Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Catholicism's Vision

Yesterday between classes a student in my introductory theology course asked me why I was a Roman Catholic. Half of her family is Roman Catholic, and she was frank in saying that she really didn't understand why anyone, like me, would choose to become Catholic.

I didn't have much time to speak with her, so I promised that I would send to her a link to an article I wrote in 2013 about what I understand to be the meaning and purpose of Catholicism. Unfortunately, the newspaper for which I wrote the article no longer has a link to it online, so I figured I would upload a scan of the article here:

Friday, April 29, 2016

Baseball & Twitter *or* Dan Haren on an Exercise Bike

I'm grading right now, which is why I've spent much of the morning procrastinating on Twitter. Through a Twitter acquaintance, I stumbled upon the Twitter feed of recently retired MLB pitcher, Dan Haren. It's a gift. His tweet last night to Jake Arrieta, who has been pitching unbelievably lately, was perfect:
Turns out that some of Haren's best tweets came on a day when he was riding on an exercise bike, was bored, and decided to reflect on his time as a major league pitcher. As my Twitter acquaintance said:
These tweets are worth reading, so I thought I'd storify them for you. Because, you know, I only have a stack of grading piled on my desk and what better way to spend my time than creating a storify link of a retired pitcher's tweets and writing a blog post about them.

Saturday, April 9, 2016

"The Mystical Fire of Christ's Charity": Thomas Merton on the Mass

Merton giving the Eucharist to a kneeling Jacques Maritain (Used with permission of the Merton Legacy Trust)

I had the honour of giving one of the Michael Mathis, C.S.C. Lectures last week at the University of Notre Dame. The Notre Dame Center for Liturgy recorded the lecture, and I've pasted it below if you're interested. Many thanks to Dr. Timothy O'Malley, director of the Center, for inviting me.

Thursday, April 7, 2016

Amoris Laetitia Twitter Bingo

Pope Francis' much awaited apostolic exhortation, Amoris Laetitia (The Joy of Love), will be released tomorrow, and Twitter promises to be an absolute mess when the doc drops. I've taken the liberty of creating a little Amoris Laetitia Twitter bingo card in anticipation of some of the reactions that will undoubtedly follow.

Friday, April 1, 2016

Exposing the Wounds of Fear: A Reflection on Good Friday (Guest Blogger)

Justin Klassen is Assistant Professor of Theology at Bellarmine University. His interests include contemporary theology, environmental ethics, and philosophy of religion. He is the author of The Paradox of Hope: Theology and the Problem of Nihilism, and the co-editor of Aspiring to Fullness in a Secular Age: Essays on Religion and Theology in the Work of Charles Taylor. His current research focuses on the role of non-human nature in the Christian moral imagination.

Justin preached the homily below at St Matthew's Episcopal Church in Louisville on Good Friday. The text was John's Passion narrative. 

Reading this Gospel story is like removing the band-aid from a wound that needs to heal. I have a well-earned reputation for clumsiness, so it will be unsurprising to those who know me that I have some experience with band-aids. They can certainly be useful. You can put one on a bleeding finger in order to continue preparing a meal without contaminating the food. But if you leave a band-aid on for too long, the wound will never heal. The band-aid addresses a symptom, but it is not a cure. Eventually, healing requires exposing the wound to the air and light.

The Gospels tell us that the wound of sin is no different. The Passion narratives, in particular, bring our woundedness into the light of truth. They expose the destructiveness of our fears, without a filter. They reveal how these fears prevent us from becoming fully human. They take the band-aid off the wound and promise us healing, if only we will stop covering it up.

In order for the exposure to be effective, of course, we have to recognize ourselves in the wounded and wounding enterprise that is depicted. We have to understand and admit the attraction of the process that led to Jesus’ suffering and death. Listening to the high priest is a good place to start. His idea is that it is “better to have one person die for the people” (John 18:14). If we want to continue covering our own wound, we will say that this logic is foreign to us, a strange ritualistic bloodlust of some “other” culture. Christians have done this a lot over the years. But if we desire healing, in the light of truth, then we should admit that the high priest’s logic is actually quite familiar to us. Our own social arrangements often require the sacrifice of victims. A community’s sense of cohesion frequently depends on knowing where to draw lines of exclusion. For the sake of an “us,” we regularly sacrifice the humanity of “them.” And certainly our desire for peace and security requires victims. In our day, these include drone-strike victims, or victims of gun violence, or would-be immigrants, or Syrian child refugees. We may call some of their suffering tragic, but we often tell ourselves that it’s still better that some should suffer for the sake of the security of many.

