The Medieval Church: Lessons for Modern Times

In teaching medieval history a few years ago, I noticed a pattern. During that time of tremendous growth in the Church, over and over again some of her own children turned against her. Yet each time, a saint would come along to counter the heresy or corruption, a saint whose personality and fidelity to the Holy Spirit formed the ideal duet to meet the dilemma.
     When Nestorianism began spreading in the fifth century, the Lord raised up St. Cyril of Alexandria to combat its errors. Soon after, Manichaeism and Donatism were met by the brilliance of St. Augustine, and Pelagianism and Monophysitism by Pope St. Leo the Great. When the iconoclast heresy took hold in the Eastern Empire in the eighth century, St. John Damascene—a Christian courtier in a neighboring Muslim land—was in the perfect place to write on the truth about icons without fear of reprisal from the Byzantine emperor. And in the twelfth century, St. Dominic was the right man in the right place to pull the teeth of Albigensianism. Each time, the Lord did not merely defuse the heresy, but He used the opportunity to bring forth a clearer understanding of His teachings.
     Heresy has not been the only threat to the Church arising from within her ranks. Time and again, complacency led to a worldliness and corruption creeping into the lives of Church members. And time and again, God has called forth saints to oppose materialism and sloth, especially by their exemplary lives. In the late fourth and early fifth centuries, St. John Chrysostom in Constantinople followed St. John the Baptist's example by critiquing the emperor and empress' moral failures. St. Boniface made enemies by calling priests to obey their vows in Germany in the eighth century. In the twelfth century, when many were content with a Christian veneer, the challenge to die to self for love of Christ was given by St. Bernard of Clairvaux in the monastery and St. Francis of Assisi in the world. In the fourteenth century, St. Catherine of Siena respectfully reminded the popes of her day of certain duties, and Sts. Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross in the sixteenth century countered laxity in their religious orders, while encouraging all—lay and religious—to seek the joy of meeting God in contemplative prayer. And these are merely the most famous of such voices calling for reform.
     The pattern is perhaps most clear at the end of the Middle Ages. In the early sixteenth century, Rome was so rampantly corrupt that it is no surprise that Martin Luther was scandalized when he visited there as a young monk. Yet about this time, St. Philip Neri was born—a saint whose extraordinary love of God and neighbor, joy, preaching, and example would lead to a reform in that city and to his being dubbed the “Apostle of Rome.” At the same time that the laity were confused about the Church’s actual teaching on indulgences and Luther was concluding that he need not obey the Pope anymore, St. Ignatius of Loyola was forming a new religious order that would catechize the laity and dedicate themselves to doing whatever the Pope might ask of them. 

      When the Church at last managed to convene a general council to sift through the protests against her, St. Charles Borromeo was there to help define doctrine and establish reforms. And he eagerly carried out these reforms in his own archdiocese, especially in rooting out error from the clergy and founding new seminaries. In the same period when five million Europeans left the Catholic Church, nine million native Americans entered the Church in the decade following the apparition of Our Lady of Guadalupe to St. Juan Diego in 1531. 

     This pattern is instructive to us in two ways. First, we must realize that this problem will always be with the Church. This shouldn’t surprise us, for didn’t Christ give parable after parable on this: wolves in sheep’s clothing; weeds amid the wheat; sheep and goats being separated at the end of time?

     Secondly, when we see false teachings and scandals in our own time, we must look for the saints God is raising up to counter them. We may recognize among them Blessed Teresa of Calcutta, confounding the materialism and selfishness of our age, and Blessed John Paul II, already called “the Great” for his profound and rich illumination of the truth in the darkness of this "culture of death" in which we live. 

     But it's not enough to look around, wondering where the saints are, why there aren't more of them stepping up to the plate. We must also look in the mirror and recognize that God also has a part for each one of us to play.

Fear Is Useless

Among possible motives for sin, pleasure probably comes to mind, selfishness seems to cover all the bases, and of course the “love of money” has St. Paul’s vote as “the root of all evil”. With those obvious contenders, fear may not even make a blip on the radar screen. Nevertheless, I think fear’s a big motivator, and shouldn’t be overlooked.

