not every) unfortunate situations. They may or may not be familiar with her so-called "Glad Game," but would still be skeptical of its basic principle. In one scene of the film, Pollyanna recounts to the self-pitying Mrs. Snow how her parents once ordered her a doll, but crutches came in the mail instead. Despite being disappointed with the mix-up, she and her father finally discovered something to be glad about: that no one in their family had to use the crutches. Now if that isn't a beautiful metaphor for the spirituality of poverty and gratitude, I don't know what is! And to all those who would still harangue Pollyanna for this irritatingly optimistic game, it should be noted that mention of it was only brought up a few times in the film. In fact, little Pollyanna, so disdained today for being too idealistic, naïve and out of touch with real human suffering, fails to find any reason to be glad at first when she is paralyzed from the waist down at the end of the movie. So contrary to popular belief, this dear fictional character does know a thing or two about pain and despair.
What I really like about the film Pollyanna is one of the pinnacle scenes, which sadly I only vaguely remember how it goes. In it she is speaking with the town's minister. I don't know what prompts the conversation, but eventually she has him read an Abraham Lincoln quote on her locket: "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will find it." Now I don't know how true that quote is to Lincoln's original, but I think it wraps up the central theme to Pollyanna better and to a much wider extant than even her "Glad Game." Furthermore, it is a severely much-needed message for today's world! I don't know why, but people seem to have contempt for Pollyanna because she tried to see the good in every person. And I'll grant it; seeing the good in people is challenging, and it's particularly annoying when you really don't like someone. But the message on her locket wasn't demanding that people see the good in one another (although, I think that should definitely be encouraged either way). Rather, it simply says that one will find the bad in another if they go looking for it. But what if more and more of us stop seeking the faults and foibles of our neighbors? What if we stop looking at each other's short-comings? In at least one of the Eucharistic prayers (not sure which one though) we beg God, "look not on our sins, but on the faith of you Church." If we so implore God to look away from our own sins, should we who are sinners not return the favor to our fellow imperfect brothers and sisters? And if we do find the bad in people, what then do we do with them? Talk about them? Deride them? Make them pay? Shoot them? Love them? Forgive them?
Suffice it to say, I fight a hard battle in defense of Pollyanna. I may be accused of being Pollyannaish myself (a word so incorporated into our usage, spellchecker didn't even underline it). I may be guilty of using that girl's name to discredit someone or an ideology. But in the end, I firmly believe there is much to be gleaned from the wisdom of her character. All to often we can fall prey to cynicism and sarcasm. One might find that despair garners more attention than hope or that happiness should be dismissed altogether because it is fleeting. And it is true that happiness - or gladness for that matter - does not last forever, and it is not sustaining. But a world not characterized by a sense of gratitude, hopefulness, and love is one held captive by dark and heavy chains - chains, which I believe, may perhaps be unlocked by the example of a cheerful, poor child.
That all being said, one of the things I feel moved to write about after a six-week hiatus is none other than that little optimistic girl of fiction, Pollyanna. Mildly random, I know, but she's worth reflecting upon.
Truth be told however, I don't think the character Pollyanna ever really did that. Now I've never read the book Pollyanna by Eleanor Porter, but I grew up watching the 1960 Walt Disney film adaptation starring the superbly cast Haley Mills. I highly recommend it. It was kind of a family favorite, especially for my Dad who is one of the least spiteful people I know. And although it may be deemed schmaltzy and outdated, and even though my memory of it may be hazy, I still stand by it and its central message.
For those of you who don't know, the main plot of the movie is that a poor, orphaned girl comes to live with her wealthy aunt who wields a lot of influence in the town. Pollyanna, however, meets and befriends many of the townsfolk - some of the most difficult, in fact. Among them are the fire-and-brimstone-preaching minister, the reclusive and curmudgeonly Mr. Pendergast, and the cantankerous hypochondriac, Mrs. Snow. She touches the lives of these and many others in a way that makes them better, fully human people. And when Pollyanna is severely injured at the end of the film, they return the favor with their offerings of love and support.
It's a watered down summary, but you get the idea. And frankly, I don't know what so wrong or worthy of a hrumph about lives being changed for the better through the innocence of a child. Jesus was always chatting up children, like when he says, "unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven" (Mt. 18:3). Now granted, such a line may have more to do with being totally dependent upon God than about being disarming, but I think it speaks volumes either way.
What I think people actually take issue with - even people who have never seen the movie versions or read the book - is Pollyanna's tendency to try to find the positive in certain (although not every) unfortunate situations. They may or may not be familiar with her so-called "Glad Game," but would still be skeptical of its basic principle. In one scene of the film, Pollyanna recounts to the self-pitying Mrs. Snow how her parents once ordered her a doll, but crutches came in the mail instead. Despite being disappointed with the mix-up, she and her father finally discovered something to be glad about: that no one in their family had to use the crutches. Now if that isn't a beautiful metaphor for the spirituality of poverty and gratitude, I don't know what is! And to all those who would still harangue Pollyanna for this irritatingly optimistic game, it should be noted that mention of it was only brought up a few times in the film. In fact, little Pollyanna, so disdained today for being too idealistic, naïve and out of touch with real human suffering, fails to find any reason to be glad at first when she is paralyzed from the waist down at the end of the movie. So contrary to popular belief, this dear fictional character does know a thing or two about pain and despair.
What I really like about the film Pollyanna is one of the pinnacle scenes, which sadly I only vaguely remember how it goes. In it she is speaking with the town's minister. I don't know what prompts the conversation, but eventually she has him read an Abraham Lincoln quote on her locket: "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will find it." Now I don't know how true that quote is to Lincoln's original, but I think it wraps up the central theme to Pollyanna better and to a much wider extant than even her "Glad Game." Furthermore, it is a severely much-needed message for today's world! I don't know why, but people seem to have contempt for Pollyanna because she tried to see the good in every person. And I'll grant it; seeing the good in people is challenging, and it's particularly annoying when you really don't like someone. But the message on her locket wasn't demanding that people see the good in one another (although, I think that should definitely be encouraged either way). Rather, it simply says that one will find the bad in another if they go looking for it. But what if more and more of us stop seeking the faults and foibles of our neighbors? What if we stop looking at each other's short-comings? In at least one of the Eucharistic prayers (not sure which one though) we beg God, "look not on our sins, but on the faith of you Church." If we so implore God to look away from our own sins, should we who are sinners not return the favor to our fellow imperfect brothers and sisters? And if we do find the bad in people, what then do we do with them? Talk about them? Deride them? Make them pay? Shoot them? Love them? Forgive them?
