If this gospel it true, it is not simply "true for me" - it is true for all or it is not true at all. Here Christians have to bite the bullet and dare to go against the cultural grain. In our culture, the one truth imposed upon almost everybody is that you must never impose your truth on others. Most particularly, you must not impose your religious or moral truth on others . . . Who are we to say that our truth is superior to the truths by which others live? That is an excellent question, if it is a question of "our" truth. But the claim is that the gospel is, quite simply, the truth. It is the true story about the world and everybody in the world. That is an unsufferably arrogant assertion, unless it is true. - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
Comparatively speaking, I'm not so certain how unsufferably arrogant this assertion is. I find the assertion that there is no absolute truth far more insufferable. Here's an absolute truth to which we pay scant attention: each one of us is less than a mere speck in the vast universe. Considered to scale, if my kitchen were the universe, I wonder whether we could view a chunk of it as massive as our sun, let alone our planet, with an electron microscope. Being conscious specks makes us long to be more significant than we are, and some attribute our faith to a longing for significance. There may be some validity to that, for if this gospel is fantasy, we are simply specks of matter too small to matter. Only if we've been created by a loving God do we have any significance at all.
I am incapable of caring for an individual quark. I think that maybe the scientists at CERN who are trying to detect a Higgs boson may be the closest to grasping the scale about which we're speaking. But there's a universe full of bosons they don't care about at all, and they certainly don't care about them as individuals. Only an infinite God could possibly care in the slightest for each one of us, let alone know and love us as we propose our heavenly Father does.
I can't help but wonder if our difficulty in conceiving of such a God isn't related to our prideful longing to be more than insignificant conscious sub-specks of the universe. We'd like to be bigger than we are, for our consciousness to be what really matters. The thing is, if the gospel is false, there is probably no point in worrying about whether I'm being arrogant in claiming that Jesus Christ is truth. There'll be no lasting meaning for my speck life anyway. On the other hand, if the gospel is true, it is true for every last speck of us, and we all find immeasurable value, significance, and worth far beyond our physical puniness, in the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, the coeternal Son who deigned to become a speck like us to deliver us into the eternity of God's love.
This post, by the way, is an example of how something positive can come from a negative thought. This "conscious speck of universe" thought was a pretty depressing one for me two weeks ago. But there is no darkness which the light of Christ does not overcome, if we simply allow it to shine.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Approaching the Triduum
"This is surely what we read in the Proverbs of Solomon: If you sit down to eat at the table of a ruler, observe carefully what is set before you; then stretch out your hand, knowing that you must provide the same kind of meal yourself. What is this ruler's table if not the one at which we receive the body and blood of him who laid down his life for us? What does it mean to sit at this table if not to approach it with humility? What does it mean to observe carefully what is set before you if not to meditate devoutly on so great a gift? What does it mean to stretch out one's hand, knowing that one must provide the same kind of oneself, if not what I have just said: as Christ laid down his life for us, so we in our turn ought to lay down our lives for our brothers?" St. Augustine, from a treatise on John
Holy Week is a priceless opportunity to "meditate devoutly on so great a gift." Truly, the whole season of Lent is a time for such contemplation, and praying our Way of the Cross service throughout the season has been a wonderful experience of connecting with Christ's love in a deeper, transforming way.
So how am I now to lay down my life? I doubt I'm being called to martyrdom, though if I'm ever faced with such an opportunity I pray that Christ will be strong enough in me for the challenge. But on a daily basis, I'm certainly called to put my loved ones' needs (and those of other brothers and sisters in Christ) ahead of my own wishes. Sometimes I'm pretty good at that. But often I miss these chances, and more often fail to recognize Christ in the midst of them.
Holy Week is a priceless opportunity to "meditate devoutly on so great a gift." Truly, the whole season of Lent is a time for such contemplation, and praying our Way of the Cross service throughout the season has been a wonderful experience of connecting with Christ's love in a deeper, transforming way.
So how am I now to lay down my life? I doubt I'm being called to martyrdom, though if I'm ever faced with such an opportunity I pray that Christ will be strong enough in me for the challenge. But on a daily basis, I'm certainly called to put my loved ones' needs (and those of other brothers and sisters in Christ) ahead of my own wishes. Sometimes I'm pretty good at that. But often I miss these chances, and more often fail to recognize Christ in the midst of them.
Lord of All
The one who said "I thirst" and received on the hyssop the wine of the new covenant, representing the blood shed and the blood shared by the eucharistic community to which he surrenders his spirit, this one is either Lord of all or he is not Lord at all. - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
This section of the book resonates for me partly because I've heard Fr. Neuhaus speak on this topic. Without knowing where he's headed with this in the book (and I may include this quotation again with more that precedes it, a post which I actually started writing this morning before this one), I know that there are two contexts for this statement.
Oh, how this relates to our cultural misunderstanding of liberty! It isn't that we're free to do whatever we wish, that Christ has set me free so I need not worry about my choices. As Michael Card says, freedom is "the power to do what is right." Lately, many of us act as if it is also the power to compel others to do what we think is right. But for me, I must recognize that Christ's victory over sin means that the Holy Spirit indwelling me will help me choose the way that best glorifies God rather than the way of sin.