     It’s not obvious usually. I mean, if you lived under a dictatorship, then it would be obvious: people around you, and you yourself, might do or fail to do things you wouldn’t otherwise, out of fear.

     But living in a free country as we do (at least at this point), fear doesn't seem to play much of a role in our day-to-day lives. And since we don’t like to admit we have any fears, we certainly don’t go looking for them.

     It’s when you start digging deeper in your spiritual life that you discover it. When you start trying to root out sin, a good practice is to back up and ask, Why do I do that? Sometimes you have to back up a few times before you stumble on the real reason, and not infrequently that reason is fear.

      Let’s say you keep blowing up at your family members in a certain situation, say, when they make you late. Why does that make you explode? You might say because you really hate to be late. But why is that? If it’s not an important event, could it be that you’re afraid of what people might think? Maybe it's the fear that the person waiting for you will be annoyed and like you less. Or that the person will lose respect for you, or that you won’t be able to maintain your own sense of superiority over that person. Maybe you're afraid that it will tarnish your image as having it all together—either in the eyes of someone else, or in your own.

      Or let’s say you keep putting work before family. That could spring from a lot reasons—maybe your self-image is too caught up in being successful, for instance. But fear could play a role too. Maybe behind that desire for success is a fear of being a failure, or even a fear of being average. You’ve got to be Somebody, or you’re nothing. Maybe it’s more serious: you’re afraid that you’ll get passed over for a promotion, or you’ll lose your job.

      It takes a lot of courage even to admit those fears, let alone overcome them. Usually it’s only during a retreat or a time of ongoing prayer and reflection that we can open ourselves to seeing these things. We build a lot of walls to keep from seeing these deeper areas of ourselves; usually if we do get a glimpse over a wall only to find the sight rather alarming, we quickly stop looking.

      Jesus was being sensitive to the situation when he told Jairus: "Fear is useless; what is needed is trust." (After all, the poor synagogue leader had just been told that his daughter was dead.) To many of us, he could say rather, "Fear is worse than useless—sometimes it's downright dangerous.”

      We need to recognize fear, because it can cause us to sin. We can walk all over other people, be rude to them, or indifferent or blind to them, because we are so focused on avoiding whatever it is we fear. God doesn’t say, “Love one another as I have loved you…unless they stand in your way somehow, or endanger your self-image or the achievement of your personal goals or your livelihood.”

      No, no. Rather he says, “Be not afraid”—over and over and over again throughout the Bible. And John Paul II echoed Him: “Be not afraid” was one of his pet phrases—he who had lived under Nazi occupation and then Communist totalitarianism. How could someone who’d faced truly fearful circumstances say that? Because he trusted in God, because he looked beyond this life.

      Usually the best way to overcome a fear is to stop running from it, to face it. When you run away from what you fear, its shadow will follow and loom over you. But when you turn around and face it, it almost always shrinks considerably. What if X did happen? Really think about it. Usually you’ll realize it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

      But even it were something truly terrible, Christ has promised that with His grace we could endure it. If we were to give it over to Him, He could and would bring good out of it. And with His help, we could do what He does: we could bring good out of it too, if by nothing else, by offering it up. 

     Even if the worst scenarios we can imagine were to happen to us, ultimately it wouldn't matter, so long as we were seeking first God's Kingdom and His righteousness. "The only tragedy in this life is not to become a saint." Any suffering we may undergo can help us fulfill our purpose: to get to heaven and to bring as many souls with us as we can.

A Cluster of Crosses

It seems like just when I think I’ve learned to trust in God, He says, Oh yeah, how 'bout now? and takes it up another notch.

     Or two. 

     Or three, ... or five or six.

     Yesterday, a priest said that maybe I was going through these things so that I could help someone else by sharing it on my blog. On the way home, I started thinking about what I'd learned about suffering just this week, so here goes...

This past week I saw two daily Mass-goers with whom I'm acquainted, both of whom I hadn't seen in quite a while—say, about a year. In each catch-up conversation, something struck me.