Suffice it to say, I fight a hard battle in defense of Pollyanna. I may be accused of being Pollyannaish myself (a word so incorporated into our usage, spellchecker didn't even underline it). I may be guilty of using that girl's name to discredit someone or an ideology. But in the end, I firmly believe there is much to be gleaned from the wisdom of her character. All to often we can fall prey to cynicism and sarcasm. One might find that despair garners more attention than hope or that happiness should be dismissed altogether because it is fleeting. And it is true that happiness - or gladness for that matter - does not last forever, and it is not sustaining. But a world not characterized by a sense of gratitude, hopefulness, and love is one held captive by dark and heavy chains - chains, which I believe, may perhaps be unlocked by the example of a cheerful, poor child.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Cherry Blossoms
Happy Palm Sunday and start of Holy Week!
This is by far the most sacred time of the liturgical year, and it certainly deserves the attention of a blog post. What's more is that Passover and National Libraries' Week all fall at this same time, combining three of my favorite things: Paschal Mystery, ancient Jewish traditions, and places that house books!
However, I won't be devoting much in this entry to any of those things, but not for a lack of passion for the aforementioned (no pun intended, but go ahead and laugh anyway). If you are interested in meditations on Holy Week, check out this post by Mudblood Catholic. He's quite good. What I will say is that, after listening to the Passion narrative from Matthew's Gospel this morning, it occurred to me how important it is to hear the actual words of the Gospel. This, of course, is a no-brainer, but in our world today, so influenced by the depictions and representations in movies, songs and art, we can forget just how the story actually follows in one or another Gospel. And it's crucial to remember that the authors had a point they were trying to get across, and, especially in these passion narratives which can so often be treated like a re-watching of the movie "Titanic" - we know how it ends - everything they wrote was imbued with the message they wanted to make known about Jesus, God the Father & Holy Spirit, and humanity. So stepping off this soap-box, I'll just say that there's so, so much to be gleaned from today's long reading, even more than might be offered in a cinema-worthy dramatization highlighting physical suffering. A mystery is unfolding - stay awake.
As evidenced by the title of this post, however, I want to say a few words about cherry blossoms. In the DC area, the blossoms have peaked this weekend, and I was blessed enough to check out the myriad of flowers surrounding the tidal basin downtown on Friday. Breath-taking! And to see families, friends, lovers and solitary admirers out and about enjoying the blossoms was incredible. I recall seeing a young woman having a friend take cutesy photos of her with the blossoms. And while I would normally would think that there might be something narcissistic about it, I could see that the star of the pictures was not going to be the young woman, but the delicate, beautiful little blooms.( In any case, I took a selfie with the blossoms myself, so I really can't talk about disdain for narcissism.) What amazed me so much was all the excitement, all the delight and pleasure that was being taken in something so natural, so God-given, so unimposing: simple little flowers. No loud fanfare (at least not on that day), no big light-show or grand speeches or celebrities. Just cherry blossoms.
Now even though it's Holy Week, and maybe a more reflective post about it's significance could be written, it was so necessary to write about these blooms here and now, because that is what they teach us: Here and Now. The caption in the April 14th issue of Time notes on page 10, "In Japan, the brevity of the one-to-two week blossom season has sometimes served as a symbolic reminder that human life is brief as well." As I walked along downtown DC, I couldn't help thinking about this "lesson of the cherry blossom"... or humming the theme from Memoirs of a Geisha*, a movie I insisted on watching last night because the motif of the blossom plays out in the film's theme: life is short, and we must savor it.
This, indeed, is why it is so imperative that I write this now and not later, even though I'm procrastinating on my term paper for Hebrew. Already, I see the green leaves peeking out from the popcorn-like puffs of pink blooms. Their time is coming to an end soon, and I have to honor them in some way before they go. Speaking of procrastination though, I was incidentally watching Ellen DeGeneres' stand-up comedy routine entitled "Here and Now" with a friend today. Her closing remarks to "Procrastinate now. Don't put it off" are profound beyond measure. That is what these cherry blossoms are all about. That is why I dodged a bit of Greek homework to get on the metro and see them two days ago. And that is why I had to share all this before the window of relevance closed.
Furthermore, I received a card today from a dear friend urging me, like he always does, to "be myself" and to share my gifts with others. Well, I don't know if blogging about blossoms is much of a gift, but these precious flowering trees were so much on my mind and in my heart that I thought it would be an insult to him if I didn't write about them. Thanks Nick.
This is by far the most sacred time of the liturgical year, and it certainly deserves the attention of a blog post. What's more is that Passover and National Libraries' Week all fall at this same time, combining three of my favorite things: Paschal Mystery, ancient Jewish traditions, and places that house books!
However, I won't be devoting much in this entry to any of those things, but not for a lack of passion for the aforementioned (no pun intended, but go ahead and laugh anyway). If you are interested in meditations on Holy Week, check out this post by Mudblood Catholic. He's quite good. What I will say is that, after listening to the Passion narrative from Matthew's Gospel this morning, it occurred to me how important it is to hear the actual words of the Gospel. This, of course, is a no-brainer, but in our world today, so influenced by the depictions and representations in movies, songs and art, we can forget just how the story actually follows in one or another Gospel. And it's crucial to remember that the authors had a point they were trying to get across, and, especially in these passion narratives which can so often be treated like a re-watching of the movie "Titanic" - we know how it ends - everything they wrote was imbued with the message they wanted to make known about Jesus, God the Father & Holy Spirit, and humanity. So stepping off this soap-box, I'll just say that there's so, so much to be gleaned from today's long reading, even more than might be offered in a cinema-worthy dramatization highlighting physical suffering. A mystery is unfolding - stay awake.
As evidenced by the title of this post, however, I want to say a few words about cherry blossoms. In the DC area, the blossoms have peaked this weekend, and I was blessed enough to check out the myriad of flowers surrounding the tidal basin downtown on Friday. Breath-taking! And to see families, friends, lovers and solitary admirers out and about enjoying the blossoms was incredible. I recall seeing a young woman having a friend take cutesy photos of her with the blossoms. And while I would normally would think that there might be something narcissistic about it, I could see that the star of the pictures was not going to be the young woman, but the delicate, beautiful little blooms.( In any case, I took a selfie with the blossoms myself, so I really can't talk about disdain for narcissism.) What amazed me so much was all the excitement, all the delight and pleasure that was being taken in something so natural, so God-given, so unimposing: simple little flowers. No loud fanfare (at least not on that day), no big light-show or grand speeches or celebrities. Just cherry blossoms.
Now even though it's Holy Week, and maybe a more reflective post about it's significance could be written, it was so necessary to write about these blooms here and now, because that is what they teach us: Here and Now. The caption in the April 14th issue of Time notes on page 10, "In Japan, the brevity of the one-to-two week blossom season has sometimes served as a symbolic reminder that human life is brief as well." As I walked along downtown DC, I couldn't help thinking about this "lesson of the cherry blossom"... or humming the theme from Memoirs of a Geisha*, a movie I insisted on watching last night because the motif of the blossom plays out in the film's theme: life is short, and we must savor it.