Either the one on the cross is Lord of all my life, or he is not Lord of my life at all.
This section of the book resonates for me partly because I've heard Fr. Neuhaus speak on this topic. Without knowing where he's headed with this in the book (and I may include this quotation again with more that precedes it, a post which I actually started writing this morning before this one), I know that there are two contexts for this statement.
- Either Christ is Lord of all creation, or he isn't Lord of any of it.
- Either Christ is Lord of my whole life, or he is not Lord of my life at all!
Oh, how this relates to our cultural misunderstanding of liberty! It isn't that we're free to do whatever we wish, that Christ has set me free so I need not worry about my choices. As Michael Card says, freedom is "the power to do what is right." Lately, many of us act as if it is also the power to compel others to do what we think is right. But for me, I must recognize that Christ's victory over sin means that the Holy Spirit indwelling me will help me choose the way that best glorifies God rather than the way of sin.
Either the one on the cross is Lord of all my life, or he is not Lord of my life at all.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Dying to self
"God's chosen ones live out the drama and destiny of God himself. It is a fearful thing to be chosen . . . The chosen are detached from themselves, from their own emotions, desires and hopes, and are called to live out the passions of God's heart - Yahweh's love, wrath, revulsion and yearning for his own." - Fr. Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon
One must be careful writing about such a thing as the painful growth of being detached from one's own emotions, desires and hopes, lest one reader or another think you must be writing about them, and set about looking for the evidence that proves it. I'm just being general here . . .
I believe that we all - every human being - have experienced this pain with regard to those whom we love. We've had to subjugate our own wishes for the sake of what is best for our beloved, had to place their well-being ahead of our own desires and dreams. As for "God's revulsion," at first I found this phrase abrasive, as it initially evoked in me the self-judgment I struggle to set aside. But I soon considered how we see our loved ones make decisions that are clearly terrible for them, and for their own sake long for them to choose a better way for themselves.
Given these experiences of everyday relationships, it isn't such a stretch to consider how the Holy Spirit leads the chosen to subordinate their own wishes and emotions for the sake of a closer union with God, abandoning part of ourselves in trust that what God wishes for us is greater.
The love to which we are each called in our lives goes beyond our own emotions, desires, and hopes. Each other person whom we love has emotions and desires and hopes of their own, not to mention their own quirks and faults. Inevitably our differences will sometimes conflict. But if we make the decision to love with our will, to choose in our relationship what best draws us into God's revealed plan for us rather than what we want, our fickle feelings and selfish desires gain the benefit of a larger perspective. It isn't that I become emotionless, desireless, or hopeless. God's perfect will for me and for those I love is greater than our wishes for ourselves. The degree to which I subjugate my own emotions and desires and hopes to God's will determines the degree to which the gift of perfect, divine love can be made manifest in my life.
Dying to ourselves in this way can hurt deeply - sometimes we might prefer physical death. That's why it's a fearful thing to be chosen, and why so many want no part of it. But there's a greater consideration that really can't be overstated: it may be impossible to explain how it is incredibly worth the pain. There is no resurrection without the cross, and that glory is so much more than we can imagine.
I believe that "incredibly worth the pain" is about as well as I can understand how my risen savior feels about his passion when he sees its effect in the lives of the chosen, though the pain of it was far greater than most of us will ever endure. Such is God's love for us. God loves us so much that he bears the cross for us, but more so, allows and chooses and calls us, insofar as we are willing, to participate in the most painful, most rewarding love of all: his own.
One must be careful writing about such a thing as the painful growth of being detached from one's own emotions, desires and hopes, lest one reader or another think you must be writing about them, and set about looking for the evidence that proves it. I'm just being general here . . .
I believe that we all - every human being - have experienced this pain with regard to those whom we love. We've had to subjugate our own wishes for the sake of what is best for our beloved, had to place their well-being ahead of our own desires and dreams. As for "God's revulsion," at first I found this phrase abrasive, as it initially evoked in me the self-judgment I struggle to set aside. But I soon considered how we see our loved ones make decisions that are clearly terrible for them, and for their own sake long for them to choose a better way for themselves.
Given these experiences of everyday relationships, it isn't such a stretch to consider how the Holy Spirit leads the chosen to subordinate their own wishes and emotions for the sake of a closer union with God, abandoning part of ourselves in trust that what God wishes for us is greater.
The love to which we are each called in our lives goes beyond our own emotions, desires, and hopes. Each other person whom we love has emotions and desires and hopes of their own, not to mention their own quirks and faults. Inevitably our differences will sometimes conflict. But if we make the decision to love with our will, to choose in our relationship what best draws us into God's revealed plan for us rather than what we want, our fickle feelings and selfish desires gain the benefit of a larger perspective. It isn't that I become emotionless, desireless, or hopeless. God's perfect will for me and for those I love is greater than our wishes for ourselves. The degree to which I subjugate my own emotions and desires and hopes to God's will determines the degree to which the gift of perfect, divine love can be made manifest in my life.