      The first conversation was with a British fellow in his seventies. He was a lector at a neighboring parish, where my husband often, and I occasionally (used to), go to morning Mass. (Ever since my recent pregnancy, it's been too early for me.) I didn't know him very well; from my pew, he seemed holy and on the serious side—dignified. I liked his accent.

      When I saw him last Saturday, I hardly recognized him. I hadn't known that he had Parkinson’s, but now the signs were obvious: a constant struggle to control his head, his facial expressions, and especially his mouth. Even his delightful accent was lost in the difficulty of forming words.

      I immediately felt for him, but every time I tried to express my concern or sympathy, he'd turn it away with a joke. (When I asked him how he was, for instance, he responded, “Oh, you know how it is: one foot in the grave, the other on a banana peel.”) He just told one joke after another—and funny ones too.

      How many people in his shoes—having lost exterior charm and dignity—would become reclusive? How many, having trouble communicating, would stop trying? How many, in the face of suffering that was bound only to increase, would descend into self-pity or bitterness?

     Not he. Instead he evidently resolved to forget about himself and focus on others. He has a gift for making people laugh, and he's decided to keep on using it. And at the same time, he's a wonderful model of how to suffer gracefully.

The other person is in her sixties (though she looks about 50), whom I got to know last year at the evening weekday Mass at our own parish. She tended to be gloomy and to see things from a sardonic, if not negative, perspective, which I chalked up to temperament.

     When I saw her on Monday, she seemed more lighthearted and much more cheerful.

     When I mentioned that I'd been going through one thing after another, she replied, “That’s what last year was like for me. I’d feel like I’d just get one nostril above the water then—bang—I’d get knocked back down again. And I'd say, 'Lord, what are you doing?!' ”

     Her response stuck with me. Not only was it a humorous rendition of what I felt, but it also made me realize some things. First of all, maybe the gloominess I'd seen in her wasn't temperament, but a reflection of what she'd been going through. Secondly, seeing her more cheerful now and the words “last year” seem to indicate that that period of difficulty is apparently over.

     It's so important to remember what St. Teresa of Avila said: “All things pass.”

And the priest yesterday helped too. Not surprisingly, the Holy Spirit used him. He suggested that I picture myself in the lap of Mary (à la the Pietà) and pray a Memorare.

      It was powerful.

      It was a great comfort to feel the pity and sympathy of our Mother. Even though my sufferings are nothing compared to what her Son—or even she—had undergone, I felt that she still cared, still felt sorry for me.

      I realized how comforting sympathy can be—just having someone acknowledge that what you’re going through is hard, and care, can be a big help.

      Then I thought about how wise the priest was in having me turn to Mary, as it’s easier to imagine her being compassionate. Then I thought, wait a minute, Mary can’t truly be more compassionate than God—the Source of mercy, whose mercy and compassion are infinite.

      I realized that subconsciously I’d been thinking that God did not care about my sufferings; that He was indifferent. As if He were watching me suffer, and just casually shrugging a divine shoulder, and saying, “Yeah, well, you’ve got to suffer. This is good for you. What, you want a different cross?”

      As a parent, I sometimes have to let my children suffer, but that doesn't mean I don't care. Just because I let the nurse give my sweet little baby her shots (and even hold her down to help!) because I know that this suffering is less than the illnesses she could otherwise get, doesn’t mean that I don’t care that the shots hurt. I care tremendously, and feel so sorry for her, especially as she doesn’t understand.

      Surely God, the Father and model of perfect parenthood, has even more sympathy and love for us in our sufferings.

How can we ever say we've learned any virtue? When will we ever reach a point in our lives when we can say, "Ah, I've arrived. I have a reached the pinnacle of trust [or patience, etc.]"? Never. We'll always have more to learn and room to grow as long as we are drawing breath.

     But if the fruits of suffering include learning, coming closer to God, becoming more like Him, and helping others, then it’s all worthwhile.

Are You Prophetable?