This, indeed, is why it is so imperative that I write this now and not later, even though I'm procrastinating on my term paper for Hebrew. Already, I see the green leaves peeking out from the popcorn-like puffs of pink blooms. Their time is coming to an end soon, and I have to honor them in some way before they go. Speaking of procrastination though, I was incidentally watching Ellen DeGeneres' stand-up comedy routine entitled "Here and Now" with a friend today. Her closing remarks to "Procrastinate now. Don't put it off" are profound beyond measure. That is what these cherry blossoms are all about. That is why I dodged a bit of Greek homework to get on the metro and see them two days ago. And that is why I had to share all this before the window of relevance closed.
Furthermore, I received a card today from a dear friend urging me, like he always does, to "be myself" and to share my gifts with others. Well, I don't know if blogging about blossoms is much of a gift, but these precious flowering trees were so much on my mind and in my heart that I thought it would be an insult to him if I didn't write about them. Thanks Nick.
Like the cherry blossoms,
Life is so brief,
So enjoy life,
And savor every moment.
* I highly recommend the book and movie, Memoirs of a Geisha, and the film's soundtrack. And let me just say that I think John Williams was robbed of a much deserved Oscar for his work on that score.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Becoming One Body
In my last post I said I would write about Pope Francis since he keeps coming up as of late - well, actually as of the last year and then some. Given his popularity, however, I think it will be alright to go without devoting a post about the Pontiff. Sorry to disappoint anyone chomping at the bit to read that. And while I doubt that any of my five readers were so eager, if you're that interested in Pope Francis, I highly recommend his Apostolic Exhortation: "The Joy of the Gospel: Evangelii Gaudium." Or just peruse the newspaper, a magazine stand, or most any Catholic parish narthex. Chances are, you'll find something about him there.
Moving on. I have been wanting to write about something that is at once beautiful and vomitous... No, not beautiful. It actually is just disgusting. Yet I find it thought-provoking, nonetheless.
As sacristan of a small chapel, I was sweeping the floor one Saturday. It always amazes me how much dirt and whatnot a chapel floor can accumulate. It's not like I'm cleaning a bathroom or vacuuming beneath couch cushions. One expects to find filth in such places, but alas, not even a chapel remains immaculate like our Blessed Mother. What struck me though as I was collecting the little pile of dirt into the dust pan was that it mostly consisted of dead skin and hair. Dead skin and hair! A salt-and-peppering of dandruffy flakes and little, twisty curls of head hair, arm hair, leg hair, and God-only-knows-where-else hair.
Oddly enough, my reaction was not an immediate gag-reflex. Undoubtedly, this is what anyone would find if they swept a well-used floor. As I pondered, I couldn't help thinking to myself, "Hmm, how appropriate that we really do become one body here in this chapel!" And that gleaming realization was followed by a flood of other considerations about Catholicism's nonchalance for hygiene that would test any germaphobe's faith... or at least their level of tolerance.
Let's begin with the holy water. I myself cringe as I reach to dip my finger into that cesspool of sanctity. I can remember as a child peering into the small fonts along the entrance wall of the nave and noticing a distinct cloud of some sort at the bottom of the bowl. That cloud, I'm sure, was not something spoken of in Ezekiel or Daniel, and I don't think I have to say what it actually was. The evening news, on the other hand, was not shy to point out that a certain percentage of fecal matter indeed ends up in holy water fonts... and apparently neither was I. A couple of things to remember though if this is too disturbing for you: 1.) if such crap (literally) is found in holy water, it's probably in a lot more places than you think anyway - like doorknobs. Wash you hands, and get some hand sanitizer (I'm currently loving Bath & Bodyworks' Fresh Sparkling Snow scented anti-bacterial gel, though I have no idea what fresh sparkling snow is supposed to smell like). 2.) There is no theological or liturgical purpose, as far as I know, for you to bless yourself with holy water when you are leaving the church. You just received Jesus in the Holy Eucharist! I think you're pretty blessed enough. So don't worry about that second dip on your way out.
The case with the holy water is just one example of how we share more of ourselves than we think at Mass. I mean there's hand-shaking, hand-holding (if your parish is into that), a priest up there at the altar praying the Eucharist Prayer between hacking up a lung and wiping his nose. Yeah, I've seen that more than once unfortunately. And let us not forget the most obvious of almost-too-close-for-comfort intimacies at Mass: communion. I once heard a story about a Protestant speaking to a Catholic about Catholic practices, saying something to the effect of, "I can appreciate your belief in the bread and wine becoming the actual body and blood of Jesus. But you all drink from the same cup, and that's nasty!"
He's got a point. I don't even like sharing my food at the dinner table, but I drink from a chalice that has been sipped from over and over again. And yeah, there's nothing hygienic about it, no matter how much I'd like to believe that it being the Blood of Christ washes away the germs - either that or it's alcohol content.
To wrap up this fleshy meditation, I think it's important to note that at Mass, where we are fed and nourished and strengthened to spiritually become one body in Christ with all our brothers and sisters, we actually do become one body in a very mystically physical way. We dip our hands in the same water. We embrace or shake hands. Our tongues might grace the finger of the priest or Eucharistic minister at communion (though I hope no one strives to do that because that's gross). And we drink from the same blessed cup!
Jesus, in his ministry, was not afraid to blur those boundaries of human contact either. He touched the infirmed. He put his fingers in their ears and mouths (I reiterate, that's gross). He even went as far as making mud out of his spittle and rubbing it in someone's eyes! And he sat down and ate with people. Now sharing a meal may seem pretty innocuous as it relates to this topic, but I've eaten family-style at a Mediterranean restaurant. Everyone's touching all the food, and reusing their spoons to get more hummus and tabouli, taking olive pits out of their mouths and then double dipping their pita bread in the tzatziki.* It's dangerously intimate, and I'd imagine that's kind of what it was like to eat a meal in Palestine at the time of Christ. Jesus and everyone else around him were sharing more than just food, I'm sure. So it really puts into perspective the shock it must have caused for him to eat with so-called "sinners!" In a culture with no dichotomy between body and soul, one can only presume the scandal of eating what was touched by moral outcasts of society.
Bottom line (if I haven't strayed too far from it): There is a nearly imperceptible, mystical, earthy, and very real exchange of bodiliness inherent in our worship, and it does not always merit our total revulsion. The Son of God came as a bodily person like the rest of us and interacted with other people as such, even to the extent of risking infection.
And at the end of the day our flesh all gets collected and co-mingles in a neat little pile - the dust to which we shall return, one body in Christ.
*Yeah, that meal gave me one of the worst cases of the runs in my life.
Moving on. I have been wanting to write about something that is at once beautiful and vomitous... No, not beautiful. It actually is just disgusting. Yet I find it thought-provoking, nonetheless.