But the God who made “all things visible and invisible” cannot be satisfied with the sacrifice of even one Syrian child for our sense of comfort. Idols demand sacrifice, precisely because they are not invested in the victims. They did not make these victims, so their suffering becomes a small price to pay for the sake of “the people.” By contrast, the God whom Jesus trusts is on the side of the victim. This God is the creator of all would-be victims. This God is on the side of Jesus, and by extension, of all those we might otherwise sacrifice to our need for security.

The Passion narratives expose our sacrificial logics, our “it’s-better-to-have-one-person-die-for-the-people” arguments, for what they really are—fearful responses to the truth about our lives. And the truth about our lives is this: we are not self-made. We are not our own authors. We are not able to guarantee security for ourselves. We cannot amass enough money, enough powerful friends, enough popularity, to really matter, in the infinite way we want to matter. No arsenal of weapons can make us into the true source of life. No condemnations of others can really give us control over reality. No border walls can keep death at bay. We are just pretending.

But we don’t want to know that we are pretending. So we collaborate with each other in our untruth. When the reality that our lives are rooted in God’s generosity and not our own power begins to suggest itself in the back of our minds, we assert our own power with still more emphasis. We find others with whom we can congratulate ourselves on our efforts. We build systems of esteem and admiration, hierarchies of power that seem to justify our quest for control. We build fires out of our insistence that we can only trust our own accomplishments; and then like Peter we warm ourselves by these fires. We pay allegiance to our collective idols and emperors, fighting the truth that our lives are a gift and not an accomplishment. We fight it so hard that we become unsure if there is anything called “truth” to begin with.

And then, when someone comes along who doesn’t heed the system we have set up to make ourselves feel secure and in charge, we see him or her as a blasphemer. We are “astonished” at such a person, as the disciples so often are at Jesus. And eventually, we want to be rid of them. We cannot tolerate the idea of a person who trusts the Creator for their life, because it reveals that our own efforts to control our fate are self-deceptive and unnecessary. We cannot tolerate a person who relies on God rather than the fantasy of control, because we have invested so much energy in this fantasy. We cannot trust a person who gives up the quest for self-importance, because we have not learned to stand on the power of God, our maker. So we call the trusting one “self-important.” We call him a blasphemer, an idolater. To maintain our comfortable falsehood, to stay warm by the fires of our own making, we banish the truth.

Pilate does not want to banish Jesus, at least in the beginning. He does not recognize Jesus as a threat. He says repeatedly that he finds “no case against him” (19:6). Jesus has no power, as Pilate understands power. He won’t even defend himself, and he has no mob standing with him. He is not a “dangerous” man, in the sense that he is not a credible rival for Pilate’s power. But slowly, Pilate begins to recognize in Jesus a different kind of threat. He begins to feel afraid. Not because Jesus suddenly reveals some extra, reserve power that Pilate respects, but because Jesus exposes Pilate’s own claim to power as empty and fearful. Here is a man, Jesus, who does not fear what he cannot control—because he trusts in God, not his own power. Here is a man who does not seek the power Pilate seeks, and yet who lives anyway—by the power of God. Here is a man who treats the power to kill, on which the system trades, as less real than the power to give life, which belongs to God alone.Here is a man who does not play Pilate’s game, and who therefore exposes it as just that—a  game.

Here, then, is a man who must be put to death, for no other reason than that he tells the truth, about us and about God. 