Which would you be more likely to say about yourself:  

"The Lord called me from birth..... He made of me a sharp-edged sword....You are my servant, he said to me, ... through whom I show my glory" 

     -OR-

"I thought I had toiled in vain, and for nothing, uselessly, spent my strength..." ?

     While I hope you don't often feel the discouragement of the second quote, it is probably more familiar than the first. We tend to think that such a calling could be addressed only to prophets such as Isaiah (who wrote both quotes) or John the Baptist, whose birthday we celebrate today. We don't think of ourselves as prophets.

      But it's not just those with the big callings who are called. Each of us is called to do our part in our little corner of the world.

     I'm not eloquent or educated enough, you say. I'm not brave enough. It's counter-productive to get on a soapbox, etc., etc.

     You don't have to get on a soapbox. You don't have to eat locusts and shout out that the Kingdom is coming. Those were the callings of Frank Sheed and John the Baptist. Your calling is different. Each person has an individual calling.

     Each of us is called to give witness—but how and to whom will naturally differ not only from person to person but even from day to day.

     Sometimes we have an opportunity to tell someone the Good News, but most people in our country—rightly or wrongly—might very well reply that they've already heard it. More often, we can share how the Lord is working in our own lives, or simply refrain from clamming up about him. 

      But there's more to it than what we say. As St. Francis put it: "Preach the Gospel at all times, and whenever necessary, use words." We are always called to be ourselves—to be faithful followers and imitators of Christ. Living out our faith is a witness in itself. Quite often we won't even know that we've had an influence on someone.

     My uncle is a perfect example of this.

     My brother was once approached by an older gentleman who heard his last name and asked if he was related to a frat brother with that last name. Sure enough, it was my uncle. The man (Bill)—forty years later—still remembered Uncle Domingo, though the latter had had to drop out of his first semester of college due to what turned out to be the beginnings of schizophrenia.

     It wasn't the symptoms of schizophrenia—if he had even seen them—that Bill remembered. It wasn't as much my uncle's intelligence, impressive athletic and artistic talents, striking good looks, or natural confidence that he recalled. It was Uncle Domingo's character that stuck with him. 

     On "hell night", they were required to perform a silly, crude, humiliating rite. My uncle refused. He didn't care what the others thought of him; he didn't care if they wouldn't let him in the fraternity as a result. He wasn't going to do something he viewed as immoral.

     This made a huge impression on Bill. He was so struck by Uncle Domingo's behavior, it made him wonder what conviction lay behind it. It got him curious about the Catholic faith. A year or two later, he became a Catholic and considered Uncle Domingo to be his godfather (though since Domingo wasn't available, Bill had asked my dad as a substitute).

     This probably would have shocked my uncle if he'd known about it. He was at that time undergoing painful and useless treatments; most of the rest of his life was spent in an institution or half-way house. The words, "I thought I had toiled in vain, and for nothing, uselessly, spent my strength" would probably have resonated deeply with him.  He would never have guessed the impact he'd had on Bill's life. 

     Nor would he guess that he could continue to witness to Christ. As the years passed, he became haggard and thin; he looked like an aged Vincent van Gogh. Once a star athlete and sharp dresser, in his middle-aged years, he shuffled in his loose-fitting, tobacco-smelling clothes. Perhaps, if he had known about Bill, he'd have thought, "Well, he knew me before all this happened. No one would want me to be their godfather now."

     But he was a good godfather. I know, because he was my godfather. He may not have been able to buy me gifts or take me places, write me letters, or whatever typical godfathers might do. But I'm sure prayed for me. (And I know he still does, for when I ask for his intercession, the results are often quick and impressive!) Most of all, he gave me the gift of example. He was the most humble person I have ever met.

     His humility also affected other family and friends. Who knows who else he touched among those with whom he lived? Only the Lord, who called him to witness to Christ in a halfway house.

      No one feels adequate to God's call. (But that doesn't matter, for it is the Lord who works; we are only his instruments.) No one's life is in vain.

     John the Evangelist spoke of the darkness, and called today's saint a "witness to the Light". John the Baptist called himself "a voice crying in the wilderness". 
     That darkness, that wilderness, is still with us. We too must be a voice, a witness to the Light.