As sacristan of a small chapel, I was sweeping the floor one Saturday. It always amazes me how much dirt and whatnot a chapel floor can accumulate. It's not like I'm cleaning a bathroom or vacuuming beneath couch cushions. One expects to find filth in such places, but alas, not even a chapel remains immaculate like our Blessed Mother. What struck me though as I was collecting the little pile of dirt into the dust pan was that it mostly consisted of dead skin and hair. Dead skin and hair! A salt-and-peppering of dandruffy flakes and little, twisty curls of head hair, arm hair, leg hair, and God-only-knows-where-else hair.
Oddly enough, my reaction was not an immediate gag-reflex. Undoubtedly, this is what anyone would find if they swept a well-used floor. As I pondered, I couldn't help thinking to myself, "Hmm, how appropriate that we really do become one body here in this chapel!" And that gleaming realization was followed by a flood of other considerations about Catholicism's nonchalance for hygiene that would test any germaphobe's faith... or at least their level of tolerance.
Let's begin with the holy water. I myself cringe as I reach to dip my finger into that cesspool of sanctity. I can remember as a child peering into the small fonts along the entrance wall of the nave and noticing a distinct cloud of some sort at the bottom of the bowl. That cloud, I'm sure, was not something spoken of in Ezekiel or Daniel, and I don't think I have to say what it actually was. The evening news, on the other hand, was not shy to point out that a certain percentage of fecal matter indeed ends up in holy water fonts... and apparently neither was I. A couple of things to remember though if this is too disturbing for you: 1.) if such crap (literally) is found in holy water, it's probably in a lot more places than you think anyway - like doorknobs. Wash you hands, and get some hand sanitizer (I'm currently loving Bath & Bodyworks' Fresh Sparkling Snow scented anti-bacterial gel, though I have no idea what fresh sparkling snow is supposed to smell like). 2.) There is no theological or liturgical purpose, as far as I know, for you to bless yourself with holy water when you are leaving the church. You just received Jesus in the Holy Eucharist! I think you're pretty blessed enough. So don't worry about that second dip on your way out.
The case with the holy water is just one example of how we share more of ourselves than we think at Mass. I mean there's hand-shaking, hand-holding (if your parish is into that), a priest up there at the altar praying the Eucharist Prayer between hacking up a lung and wiping his nose. Yeah, I've seen that more than once unfortunately. And let us not forget the most obvious of almost-too-close-for-comfort intimacies at Mass: communion. I once heard a story about a Protestant speaking to a Catholic about Catholic practices, saying something to the effect of, "I can appreciate your belief in the bread and wine becoming the actual body and blood of Jesus. But you all drink from the same cup, and that's nasty!"
He's got a point. I don't even like sharing my food at the dinner table, but I drink from a chalice that has been sipped from over and over again. And yeah, there's nothing hygienic about it, no matter how much I'd like to believe that it being the Blood of Christ washes away the germs - either that or it's alcohol content.
To wrap up this fleshy meditation, I think it's important to note that at Mass, where we are fed and nourished and strengthened to spiritually become one body in Christ with all our brothers and sisters, we actually do become one body in a very mystically physical way. We dip our hands in the same water. We embrace or shake hands. Our tongues might grace the finger of the priest or Eucharistic minister at communion (though I hope no one strives to do that because that's gross). And we drink from the same blessed cup!
Jesus, in his ministry, was not afraid to blur those boundaries of human contact either. He touched the infirmed. He put his fingers in their ears and mouths (I reiterate, that's gross). He even went as far as making mud out of his spittle and rubbing it in someone's eyes! And he sat down and ate with people. Now sharing a meal may seem pretty innocuous as it relates to this topic, but I've eaten family-style at a Mediterranean restaurant. Everyone's touching all the food, and reusing their spoons to get more hummus and tabouli, taking olive pits out of their mouths and then double dipping their pita bread in the tzatziki.* It's dangerously intimate, and I'd imagine that's kind of what it was like to eat a meal in Palestine at the time of Christ. Jesus and everyone else around him were sharing more than just food, I'm sure. So it really puts into perspective the shock it must have caused for him to eat with so-called "sinners!" In a culture with no dichotomy between body and soul, one can only presume the scandal of eating what was touched by moral outcasts of society.
Bottom line (if I haven't strayed too far from it): There is a nearly imperceptible, mystical, earthy, and very real exchange of bodiliness inherent in our worship, and it does not always merit our total revulsion. The Son of God came as a bodily person like the rest of us and interacted with other people as such, even to the extent of risking infection.
And at the end of the day our flesh all gets collected and co-mingles in a neat little pile - the dust to which we shall return, one body in Christ.
*Yeah, that meal gave me one of the worst cases of the runs in my life.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Quick Thoughts: Gifts
A couple of themes have recently been cropping up as I've gone about my business this past week: gifts & Pope Francis. The latter is not exactly what I'd call a theme per se, but for all intents and purposes* the pope will suffice as such. Furthermore, these two topics, though not mutually exclusive of course, will be dealt with separately... and briefly I hope. It's getting late.
Gifts:
I am one who struggles to accept my own gifts for various and sundry reasons, and I imagine there are many out there who feel the same way about the gifts they have within themselves. Honestly, sometimes I think the whole "gift" ideology is a myth - a big corporate delusion we all entertain to make us feel better about ourselves but which actually just perpetuates the ever increasing narcissism that is raping this generation. And with that I think I just demonstrated at least one reason gifts are a challenging thing to accept.
Although I do think that a certain focus on the self has climbed to an unnecessary height, a healthy level of awareness that each of us has something within us that, maybe doesn't make us unique, but can be used to improve the lives of others is important. I suppose therein lies the crux. Gifts, whatever they may be, are not really gifts unless they serve others. That is perhaps another reason we tend fret about our lack of giftedness. We have been trained to think about our talents in terms of what makes us "special," "unique," "one-of-a-kind," and when we don't see any of those qualities within ourselves - just the plain ol' ordinariness like everyone else - we can start feeling sorry for ourselves That, now that I think about it, is not what the gifts that God gave us are all about. Don't get me wrong. There will be talents and abilities that some will have that others will not. But the point, if I've even settled on making a one, is that whatever we've been given is meant to be given back, and moreover we shouldn't think that what it is we're meant to share is something grand and earth-shaking. For heaven's sake, smile at someone the next time you're on the bus or just walking down the street! Chances are, whether another person smiles back at you or not, somebody will be better off, even if only for a second, because you existed to share what God gave you.
To find your gifts, see how you serve others, and remember two things. You may not be Mother Theresa, and in fact you wont' be, so don't worry about it. Service comes in many and varied ways: a "hello," an offering of help, a listening ear, a laugh, an education, some guidance, an apology, cooperation, etc.. Secondly, it's not about you; it's about God. Let's keep things in perspective.
It was a quick wrap-up this evening. Sorry. But I'll write about Pope Francis another time. In any case, what more can one say about him that hasn't been said already?
Shalom,
Ian
* Is this the correct wording of that phrase?
