A Loving Tongue

Loving our neighbor is an important part of following Christ. He made that pretty clear. He described it as the second-most important commandment, right after the greatest, which is to love God. St. John writes: "If any one says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for he who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen" (1 Jn 4:20).
     In the Parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus explained not only who our neighbor is, but also what love of neighbor looks like. He also taught the importance of the corporal works of mercy (feeding the hungry, visiting the imprisoned, etc.) when He spoke of the King separating the sheep from the goats (Mt 25:31-46). I think our society gets this. Even if many individuals don't actually practice it as often as they should, we as a society recognize and value serving the poor, helping those in need, etc.
     In our day, an aspect of loving our neighbor that is frequently overlooked, on the other hand, is how we speak of one another. People realize that it can be a bad idea to say negative things straight to someone's face, but they seem to have few qualms about saying almost anything behind someone's back.
     In Taming the Tongue, Mark Kinzer provides a very sobering examination of how seriously God takes this subject. For example, he writes: "I know of few verses in all of Scripture more spine-chilling than [Mt 12:36-37]: 'On the day of judgment men will render account for every careless word they utter, for by your words you will be justified, and by your words you will be condemned.' "
     Why does He care so much about what we say?
     It is due to the power of the word.    
     Obviously, insulting someone directly is unkind. But bad-mouthing someone behind their back is also hurtful. For one thing, our words could find their way back to the one about whom we speak. Our listener might report our words, or the subject of our conversation might overhear us, or someone else might overhear and report our words.
     But even if that person never learns of what we said, our words have still hurt them, for we have hurt their reputation. Almost everything we say about someone has the potential to build up or tear down that person. This is why it's so important not only to avoid slandering someone (speaking a negative truth), but also to guard against uttering careless words about them.
     St. Philip Neri, who is known for his dedicated service as a confessor, once helped a habitual gossip realize the seriousness of her vice. For her penance, he had her take a feather pillow to the top of a tower on a windy day, cut it open, and shake the feathers out. Then she was to go down and recover every feather she'd released. She naturally retorted that that would be impossible. He responded that it would be easier than to retrieve every harmful word she'd spoken or repair its damage.
     Hence, what we say or refrain from saying is a key aspect of loving our neighbor.

The Art of Pondering

A couple years ago, my friend Jean told me about a book she was reading: The Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains. According to the description, the author, Nicholas Carr, shows how "the technologies we use to find, store, and share information can literally reroute our neural pathways." And the effects are not all positive: "We are becoming ever more adept at scanning and skimming, but what we are losing is our capacity for concentration, contemplation, and reflection." 
     Of course, the Internet is not the only challenge to deep thinking; a daily to-do list provides sufficient distraction. Back in the '50s, long before the Internet, Fr. Philip Dion wrote of the ease with which people can avoid ever thinking below the surface level.
     There's a problem with that, and it's not just intellectual. 
     As Fr. Dion puts it: "We judge of things chiefly by their effects on our material welfare and our physical well-being. In other words, it is possible to live practically without thinking; it is possible to live a most superficial kind of animal existence without ever really tapping the resources of our spiritual mind, without ever becoming familiar with the whole thrilling world of spirit within us."
     The world of the spirit—though more important—can easily take a backseat in our lives because it's invisible. Ironically, the things that last can't be seen, and we're distracted by the countless things we can see. But none of them last: "All shall pass," St. Teresa of Avila reminds us; "all shall pass." 
     Only people pass into eternity, but their appearance then would amaze us now. C.S. Lewis wrote that if we could see each others' souls, some would fill us with horror, while the beauty and holiness of others would incline us to fall down in worship.
     Because there are so many other things competing for our attention, we can easily forget the things we say we know or believe. We may know that someday we will die, but we don't often think about it or act on the fact that it could happen any day. We may believe that we will have to render an account of our lives to our Creator on that day, but we don't prepare for it. We say we understand that our actions and attitudes are not always pleasing to Him, but we don't try to change them. Instead, we act as if we're guaranteed another fifty or sixty years and can work on that later.
     What we assent to intellectually, what we know in our minds, has not made its way down to our hearts. This is why we can say we love God but neglect to spend time with Him—even on the only day He commanded it. Or if we go to church, this why we can sit there like we're waiting for the bus instead of feeling the joy of our salvation. Or why, if we're Catholics, we can say we believe in the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, yet file up to receive Him with as much excitement as if we're in line at the grocery store.
     But how can we realize—that is, make real to ourselves—what we know and believe?
     It is in taking the time to think deeply about these things—and not alone, but asking for the help of the Holy Spirit—that they sink into our hearts. It is in pondering these truths in prayer that they take root in our lives and grow and bear fruit.
     If someone asks you, "Why do you pray?" Archbishop Fulton Sheen said to ask them, "Why do you breathe?"