Grudging Obligation or Golden Opportunity?

Our baby was baptized today and it's Father's Day, so I'm not writing a new blog today. Instead I'm posting my article "Grudging Obligation or Golden Opportunity." (This was posted as a page here before, but it doesn't appear that many have looked at it so far.)


Those of us under 50 or so have only secondhand knowledge of what life in the Church was like before Vatican II. We’ve probably heard some things from our parents and grandparents about how different it was, and have the sense that things have lightened up quite a bit, that rules are less strict. And along those lines, many have the impression that after the Council the old Sunday Mass rule was discarded—the one that said it was a serious sin to skip Sunday Mass.( By “skipping” Mass, I mean just deciding not to go or not making the effort to go, rather than being prevented from going by something such as illness.)

So it may come as a big surprise to many Catholics to learn that this Church teaching is actually still in effect. It might not only be surprising, but, to some people, ridiculous or even objectionable. What’s the big deal?

Think of it this way: Skipping Sunday Mass is like a husband skipping date night with his wife—just standing her up. Receiving Communion at the next Mass, without having first gone to confession, is like that husband showing up two weeks later and hopping into bed with his wife—without apologizing or even explaining—and expecting her to be perfectly fine with that arrangement Holy Communion is a union more intimate than the marital bed, and yet we sometimes treat it like a mundane duty.

Most of us are aware of the Third Commandment: Remember to keep holy the Sabbath day. But many don’t see why we can’t keep it holy our own way. Well, the Church says, you can, but you also need to come celebrate with the rest of us. The minimum of what God asks here is Mass. If you want to pray in a grove of trees, or meditate on the beach, or sing songs with friends, you can do those things too. Dad absolutely wants one-on-one time with you! But He has stipulated that on Sunday He wants us all gathered around the table as a family (the whole family, not just the ones we like). We may not know all the reasons; we just know He wants it, and ideally that should be enough for us.

If we really understood the Mass, we would never want to miss it. We’re like the deluded people in the parable who come up with lame if not laughable excuses to avoid going to a king’s banquet! (See Lk 14:16-24.) 

The Mass is even better than a banquet. In the first half, God is speaking to us in the readings; and in the second, Christ’s sacrifice on the Cross is presented once again to the Father—and we have the chance to be a part of that: to offer ourselves with Christ as He offers Himself to the Father. (Talk about riding on someone’s coattails: It’s like a toddler adding a penny to her dad’s billion-dollar donation and then being listed as a benefactor.) Plus we are spiritually transported to Bethlehem and the Last Supper, Calvary and the Upper Room on Easter, all at once. We are there, only our physical eyes are blind to this spiritual reality. 

As if that weren’t enough, Christ then offers Himself to us as food. Think what people would do if somehow, somewhere, a mere berry plucked from heaven were possible to obtain—they would travel thousands of miles and pay top dollar. Yet people sometimes deem it too much trouble to go to their local parish, where they can receive God Himself.

People would flock to eat fruit plucked from heaven, because they would assume that it would have healing properties and promote goodness. Well, that’s logical, and it is true for the even more beautiful food from heaven that the Lord does offer us in the Eucharist.

The fact is we cannot follow Him merely by our own power. We need His grace—“Apart from Me, you can do nothing” (Jn 15:5). And with that grace we can do amazing things—“I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me” (Phil 4:13). But how do we get grace? Primarily through the sacraments and prayer. Grace is a gift from God, a gift we must come to Him to receive.

Numerous saints and doctors of the Church have stressed the infinite power and value of the Mass. St. John Vianney once said, “All good works cannot have the value of one Holy Mass, because they are the works of men, whereas the Holy Mass is the work of God.” Vatican II echoed this in its document on the liturgy (Sacrosanctum Concilium), calling the Mass the “font from which all her [the Church’s] power flows.” In other words, Mass is the source of grace par excellence.