Dying to ourselves in this way can hurt deeply - sometimes we might prefer physical death. That's why it's a fearful thing to be chosen, and why so many want no part of it. But there's a greater consideration that really can't be overstated: it may be impossible to explain how it is incredibly worth the pain. There is no resurrection without the cross, and that glory is so much more than we can imagine.
I believe that "incredibly worth the pain" is about as well as I can understand how my risen savior feels about his passion when he sees its effect in the lives of the chosen, though the pain of it was far greater than most of us will ever endure. Such is God's love for us. God loves us so much that he bears the cross for us, but more so, allows and chooses and calls us, insofar as we are willing, to participate in the most painful, most rewarding love of all: his own.
Friday, March 26, 2010
An early morning farewell
It snowed last night, probably a couple inches, though it probably took the ground a little while to refreeze so it didn't look like that much . . . except on top of the cars . . . at 3:40 a.m., when we started the van so we could take Cassie and Hannah, Nic, and Emma to the airport. I love my youngest daughter dearly, but I don't know that I can convey how appropriate it was that she'd be going on the worst travel day (around here) in a month.
The plan was for us to arrive at Cassie's by 4 to load up the van and go, which seemed about right to us. Her text message at 3:51 told us not to rush, she was just getting in the shower. So, we hung out for a few minutes longer before heading over, as I strove to not fret about the time on her behalf seeing as she didn't seem to be. Once there, I quickly got their bags loaded, then we helped her get the kids up and dressed. The older two were understandably cranky, unaccustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night, not really caring yet that they'd be seeing daddy in a few hours. Hannah brightened up pretty quickly, though, and told us again that she's going to miss us. Nic settled down not long after, resting his head on my shoulder as I held him in my arms. With kisses and hugs to Granny, we were finally out the door. After a quick u-turn for the forgotten cell phone, we were making the best time I could safely manage along the icy highway. Bridges were the worst, and there are a lot of them around downtown and at the I70-I75 interchange. In all, we probably arrived at the airport about 85 minutes before the flight rather than the recommended 120.
Oh, did I mention she had about 8 items to check? After getting it all out of the car and onto a cart, I drove around to short-term parking. Irrationally, I dreaded they'd get through check-in and security before I could get back into the terminal, that I'd missed my chance to tell the kids how much I love them, to share one last hug before they left. But no, there they were, waiting in line as I ran back in to receive an unexpected gift: an extra half-hour with them, as Grandma and I were able to have gate passes.
It passed much too quickly. I could see Emma was in a good mood, so yanked her binky and gave it to mom so that I could see that great smile of hers. She rode in grandpa's arms as we helped them through security and to the gate. As mom took Nic to the restroom and grandma enjoyed some Emma time, I held Hannah on my lap, tickling her, reminding her how much we love her and that God loves her more. I snapped a couple of quick photos as we waited, and too soon it was our turn for hugs and kisses with our grandbabies and our dear daughter. Hannah cried as she said goodbye to us, and it took all my experience and faith to overcome my own feelings so I could honestly tell her that it will be okay. I stood hugging a tearful Teri, only slightly less so myself, as we watched them make their way down the jetway, poor little Nic bumping his head on mom's carry-on as they disappeared from sight.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Longing, already
They're not even gone yet. They don't leave until tomorrow morning. Yet while I savor these last moments before our daughter and three youngest grandchildren move to Louisiana, I am already missing them, anticipating this transition in our relationship. No matter what we do to remain connected, and I know we will do much, I know it isn't going to be the same.
Yet I'm also being careful not to over-anticipate. It will be different, but it isn't as if our relationship with these dear ones is ending. It's wonderful to live in the 21st century. We already expect to see them in late April as we pass through on our way to San Antonio, for instance. We're scouting air fares. We have phones. We hope they'll soon be equipped with a computer, so we can keep in contact in even more ways.
But the real lesson of this day may be something I said Sunday evening, leading prayer for Jubilee before we prayed the Way of the Cross in our parish: this is just the beginning of a glimpse into the love in which God holds us. Today I can't help but be aware of how God longs for us, and thank him that I get to long for my beloved ones, too, knowing as it fills me to overflowing that it is still nothing compared to his love for us.
And though my Easter expectations may be slightly less than usual because of their absence, yet I feel that this farewell is a fitting part of my Lenten journey.
Yet I'm also being careful not to over-anticipate. It will be different, but it isn't as if our relationship with these dear ones is ending. It's wonderful to live in the 21st century. We already expect to see them in late April as we pass through on our way to San Antonio, for instance. We're scouting air fares. We have phones. We hope they'll soon be equipped with a computer, so we can keep in contact in even more ways.
But the real lesson of this day may be something I said Sunday evening, leading prayer for Jubilee before we prayed the Way of the Cross in our parish: this is just the beginning of a glimpse into the love in which God holds us. Today I can't help but be aware of how God longs for us, and thank him that I get to long for my beloved ones, too, knowing as it fills me to overflowing that it is still nothing compared to his love for us.
And though my Easter expectations may be slightly less than usual because of their absence, yet I feel that this farewell is a fitting part of my Lenten journey.
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