     Use it or lose it, the gym advertisers warn. The same could be said for the powers of our mind and, even more frighteningly, of our spirit too.


Not sure how to do it? Check out one of my earlier posts: How to Meditate.

 

Who Needs Mercy?

You used to hear a lot about "guilt complexes" and "hang-ups" in the twentieth century. It was as though guilt feelings were never to be trusted and always to be avoided. The only thing to be ashamed of, was the feeling of shame. If you felt guilty, it wasn't because you had actually done anything wrong, but because you had "hang-ups" you needed to get beyond. If truth is relative, then there's not much that's really wrong—except, say, murder, judging other people, or failing to recycle.
     I think it's worked pretty well. I don't hear much about guilt anymore. If everything is permissible, what is there to feel guilty about?
     Even for those of us who think that there are plenty of impermissible things, today's feast—Divine Mercy Sunday—doesn't strike us as that exciting. Perhaps there's been such an emphasis in the last decades on God's love and mercy that we take them for granted.
     Many people today laugh at the idea of hell; if it exists at all, the only people there are Hitler and his ilk. 
     If that's true, why did Jesus speak more often of hell than heaven? If there's no hell, then why do some people who have been resuscitated, who have experienced "life after death," say that they went there?
     "Fire-and-brimstone" sermons are scorned as not only unnecessary, not only ridiculously archaic, but downright mean. How can it be mean, though, to remind us of a real danger we'd rather forget?
     Nowadays, most people don't think they deserve to go to hell. "I'm not that bad. I've never killed anyone. I'm basically a good person," they say. I don't think we're really being honest with ourselves, though, if that's what we think. When I look back on my life and think of the worst things I've done, think of the times I've turned my back on the God who has done so much for me, done things I knew would offend Him, I recognize that I deserve to go to hell.
     If that's hard for you to see for yourself, can you really say that you deserve to go to Heaven? That you are so wonderful, that your life is so exemplary and meritorious that you've earned it? I hope not, because that would indicate some seriously delusional thinking. No one can earn heaven.
     I think the real problem is a lack of really thinking about it. We're so caught up in our day-to-day concerns that we don't think about these deeper matters.
     But if we are not big sinners, that doesn't mean we have nothing to worry about. Today's feast derives in part from the approved private revelations to St. Faustina. She said that Jesus wished for not only a Feast commemorating His Divine Mercy; He also wanted it to be preceded by a novena, each day dedicated to a different intention. The last day was devoted for the most difficult: the lukewarm and indifferent. "These souls cause Me more suffering than any others; it was from such souls that My soul felt the most revulsion in the Garden of Olives." This echoes what He said in the Gospels about the lukewarm: that He would spit them out of His mouth.
     One way I can arouse gratitude in my heart for His infinite mercy is to contemplate my need for it. Relating the sorrowful mysteries of His Passion to my own sins is helpful in this. 
     Haven't I, for instance, like the disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane, only added to, rather than relieved, His sorrows? They fell asleep when He needed them, then fled when He was taken. Haven't I neglected spending time with Him in prayer, or spaced out if I did go; haven't I run from the cross, abandoned Him in countless ways?
     If every lash of my tongue in my life left a mark, would not my unkind words leave Him as welt-covered and bloody as did the scourging at the pillar? If my every negative, critical, selfish, judgmental, proud thought were visible, would they not amount to a crown of thorns covering His sacred head? If every sin of omission—every failure to do my part, to carry my cross—resulted in His not only being burdened with my sins, but in falling under their weight, would He not have fallen more than three times?
     Then the crucifixion: who wants to admit that their sins helped fix Him to the cross? But I recognize those nails as mine.
     How can such reflections not lead to sorrow? That's the point. But not to remain there. Yes, we should recognize that "It was our sins that He carried, our punishment that He bore," but precisely in order that we can rejoice that "By His stripes, we are healed..... On him lies a punishment that brings us peace."     
     Guilt feelings should not be denied nor should we swim in them. Rather, they are meant be used to help us grow in gratitude and holiness.