But it’s not only what the Mass does for us that makes it priceless, it’s also the chance it gives us to do something for God. Vatican II described the liturgy as “a sacred action surpassing all others.” There’s no higher prayer; there’s nothing we can do that is more pleasing to God than praying the Mass.

Now if a young woman had the chance to meet her favorite celebrity, wouldn’t she try to make the best impression she could? If she were almost ready to go, and her mother stopped her and said she reeked of body odor, wouldn’t she do something about it? And if she knew the celebrity’s best friend, wouldn’t she listen to what that friend said? For instance, if she found out that the celebrity loathed peach-scented cologne, would she wear it anyway? I don't think so. 
       We need to act this way when approaching the Eucharist. Could there be anyone more admirable or more exciting to meet than God Himself? Yet do we give any thought to how we appear to Him? Many of us are so used to the idea of His unconditional love that we no longer try to please Him, but take Him for granted.

Part of our problem is that, being fallen creatures, we begin with only a limited sense of the offensiveness of sin; then our own sins shrink this sense further. A poor sense of smell coupled with familiarity make us unaware of our own soul’s odor. We don’t realize how putrid sin is to the Lord. Our venial sins are probably more offensive to Him than body odor to us—they’re more like excrement to Him. And our mortal sins are like skunk spray. We can’t get rid of that stench on our own; for serious sin, we need the special cleansing of confession.

Ironically, we do know His best friend on earth: not only that, she is also our own Mother, the Church. We could have the “inside scoop” on what is pleasing to the Number One V.I.P. in the Universe, but we refuse to listen to her. Too often we treat her as a nosy busybody, when actually she is an immortal queen, ancient yet ever-young, full of beauty and wisdom. No one on earth knows better than she what pleases Christ, having been His confidante for two thousand years. So if she says we need the bath of confession, let’s take it. And if she says the King of the Universe wants us at His banquet every Sunday, let’s not miss it for the world.

Blood Brother

     "We each prick a thumb and then we put our thumbs together and mix the blood—that makes us 'blood-sisters'," I told my childhood friend. 

     Blood is thicker than water, they say. We wanted to prove our loyalty to each other, to deepen our bond, to be more than just friends. 

     We thought it was a great idea.

     (My mom thought otherwise. She was, well, horrified when she heard about it and started talking about blood diseases and other sundry pleasantries.)

     The idea of blood brotherhood is cross-cultural: there are legends and rituals among such diverse peoples as Norsemen and Native Americans and Chinese. Why does this idea have such widespread appeal?

     For the same reason it appealed to two nine-year-old suburban girls. Everyone knows you're supposed to be loyal to your own family. So how do you express a deep friendship, how do you express that your loyalty to a friend is like that of a brother—a bond that is lifelong and unbreakable? Family members are said to be related "by blood" (people didn't know about genes back then), so from that I suppose arose the idea of mixing—sharing—your blood with that friend who is like a brother.

      When I was little, one of the torments my older brother and sister devised was to try to convince me that I was adopted and therefore not a true member of the family. (The fact that I'm not and yet they treated a "real" sister in such a way just goes to prove that not being adopted doesn't protect you!) Of course, I now know that if I had been adopted it wouldn't have changed anything: my parents have always loved me dearly, and I know they'd have loved me just as much. Adopted children have just as much chance—sometimes more—of being cherished than biological children. 

    But we live in a fallen world, and thus we're all a little insecure.

    At a retreat some time ago, it dawned on me how thoroughly the Lord recognizes the longings of the human heart. (Shouldn't really be a surprise... He made our hearts after all.) So not only did the Son come down to earth to save us, not only did He become one of us to save us, but He even went so far as to make us His adopted brothers and sisters, calling the Father: "My Father and your Father". We are the adopted children of God—how incredible is that!

     But He also knows the insecurity that lies behind our longing to be "blood brothers". So He undertook a much greater ritual, not the mere prick of a needle to his thumb, but nails right through His hands and feet. Not a mere drop of blood, but shedding pints and pints of His Blood, some say to its last drop.

     And what about our part? He does call us to carry our cross and follow Him. But most of us won't have to shed our blood for Him, and He knows none of us could without His help anyway.