Gifts:
I am one who struggles to accept my own gifts for various and sundry reasons, and I imagine there are many out there who feel the same way about the gifts they have within themselves. Honestly, sometimes I think the whole "gift" ideology is a myth - a big corporate delusion we all entertain to make us feel better about ourselves but which actually just perpetuates the ever increasing narcissism that is raping this generation. And with that I think I just demonstrated at least one reason gifts are a challenging thing to accept.
Although I do think that a certain focus on the self has climbed to an unnecessary height, a healthy level of awareness that each of us has something within us that, maybe doesn't make us unique, but can be used to improve the lives of others is important. I suppose therein lies the crux. Gifts, whatever they may be, are not really gifts unless they serve others. That is perhaps another reason we tend fret about our lack of giftedness. We have been trained to think about our talents in terms of what makes us "special," "unique," "one-of-a-kind," and when we don't see any of those qualities within ourselves - just the plain ol' ordinariness like everyone else - we can start feeling sorry for ourselves That, now that I think about it, is not what the gifts that God gave us are all about. Don't get me wrong. There will be talents and abilities that some will have that others will not. But the point, if I've even settled on making a one, is that whatever we've been given is meant to be given back, and moreover we shouldn't think that what it is we're meant to share is something grand and earth-shaking. For heaven's sake, smile at someone the next time you're on the bus or just walking down the street! Chances are, whether another person smiles back at you or not, somebody will be better off, even if only for a second, because you existed to share what God gave you.
To find your gifts, see how you serve others, and remember two things. You may not be Mother Theresa, and in fact you wont' be, so don't worry about it. Service comes in many and varied ways: a "hello," an offering of help, a listening ear, a laugh, an education, some guidance, an apology, cooperation, etc.. Secondly, it's not about you; it's about God. Let's keep things in perspective.
It was a quick wrap-up this evening. Sorry. But I'll write about Pope Francis another time. In any case, what more can one say about him that hasn't been said already?
Shalom,
Ian
* Is this the correct wording of that phrase?
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Happy St. Joseph's Day!
Well the day is nearly over, but Happy St. Joseph's Day, that is, the Solemnity of St. Joseph, Husband of Mary.
A few brief thoughts about St. Joseph - and they'll have to be brief because it's after 10:00 and I don't like being up so late.
So often in the Bible it is the wife who, whether she is referred to by name or not, is mentioned only inasmuch as she is the "wife of so-and-so." Therefore, I find it notable that in Matthew's Gospel it is Joseph who is listed in that self-effacing manner: "the husband of Mary" (Mt 1:16). Now first off, I'm not condoning the practice of one spouse being known solely with reference to their husband or wife - though I'm not really judging the biblical writers either. It simply is what it is. Secondly, Joseph's name comes at the end of an impressive genealogy in Matthew's Gospel, so one could hardly accuse him of getting pushed under the shadow of Mary, his wife, when it is thanks to his pedigree that Jesus owes his lineage to David (at least in the theological mind of that Gospel writer). Furthermore, Matthew's Gospel depicts Joseph as taking a much more active role in the infancy narrative than in Luke's Gospel, so St. Joe ain't exactly a mere name attached to his wife. But the Gospels say very little about the man, and, as the homilist said today at mass, no words of Joseph are recorded in scripture. What then can be taken from such a unobtrusive, obscure character?
One thing we can learn from Joseph, like so many figures of the Bible worth emulating, is that he listened to God and followed God's command, even when it seemed strange, difficult, or different from the plan he already had in mind. Joseph was going to quietly divorce Mary because she was found with child before she was taken into his home. He was going to do this in such a way that would not expose her shame. A fine and respectable thing to do for one in that predicament in ancient Palestine, I take it. But God asked Joseph to go above and beyond what was expected of him and to take Mary and her to-be-born child into his home, and Joseph responds with trust in the will of God and does so.
I suppose I could go on about a number of attributes of Joseph: how he was the head of the holy family, the earthly father of the Son of God, the poor carpenter who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, the one who had to lead his wife and son in their travels to and from Bethlehem and Egypt (according to the respective Gospel narratives), etc. But for all of that, and for the sake of getting some sleep soon, I'll simply sum up the two points I have attempted to make. Joseph simply was a man who did what was asked of him by God, and we celebrate a solemnity in his honor today - a solemnity in which he is humbly known in deference to his wife, Mary. And while that title may appear to feed the flames of a Mary-centric Catholicism or seem to be, dare I say, emasculating by sects of secular society, I don't think Joseph would care. The Church celebrates a day of great feasting in the midst of Lent because of a simple, unassuming, husband.
Praise God for that!
Shalom,
Ian
A few brief thoughts about St. Joseph - and they'll have to be brief because it's after 10:00 and I don't like being up so late.
So often in the Bible it is the wife who, whether she is referred to by name or not, is mentioned only inasmuch as she is the "wife of so-and-so." Therefore, I find it notable that in Matthew's Gospel it is Joseph who is listed in that self-effacing manner: "the husband of Mary" (Mt 1:16). Now first off, I'm not condoning the practice of one spouse being known solely with reference to their husband or wife - though I'm not really judging the biblical writers either. It simply is what it is. Secondly, Joseph's name comes at the end of an impressive genealogy in Matthew's Gospel, so one could hardly accuse him of getting pushed under the shadow of Mary, his wife, when it is thanks to his pedigree that Jesus owes his lineage to David (at least in the theological mind of that Gospel writer). Furthermore, Matthew's Gospel depicts Joseph as taking a much more active role in the infancy narrative than in Luke's Gospel, so St. Joe ain't exactly a mere name attached to his wife. But the Gospels say very little about the man, and, as the homilist said today at mass, no words of Joseph are recorded in scripture. What then can be taken from such a unobtrusive, obscure character?
One thing we can learn from Joseph, like so many figures of the Bible worth emulating, is that he listened to God and followed God's command, even when it seemed strange, difficult, or different from the plan he already had in mind. Joseph was going to quietly divorce Mary because she was found with child before she was taken into his home. He was going to do this in such a way that would not expose her shame. A fine and respectable thing to do for one in that predicament in ancient Palestine, I take it. But God asked Joseph to go above and beyond what was expected of him and to take Mary and her to-be-born child into his home, and Joseph responds with trust in the will of God and does so.
I suppose I could go on about a number of attributes of Joseph: how he was the head of the holy family, the earthly father of the Son of God, the poor carpenter who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, the one who had to lead his wife and son in their travels to and from Bethlehem and Egypt (according to the respective Gospel narratives), etc. But for all of that, and for the sake of getting some sleep soon, I'll simply sum up the two points I have attempted to make. Joseph simply was a man who did what was asked of him by God, and we celebrate a solemnity in his honor today - a solemnity in which he is humbly known in deference to his wife, Mary. And while that title may appear to feed the flames of a Mary-centric Catholicism or seem to be, dare I say, emasculating by sects of secular society, I don't think Joseph would care. The Church celebrates a day of great feasting in the midst of Lent because of a simple, unassuming, husband.