     I asked the Lord, "How much do you love me?"
     He said, "This much," and He spread out His arms...
and died for me.

     Thank you, Jesus, for your Infinite Mercy.

God Is Dead?

I remember some years ago seeing a book about the death of God, and (I think) the problem posed by his gigantic body decaying on earth. Too ridiculous, I thought.

Nietzsche famously wrote “God is dead,” a nonsensical notion that gained some popularity some decades ago. If God is God—almighty, eternal, the source of all being—how could He die? If He could, He wouldn't be God.

And yet, many people take for granted the really astonishing thing that Christians profess: namely, that God WAS dead.

That is really amazing, if you think about it.

No, God, as a Divine Being, could not die. Not, until, that is, He had taken up life as a man. Even then, no one could kill Him—remember those who tried to throw Him off a cliff?—unless He let them.

But the real death of God did not cause an ecological disaster. It did cause an more than an earthquake—more like a cosmos-quake.

It meant that death was changed. Death was no longer a dead-end. Once the All-Powerful dropped into the abyss of death but didn't remain there, it became a passageway to eternal life.

The sin of Adam and Eve and had locked the gates of heaven from the outside, but they and their descendants were incapable of opening them again. Only God could do it. So he came out and broke the lock of sin, and used a cross to do it.

God did die—and it's a wondrous thing.

And now He is risen—Alleluia!

Welcome, Jesus!

It had started out as such a great day for Simon. 

     He was fulfilling the dream of every Jew—especially those living outside the Holy Land, who each spring say, "Next year, in Jerusalem"—to spend Passover in that holy place.

     But just as he was reaching the gates of the city, a huge crowd surged out. The hated occupiers were leading criminals to execution. Simon watched with a mixture of pity and contempt. Then one of them—a particularly bloody one—collapsed at his feet.

     Next thing Simon knew, his arm was snatched and he was dragged forward. "You!" the soldier shouted. "Help him!"

     Simon opened his mouth to protest, only to find a sword-point just below his chin. He sighed and complied.

     But inwardly he rebelled. Why me? Why must I share in the shame of this evildoer? I've done nothing wrong. And why now? Just as I'm reaching Jerusalem! Now I will be unclean; and there is not enough time before the Passover to be made clean. What a grievous disappointment.

     Somewhere along the way, though, Simon must have realized Who it was that he was helping. At some point he must have decided to follow Jesus—not just to Golgotha—but for the rest of his life, to the heavenly city. We know his name; we know the names of his sons, Rufus and Alexander; how could the evangelists include their names in the Gospels unless they had joined the Christian community? We don't know the name of the rich young man, who chose not to follow Him.

     So somewhere along the way, Simon must have realized what a tremendous privilege he had been given: to minister to the Christ, the Son of God, in His need, during His Passion. No one was closer to Jesus at this crucial time than Simon of Cyrene.

     Somewhere along the way, perhaps, Simon realized that it was not himself who was innocent and undeserving to carry a cross, but Jesus. Somewhere along the way, perhaps, he understood that he was not helping Jesus to carry His cross, but Jesus was helping Simon to carry what properly belonged to the Cyrenian, and taking the lion's share of the burden.

     I read this week in The Handbook of Spiritual Perfection, by Fr. Philip Dion, that one common way we put self before God is when we rebel against His permissive will. When we fret over the little inconveniences or fume over our trials. 

     The key is to recognize the opportunity at hand. A priest at a conference once said that whenever he experiences a difficulty, he says, "Welcome, Jesus!"

     When we are pulled out of our way and forced to carry a cross, like Simon, we must not focus on the cross, but see Who is beneath it. See the One to whom we are being given the privilege to draw close, the honor to help. Realize that the cross properly belongs to us, not to Him, and truly He is helping us, not the other way around. Realize that when we are yoked to Him, He carries the heavier portion, and makes it sweet and light for us.