     Instead, He found another way for us to achieve an even more deeply unifying sharing of His blood than by rubbing thumbs together: He gave us His own Blood to drink and Body to eat in the Eucharist. 

     There is no greater union possible on this earth.

     "You are what you eat." This isn't merely a health motto—it seems it was also the motive for cannibalism. Fr. Jean de Brébeuf—a seventeenth-century Jesuit missionary—underwent horrific tortures with such courage that his Iroquois persecutors ate his heart to gain his courage. 

     I don't know if Fr. Brébeuf's virtues had any chemical correspondents in his blood that could have passed to those who tried to steal his heart, but I'm sure they couldn't gain those spiritual gifts that way. 

     When we partake of the Body and Blood of our Lord in the Eucharist, it is not cannibalism because He is alive and gives us His whole self. And it is a gift that, if we are open, will impart to us His Heart, His grace, and the characteristics of Him whom we consume. And it is a gift that unifies us with Him and truly makes us His blood brothers.

Mary Poppins Lacks Spirit

It's challenging to “get” certain spiritual concepts—like the Trinity—but that's where Mary Poppins can help.

     Yes, Mary Poppins—the movie.

     There's a scene early on in her new room at the Banks' house. As she's looking in the mirror and putting on her hat, she (naturally) starts singing. Then her image in the mirror begins to move on its own and sing with her, harmonizing and complementing her song. Then the image goes off into a high, flamboyant aria. The real Mary Poppins snorts, “Cheeky!” and stomps off.

     You can see immediately how this relates to the Trinity, can't you?

     ...Okay, let me elaborate.

     The Son is the perfect image of the Father, like the reflection in the mirror is an exact image of Mary Poppins. Mary—being magic—gives her image the ability to think and move independently. The Son too is not merely an unthinking reflection but another Person, begotten by the Father.

      Okay, so what about the Holy Spirit? There's only two persons in this analogy.

      Well—as usual—the Spirit is felt rather than seen here. But to be more precise—in Mary Poppins' case, the “spirit” is not felt, or at least is felt to be missing. Conspicuous by its absence.

      The Spirit of the Trinity is much more evident. The Son is not cheeky; instead, He does “whatever [He] see[s] [His] Father doing”. Unlike the magical mirror image—who didn't care about the wishes of her source, but wanted to show off and glorify herself—Jesus thinks and wills like His Father: they have the same “spirit”.

      This part of the Trinity isn't really as foreign as we might think at first; the idea is part of our language. When students love their school and cheer for their team, what do they show? School spirit. When a group has the same passion and works together, what do they have? One spirit.

      We are made in the image of God, how does that fit in? Well, we can apply this analogy to ourselves too, remembering though that's not as apropos. Jesus is the “only-begotten Son of the Father”, after all. He's a perfect image, a life-size image, with all the powers of His Father. Let's just say we're “mini-images”.

      But we too are free to do as we like, and called to freely do whatever our Father does. We don't see the Father though, as Jesus did. So we must imitate the Son. And that's only right for another reason: we have been baptized into Christ; we are His Body. That's how we get to heaven, not on our own merits, but by being one with Christ.

      That's where the phrase “WWJD?” comes in handy. But it can't merely be an occasional nice thought. Christ's life must be replicated in mine. I must crucify my self-will and die to myself to live in Him.

      But He doesn't leave us orphan, but promised at His Ascension to be with us always. How He does so is reflected in this cluster of feasts: next week's, Corpus Christi, reminds us that in the Eucharist, He is physically with us—and when we receive, in us. And last week's feast of Pentecost celebrates the fulfillment of His promise to send us His Spirit. 

     It's up to us not to cut ourselves off from Him, but to stay connected to Him, as close as a member of His body: to do as we see Him doing, so that we might share one Spirit with Him.

P.S. If you'd like to read more theological movie analogies, try this book by my friend and the master at it, Jim Hogan: Reel Parables: Life Lessons from Popular Films. You can check out his website at jameshogan.org.