Praise God for that!
Shalom,
Ian
Saturday, March 15, 2014
A Letter to the Angel of Pleasure
Dear Angel of Pleasure,
Please send this message to God for me.
Tell Him that I think he did a fabulous job those seven days*. Indeed, it was very good. I give Him five stars. Really. But well, you know the story: fruit trees & floods, exodus & exile, temples, wars, cribs and crosses. And still, even after that glorious Sunday, mortal flesh continues to find new ways to screw things up (or maybe we just merely repeat old ways).
Anyway, I'll make this brief. I think the human race could be just a little happier if we simply look back on those seven days and see that it wasn't so bad then, and it ain't so bad now. Sure people manage to falter and fall or downright act in the utmost heinous manner imaginable. Let's be real. And for the record, I'm not condoning such behavior. But in the end I'm led to believe that what God made is good, very good!
And so, Angel of Pleasure, I'm turning to you, because I don't think you get as much attention as say guardian angels, seraphim, cherubim, Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael, yet you can help us too. Ask God to send you forth into the world to strike our hearts like a tambourine whenever a grape bursts in our mouths or that savory tang of goat cheese tingles our tongues. Yes, whisper softly in our ears a song of our God when we see a sunset or a sprinkling of snow. Stoke the fading embers in our flesh when we breathe in the scent of a briny sea or a spicy kitchen, a field of daisies or piney woods. Tickle the spirit within us whenever we hear the chickadees sing, or a bow glide across a cello, or even whenever the doorbell announces another one of God's beloveds. And finally awaken our dead bodies when we feel the earth beneath our feet, the wind above our heads, and a loved one at our side.
If you can just send God this message, I'm sure He'll oblige, and hey, I'm sure you won't mind the extra hours either. These are desperate times for both man and angel alike.
Yours truly,
Ian
*I just thought I should reiterate that I'm not a biblical literalist, creationist, or fundamentalist. Surely you can see the figurative message in all this.
Please send this message to God for me.
Tell Him that I think he did a fabulous job those seven days*. Indeed, it was very good. I give Him five stars. Really. But well, you know the story: fruit trees & floods, exodus & exile, temples, wars, cribs and crosses. And still, even after that glorious Sunday, mortal flesh continues to find new ways to screw things up (or maybe we just merely repeat old ways).
Anyway, I'll make this brief. I think the human race could be just a little happier if we simply look back on those seven days and see that it wasn't so bad then, and it ain't so bad now. Sure people manage to falter and fall or downright act in the utmost heinous manner imaginable. Let's be real. And for the record, I'm not condoning such behavior. But in the end I'm led to believe that what God made is good, very good!
And so, Angel of Pleasure, I'm turning to you, because I don't think you get as much attention as say guardian angels, seraphim, cherubim, Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael, yet you can help us too. Ask God to send you forth into the world to strike our hearts like a tambourine whenever a grape bursts in our mouths or that savory tang of goat cheese tingles our tongues. Yes, whisper softly in our ears a song of our God when we see a sunset or a sprinkling of snow. Stoke the fading embers in our flesh when we breathe in the scent of a briny sea or a spicy kitchen, a field of daisies or piney woods. Tickle the spirit within us whenever we hear the chickadees sing, or a bow glide across a cello, or even whenever the doorbell announces another one of God's beloveds. And finally awaken our dead bodies when we feel the earth beneath our feet, the wind above our heads, and a loved one at our side.
If you can just send God this message, I'm sure He'll oblige, and hey, I'm sure you won't mind the extra hours either. These are desperate times for both man and angel alike.
Yours truly,
Ian
*I just thought I should reiterate that I'm not a biblical literalist, creationist, or fundamentalist. Surely you can see the figurative message in all this.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
If You Are the Son of God...
The narratives of today's First Reading and Gospel certainly have a lot in them to unpack. It wouldn't be beyond the realm of reason to have an entire book written about these scripture passages. For all I know, there may be one in existence already, but in either case I don't intend on writing one. Instead, however, I wanted to just offer some reflection on the particular phrase "If you are the Son of God..."
The tempter in today's Gospel (Mt 4:1-11) begins two of his accusations of Jesus with this phrase. I couldn't help but be reminded of the other times that a similar retort was thrown at Jesus in the Gospels. There is, of course, the line from one of the two criminals hung on a cross beside Jesus: "Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us" (Lk 23:39) Or even at his trial before the Sanhedrin: "'If you are the Messiah, tell us.' But He said to them, 'If I tell you, you will not believe'" (Lk 22:67).
Jesus has a way of, well, not meeting our expectations of Messiah or Son of God. It's not surprising that nowadays Jesus is reduced by some seekers of the "historical Jesus" to little more than a revolutionary or apocalyptic prophet. I can't argue with the assessment that Jesus was indeed revolutionary in some sense of the word, and a prophet with an apocalyptic message (and I say "apocalyptic" without the connotation that it has unfortunately garnered of regarding "the end of the world"). Yet if one bases their denial of Jesus as the Messiah or Son of God strictly on the understanding that Jesus did not do any remarkable thing of divine proportions within history, then I think one has regrettably missed Jesus' point. For the record, I'm not criticizing anyone who doesn't hail Jesus as the Christ or Son of God, I'm merely subjectively objecting to this one tiny, little argument.
I reiterate that it appears Jesus is saying that being the Anointed One, even being God, is not what we expect. Being God is not about hurling down a lighting bolt and making a grand appearance. Did not God manifest Godself to Elijah in "the gentle whisper (1 Kings 19:12)? Being God's Anointed doesn't mean changing rocks into food, even when hungry. And it doesn't mean leaping off a building unscathed just because he supposedly can. God's way, as I understand it, is simple, unassuming, and unimposing.
And when it comes to feeding himself by utilizing some kind of extraordinary power, or even gaining all the world back from the grasp of Satan, or especially saving himself from the horrific and humiliating death on the cross, Jesus never takes the easy route. I'm reminded of the line Dumbledore makes at the memorial for Cedric Diggory in the fourth Harry Potter movie: "The time will come to choose between what is right and what is easy" (or however the line goes exactly). Yes, I did just tie in Harry Potter to a reflection on the Gospel. But is it not relevant to note that Jesus always chooses the path that is right, that is in accord with the will of the Father, that is always for the well-being of others rather than himself and not that which is easy?
It's getting late from where I'm sitting, and I quickly wanted to tie in that rich and haunting First Reading of this Sunday: Genesis 2:7-9; 3:1-7. It is again a story of a tempter, and I just want to draw attention to the serpent's line : "You certainly will not die! No, God knows well that the moment you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods who know what is good and what is evil." Here's the thing: Were not the man and woman already made in the image and likeness of God (Gn 1:26)? Could it be that the woman and the man - I'll include him too, even though the text doesn't specify where he was or what he was doing during this little chit-chat with the serpent - missed the point about what it means or doesn't mean to be like God?