Well actually there are some other reasons given by his accusers: blasphemy, and disloyalty to the emperor. But the text wants us to recognize these charges as self-justifying nonsense, at least in the way they are used. We want our violence to be warranted; we don’t want to see it as the product of empty fears. So we find reasons. “He should die because he claims to be the Son of God,” the people say (19:7). This scares Pilate, but not enough to put Jesus to death. So the people clarify: “If you release this man, you are no friend of the emperor” (19:12). Now Pilate gets it. Jesus’ claim to be the Son of God is not some delusion of a religious nut, which might be a little dangerous but not deserving of death. Instead, it means that Jesus does not need the approval of the crowd. He does not need the approval of the emperor. He does not need the human system’s gold star of achievement. His joy is not dependent on this kind of recognition. For Jesus, happiness, or in the Bible’s language, “blessedness,” does not derive from the trappings of empire. He does not aspire to whatever the system tells us to aspire to. He will not despair if he does not have the latest products or the richest friends, because he knows the true source of blessedness. This is the simple truth of what it means to be a Son of God. And this is what Pilate recognizes. If Jesus wants to make everyone a son or daughter of God, then the system really is in trouble. Imagine, Pilate must be thinking, if everyone lived this way! Trusting in God for their happiness and not in the approval of the crowd, the system, the emperor! He gets it now. He is exposed by this simple man, who trusts God as a parent. Pilate himself is scared to be a son of God. He wants his identity to be derived from the approval of the crowd and the emperor, which are really the same thing in the text. He wants to continue relying upon the trappings of empire; he wants to forget that they are also the trappings of fear. He doesn’t want to know that they are not reliable, that their end result is arbitrary violence, not life.

The Gospels are unique among religious myths, but not because some special figure is put to death. In fact this happens in lots of myths. They are unique because the way they tell the story leaves the persecutors totally exposed. Jesus dies only because our fear is idolatrous and demands victims. This is the band-aid coming off. The arbitrary nature of our violence is the point. It’s what we need to recognize—that our efforts to secure our lives by our own power, in the face of what we fear the most, are inevitably destructive and self-defeating. We assert ourselves because we have concluded, wrongly, that only control will make life trustworthy.

Once we see clearly how this wounds us rather than saving us, we are free to imagine a new possibility. We can now see our lives from Jesus’ perspective, recognizing that though we are dependent, and limited, and mortal, still the one on whom we depend can be trusted. The love that authored us desires to make us daughters and sons. Even in the midst of our failure to trust the goodness of life, this love remains persistent. For this, he came into the world, to testify to the truth. Exposed to the air of this truth, our wounds may begin to heal. We may begin to see that our self-protective efforts are unnecessary. And, knowing that our lives are a gift, we can joyfully squander them in the service of others, trusting that it is God who sustains us, in every moment.

May it be so.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The Need for Silence (Reading Notes)

One of the Lenten disciplines I tried to undertake was regular times of silence and meditation. As is
usually the case with me, my desire for silence was frequently overcome by my decidedly less virtuous desire for sleep as well as a misplaced understanding of my own busyness.