I recently learned from one of my professors that the phrase "knowing good and evil" (in Hebrew something like yodey tov v-rah - to the best of my transliteration) is an idiomatic expression for simply knowing everything. I bring this up because it might seem like having moral knowledge would be an innocuous and even laudable quality; whereas knowledge of everything borders that realm of great and awesome power that one can wield this way or that. And in any case, no one likes an insufferable know-it-all. I'm not denying that God has and exercises might and wonder in Sacred Scripture, but isn't one of the messages we receive, particularly in today's Gospel reading, that that is not what being God is about? So sadly, the woman and the man did not see themselves as being in the image and likeness of God. Furthermore, they reached instead to obtain a misconstrued image of God. Oh that they would have seen God - humble and self-giving - already in themselves.
Granted, a door-stop of a book could be written on these multi-faceted and layered texts. These are merely my own musings on the matter, and I don't presume them to be exhaustive or even sound.
I'll end with a line I heard a priest say regarding original sin: "It wasn't the apple in the tree; it was the pair on the ground." *rim shot*
Shalom.
The tempter in today's Gospel (Mt 4:1-11) begins two of his accusations of Jesus with this phrase. I couldn't help but be reminded of the other times that a similar retort was thrown at Jesus in the Gospels. There is, of course, the line from one of the two criminals hung on a cross beside Jesus: "Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us" (Lk 23:39) Or even at his trial before the Sanhedrin: "'If you are the Messiah, tell us.' But He said to them, 'If I tell you, you will not believe'" (Lk 22:67).
Jesus has a way of, well, not meeting our expectations of Messiah or Son of God. It's not surprising that nowadays Jesus is reduced by some seekers of the "historical Jesus" to little more than a revolutionary or apocalyptic prophet. I can't argue with the assessment that Jesus was indeed revolutionary in some sense of the word, and a prophet with an apocalyptic message (and I say "apocalyptic" without the connotation that it has unfortunately garnered of regarding "the end of the world"). Yet if one bases their denial of Jesus as the Messiah or Son of God strictly on the understanding that Jesus did not do any remarkable thing of divine proportions within history, then I think one has regrettably missed Jesus' point. For the record, I'm not criticizing anyone who doesn't hail Jesus as the Christ or Son of God, I'm merely subjectively objecting to this one tiny, little argument.
I reiterate that it appears Jesus is saying that being the Anointed One, even being God, is not what we expect. Being God is not about hurling down a lighting bolt and making a grand appearance. Did not God manifest Godself to Elijah in "the gentle whisper (1 Kings 19:12)? Being God's Anointed doesn't mean changing rocks into food, even when hungry. And it doesn't mean leaping off a building unscathed just because he supposedly can. God's way, as I understand it, is simple, unassuming, and unimposing.
And when it comes to feeding himself by utilizing some kind of extraordinary power, or even gaining all the world back from the grasp of Satan, or especially saving himself from the horrific and humiliating death on the cross, Jesus never takes the easy route. I'm reminded of the line Dumbledore makes at the memorial for Cedric Diggory in the fourth Harry Potter movie: "The time will come to choose between what is right and what is easy" (or however the line goes exactly). Yes, I did just tie in Harry Potter to a reflection on the Gospel. But is it not relevant to note that Jesus always chooses the path that is right, that is in accord with the will of the Father, that is always for the well-being of others rather than himself and not that which is easy?
It's getting late from where I'm sitting, and I quickly wanted to tie in that rich and haunting First Reading of this Sunday: Genesis 2:7-9; 3:1-7. It is again a story of a tempter, and I just want to draw attention to the serpent's line : "You certainly will not die! No, God knows well that the moment you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods who know what is good and what is evil." Here's the thing: Were not the man and woman already made in the image and likeness of God (Gn 1:26)? Could it be that the woman and the man - I'll include him too, even though the text doesn't specify where he was or what he was doing during this little chit-chat with the serpent - missed the point about what it means or doesn't mean to be like God?
I recently learned from one of my professors that the phrase "knowing good and evil" (in Hebrew something like yodey tov v-rah - to the best of my transliteration) is an idiomatic expression for simply knowing everything. I bring this up because it might seem like having moral knowledge would be an innocuous and even laudable quality; whereas knowledge of everything borders that realm of great and awesome power that one can wield this way or that. And in any case, no one likes an insufferable know-it-all. I'm not denying that God has and exercises might and wonder in Sacred Scripture, but isn't one of the messages we receive, particularly in today's Gospel reading, that that is not what being God is about? So sadly, the woman and the man did not see themselves as being in the image and likeness of God. Furthermore, they reached instead to obtain a misconstrued image of God. Oh that they would have seen God - humble and self-giving - already in themselves.
Granted, a door-stop of a book could be written on these multi-faceted and layered texts. These are merely my own musings on the matter, and I don't presume them to be exhaustive or even sound.
I'll end with a line I heard a priest say regarding original sin: "It wasn't the apple in the tree; it was the pair on the ground." *rim shot*
Shalom.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Lent, Mourning, Compassion?
Ash Wednesday has come and gone - that funny day when more Catholics (and even some non-Catholics) go to a weekday, non-obligatory mass than they do any typical Sunday mass. I suspect attendance may nearly rival that of Christmas or Easter. But hey, I can't criticize people for showing up for the celebration of Holy Eucharist. Oddly enough though, I think the phenomenon of wearing a visibly ostentation symbol of conversion upon one's forehead on the very day the Gospel advocates praying, fasting, and almsgiving in secret is not a little ironic. I also can't help but think that the reception of said symbol is the big draw for most people. But who am I to presume what is in a person's heart for attending mass. Furthermore, it's not as if I wasn't wearing the ashes all day myself. I'm not dogging ashes; I just think the paradox between public witness and private conversion is a little amusing.
So yes, Lent is here. A favored season on mine, but one I so rarely feel prepared to enter into. At first I ask myself why should it matter if I'm ready or not. I mean, isn't that the point of Lent - to prepare for Easter? All well and good, but I guess even a sojourner on his way to a significant destination still prepares his gear and provisions before setting out. For your information, I'm not much of a hiker or camper, so I could be wrong. Either way, at this point it makes little difference. Lent is here now, and now is the acceptable time. What is God calling me to do, to change, to listen to?
Compassion strikes as one of those qualities worthy of reflection this year. It goes with out saying that to suffer with someone (the literal meaning of "compassion"), is no easy or pleasant feat. It's hard enough to endure my own sufferings, let alone empathize with another person's pain. I'm currently aware of someone who is going through trials beyond measure right now. Yet as he spoke about the serious medical predicament of someone in his family, I said nothing - not even an "I'm sorry." Since then I just recall the words of Jesus,"Blessed are those who mourn" (Mt 5:4).
There is a time for suffering, for mourning, for sorrow. One only need be reminded of the canticle from Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes), or at least the song "Turn, Turn, Turn" by The Byrds. Mourning is one of those unsavory states no one enjoys residing in. And I don't know about you, but when someone's day is darkened by tragedy, it's kind of uncomfortable to be around them, to share in their sorrow. But I know that when my life is touched by grief or pain, and I see the world and everyone around me going about with smiles on their faces, it can hurt all the more just to show up and be present. It's like the lyrics of the song "The End of the World" by Skeeter Davis have come to life... well except for the whole bit about breaking up with someone. It's worth, then, being aware that this is the reality for so many others and that maybe they just need someone to acknowledge and accept their grief.
Now I know I'm perilously bordering the old adage "misery loves company," but I'm not suggesting that a person in pain need surround him or herself with sad, sulky people or that folks should feel obligated to match their neighbor's level of mourning. The world does go on after all. But it is still our duty to "bear each other's burdens" (Gal 6:2). I can make someone's suffering just a little easier by showing that I actually do care - a word, a gesture, a prayer. A little bit of empathy can go a long way, difficult and uncomfortable though it may be at times. In the end, however, the latter half of that beatitude may indeed be fulfilled: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
So yes, Lent is here. A favored season on mine, but one I so rarely feel prepared to enter into. At first I ask myself why should it matter if I'm ready or not. I mean, isn't that the point of Lent - to prepare for Easter? All well and good, but I guess even a sojourner on his way to a significant destination still prepares his gear and provisions before setting out. For your information, I'm not much of a hiker or camper, so I could be wrong. Either way, at this point it makes little difference. Lent is here now, and now is the acceptable time. What is God calling me to do, to change, to listen to?
Compassion strikes as one of those qualities worthy of reflection this year. It goes with out saying that to suffer with someone (the literal meaning of "compassion"), is no easy or pleasant feat. It's hard enough to endure my own sufferings, let alone empathize with another person's pain. I'm currently aware of someone who is going through trials beyond measure right now. Yet as he spoke about the serious medical predicament of someone in his family, I said nothing - not even an "I'm sorry." Since then I just recall the words of Jesus,"Blessed are those who mourn" (Mt 5:4).
There is a time for suffering, for mourning, for sorrow. One only need be reminded of the canticle from Qoheleth (Ecclesiastes), or at least the song "Turn, Turn, Turn" by The Byrds. Mourning is one of those unsavory states no one enjoys residing in. And I don't know about you, but when someone's day is darkened by tragedy, it's kind of uncomfortable to be around them, to share in their sorrow. But I know that when my life is touched by grief or pain, and I see the world and everyone around me going about with smiles on their faces, it can hurt all the more just to show up and be present. It's like the lyrics of the song "The End of the World" by Skeeter Davis have come to life... well except for the whole bit about breaking up with someone. It's worth, then, being aware that this is the reality for so many others and that maybe they just need someone to acknowledge and accept their grief.
Now I know I'm perilously bordering the old adage "misery loves company," but I'm not suggesting that a person in pain need surround him or herself with sad, sulky people or that folks should feel obligated to match their neighbor's level of mourning. The world does go on after all. But it is still our duty to "bear each other's burdens" (Gal 6:2). I can make someone's suffering just a little easier by showing that I actually do care - a word, a gesture, a prayer. A little bit of empathy can go a long way, difficult and uncomfortable though it may be at times. In the end, however, the latter half of that beatitude may indeed be fulfilled: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."
Monday, March 3, 2014
Lent's Approaching... I Guess I Should Write Something
When I was in 8th grade I had a particularly moving Lenten experience. I'm sure I had given up sweets or some trifle thing like that, but I also made a commitment to read the Bible - a chapter a day. To no surprise, I don't think either exercise made that particular Lent the spiritually reinvigorating season that it was. Neither was praying a decade of the rosary a night.
Don't mistake me. I think reading the Bible is a great thing... I'm a scripture student, it's kind of what I'm into. And having some gastronomical discipline ain't so bad either. My point is that, aside from being an anomalously over-pious adolescent, Lent kindled something within me which, despite my best efforts, I have never been able to reduplicate any other year. With that in mind, it is fair to say that all the spiritual reading, and all the rosaries, and all the sugary denials don't make the season... what?
What was it then that made those forty days and forty nights different than all the others of previous and subsequent years? Was it merely youthful piety? It's possible. Did God simply pour out a double-portion of grace to me that year? First of all, I am loath to think that grace is a thing which can be quantified. Second, is not God's grace (in whatever non-quantifiable terms you can imagine it now that I've dug myself a hole) equally present and freely offered. That leaves me to believe that, while indeed the Spirit itself is the source and cause of all Lenten joy, one's disposition, openness and receptivity makes all the difference.
I suppose in 8th grade I was thirsting for conversion in my life, and since then, though I anticipate Lent with eagerness, I have not been as willing as I was to change and to really listen to God. All too often I enter the season of Lent hoping for the consolations I had once had, thinking maybe by doing this or not doing that they will come. Lord knows over these years I have been and will perpetually be in need of conversion. That doesn't change. But what can be different is how receptive I am to God's call to turn back to him with my whole heart.
So whatever I do or don't do, however I fast, pray and give, may it be with an open heart that is seeking God, seeking the Resurrected Christ.
Shalom.
Don't mistake me. I think reading the Bible is a great thing... I'm a scripture student, it's kind of what I'm into. And having some gastronomical discipline ain't so bad either. My point is that, aside from being an anomalously over-pious adolescent, Lent kindled something within me which, despite my best efforts, I have never been able to reduplicate any other year. With that in mind, it is fair to say that all the spiritual reading, and all the rosaries, and all the sugary denials don't make the season... what?
What was it then that made those forty days and forty nights different than all the others of previous and subsequent years? Was it merely youthful piety? It's possible. Did God simply pour out a double-portion of grace to me that year? First of all, I am loath to think that grace is a thing which can be quantified. Second, is not God's grace (in whatever non-quantifiable terms you can imagine it now that I've dug myself a hole) equally present and freely offered. That leaves me to believe that, while indeed the Spirit itself is the source and cause of all Lenten joy, one's disposition, openness and receptivity makes all the difference.
I suppose in 8th grade I was thirsting for conversion in my life, and since then, though I anticipate Lent with eagerness, I have not been as willing as I was to change and to really listen to God. All too often I enter the season of Lent hoping for the consolations I had once had, thinking maybe by doing this or not doing that they will come. Lord knows over these years I have been and will perpetually be in need of conversion. That doesn't change. But what can be different is how receptive I am to God's call to turn back to him with my whole heart.
So whatever I do or don't do, however I fast, pray and give, may it be with an open heart that is seeking God, seeking the Resurrected Christ.
Shalom.
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