Statue of Christ in the garden at the Abbey of Gethsemani
Last week a little essay by Thomas Merton called "Creative Silence" (which he published in1968 in a wonderfully-named Catholic student newspaper at the University of Louisville called the Bloomin' Newman), and it rekindled my desire to cultivate silence more earnestly. I can't help but think lately that I have over the past few months - perhaps the past few years - been existing rather than living. By this I mean that I've been devoting my attention most fully to those things that are least connected to who I really am in relation to God and to others, and so have been existing superficially. Merton spoke very loudly to me on this point in his essay, and I thought I'd share large sections of it below:
A Christian can realize himself called by God to periods of silence, reflection, meditation, and 'listening.' We are perhaps too talkative, too activistic, in our conception of the Christian life. Our service of God and of of the Church does not consist only in talking and doing. It can also consist in periods of silence, listening, waiting. Perhaps it is very important, in our era of violence and unrest, to rediscover meditation, silent inner unitive prayer, and creative Christian silence.
Silence has many dimensions. It can be a regression and an escape, a loss of self, or it can be a presence, awareness, unification, self-discovery. Negative silence blurs and confuses our identity, and we lapse into daydreams or diffuse anxieties. Positive silence pulls us together and makes us realize who we are, who we might be, and the distance between these two. Hence, positive silence implies a disciplines choice, and what Paul Tillich called the 'courage to be.' In the long run, the discipline of creative silence demands a certain kind of faith. For when we come face to face with ourselves in the lonely ground of our own being, we confront many questions about the value of our existence, the reality of our commitments, the authenticity of our everyday lives.
When we are constantly in movement, always busy meeting the demands of our social role, passively carried along on the stream of talk in which people mill around from morning to night, we are perhaps able to escape from our deeper self and from the questions it poses. We can be more or less content with the external identity, the social self, which is produced by our interaction with others in the wheeling and dealing of everyday life. But no matter how honest and open we may be in our relations with others, this social self implies a necessary element of artifice. It is always to some extent a mask...[It is not] entirely pretense: it appeals to us. But do we ever give ourselves a chance to realize that this talkative, smiling, perhaps rough-and-ready personage that we seem to be is not necessarily our real self? Do we ever give ourselves a chance to recognize something deeper? Can we face the fact that we are perhaps not interested in all this talk and business? When we are quiet, not just for a few minutes, but for an hour or several hours, we may become uneasily aware of the presence within us of a disturbing stranger, the self that is both 'I' and someone else. The self that is not entirely welcome in his own house because he is so different from the everyday character that we have constructed our of our dealings with others - and our infidelities in ourselves...
 Now let us frankly face the fact that our culture is one which is geared in many ways to help us evade any need to face this inner, silent self. We live in a state of constant semiattention to the sound of voices, music, traffic, or the generalized noise of what goes on around us all the time. This keeps us immersed in a flood of racket and words, a diffuse medium in which our consciousness is half diluted: we are not quite 'thinking,' not fully present and not entirely absent; not fully withdrawn, yet not completely available. It cannot be said that we are really participating in anything and we may, in fact, be half conscious of our alienation and resentment...We just float along in the general noise...
Of course this is not enough to keep us completely forgetful of the other unwelcome self that remains so largely unconscious. The disquieting presence of our deep self keeps forcing its way almost to the surface of awareness. To exorcise this presence we need a more definite stimulation, a distraction, a drink, a drug, a gimmick, a game, a routine of acting out of our sense of alienation and trouble. Then it goes away for the time being and we forget who we are.
All of this can be described as 'noise,' as commotion and jamming which drown out the deep, secret, and insistent demands of the inner self.
With this inner self we have to come to terms in silence. That is the reason for choosing silence. In silence we face and admit the gap between the depths of our being, which we consistently ignore, and the surface which is untrue to our own reality. We recognize the need to be at home with ourselves in order that we may go out to meet others, not just with a mask of affability, but with real commitment and authentic love...
Just as we have a superficial, external mask which we put together with words and actions that do not fully represent all that is in us, so even believers deal with a God who is made up of words, reassuring slogans, and this is less the God of faith than the product of religious and social routine. Such a 'God' can become a substitute for the truth of the invisible God of faith, and though this comforting image may seem real to us, he is really a kind of idol. His chief function is to protect us against a deep encounter with our true inner self and with the true God.
Silence is therefore important even in the life of faith and in our deepest encounter with God. We cannot always be talking, praying in words, cajoling, reasoning, or keeping up a kind of devout background music. Much of our well-mean interior religious dialogue is, in fact, a smoke screen and an evasion. Much of it is simply self-reassurance and in the end it is little better than a form of self-justification. Instead of really meeting God in the nakedness of faith in which our inmost being is laid bare before him, we act out an inner ritual that has no function but to allay anxiety.
The purest faith has to be tested by silence in which we listen for the unexpected, in which we are open to what we do not yet know, and in which we slowly and gradually prepare for the day when we will reach out to a new level of being with God. True hope is tested by silence in which we have to wait on the Lord in the obedience of unquestioning faith...Faith demands the integrity of inner trust which produces wholeness, unity, peace, genuine security. Here we see the creative power and fruitfulness of silence. Not only does silence give us a chance to understand ourselves better, to get a truer and more balanced perspective on our own lives in relation to the lives of others: silence makes us whole if we let it. Silence helps draw together the scattered and dissipated energies of a fragmented existence. It helps to concentrate on a purpose that really corresponds not only to the deeper needs of our own being but also to God's intentions for us.
This is a really important point. When we live superficially, when we are always outside ourselves, never quite 'with' ourselves, always divided and pulled in many directions by conflicting plans and projects, we find ourselves doing many things that we do not really want to do, saying things we do not really mean, needing things we do not really need, exhausting ourselves for what we secretly realize to be worthless and without meaning in our lives: "Why spend your money on what is not food and your earnings on what never satisfies?" (Isaiah 55:2)
- As quoted in Thomas Merton: Essential Writings, pp. 72-77