     Let us not imitate those in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday who welcomed Jesus when He came in as the Son of David, but reviled Him when He carried the cross for them. 

     Let us instead, put ourselves in the place of Simon, and when we see the cross, look for the One beneath it, and gladly step forward from the crowd and humbly rejoice in every opportunity to be close to Him.

     Welcome, Jesus!  

A Happy Day for St. Patrick

Ever since I moved East and have lived in cities with greater numbers of Irish Catholics than my native suburban southern California, I've been surprised to see fewer people wearing green in the Catholic churches or schools on St. Patrick's Day than I did at my mostly WASP-y elementary school. Naturally, we didn't know anything about the political history behind the color, or I doubt if my Protestant classmates would have been so eager to defend the "wearing of the green" by pinching those who didn't comply.
     Of course, I don't mean to imply that I don't see any green on St. Patrick's Day--it just tends to be concentrated mostly around Irish pubs.
     I wonder what Saint Patrick thinks about that. I seriously doubt that he's pleased that celebrating his life, which was dedicated to Christ and the Church, has become an excuse for day-long inebriation.
     Don't get me wrong: I'm proud of my own Irish ancestors, and our family celebrates our Irish heritage today. I'm wearing all green as I write this, the corned beef is in the slow cooker (along with 12 oz. of beer), and we're about to watch Darby O'Gill and the Little People. There's nothing wrong with celebrating Irish customs and patriotism today. After all, it is the patronal feast of the Irish.
     It's just that I think too much beer has made people so bleary they're missing the point. They've wandered too far from the man--the saint--whose life and sanctity this feast day is meant to recognize.
     There's a lot more to him than his shamrock. 
     His example, for instance, is well worth contemplating. 
     When he was kidnapped and carried off to another country as a slave, he didn't complain or feel sorry for himself. Nor did he rebel and question why God would allow such a thing. Instead, he repented of having been a lukewarm Christian and accepted his lot as what he justly deserved.
     Once he was free, he didn't lead an army to punish the wicked heathen who had enslaved him. Nor did he avoid them like the plague. Instead, he sought to help them. He was trained and ordained as a priest and requested to be sent back to Ireland as a missionary, at great personal risk. He spent the rest of his life, seeking to bring the saving love of Jesus to the people who had wronged him.
     What a fine model he is for us, who are so quick to complain, so liable to question God, so reluctant to repent,so loathe to forgive, and too embarrassed to evangelize!
     St. Patrick also provides a wonderful example of living out St. Paul's admonition to "Pray always." As a slave, Patrick's job was to watch the sheep. Instead of being bored or contemplating revenge or escape or other negative options, he used his time well. He spent his day praying.
     The best ways I can think of to honor Saint Patrick are to strive to imitate him and to pray and share the heart of his beautiful prayer:

Christ with me, 

Christ before me,
Christ behind me, 

Christ within me,
Christ beneath me, 

Christ above me,
Christ at my right, 

Christ at my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks to me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

Saint Patrick, pray for us!

Rewards of Reconciliation

Last week I mentioned that there are actually benefits to braving the confessional.

     Even the secular world recognizes how healing it can be to confess one’s sins to another person. One of the steps of every Twelve-Step program, no matter what type, is to make an inventory of all the wrongs (sins) one has done. The next step is to tell another human being what those wrongs were; the following step is to seek to somehow make amends for those wrongs.

     Now those who came up with the Twelve Steps were Christians. They understood the importance of St. James’ instruction to “confess your sins to one another” and the role that doing so plays in our being forgiven and healed (see Jas 5:15-16).

     There’s something about admitting our sins to another human being that requires more of us than acknowledging them to God. After all, He already knows about them; it’s not like He’s going to be surprised or that it will change His opinion of us. But another human being might. Thus making ourselves vulnerable in this way shows true repentance. It shows that we care more about what God thinks than what other people think.

     It also has to do with living in truth. Isn’t that a major point of The Scarlet Letter? The minister rationalizes that he can help people more if he hides his guilt. But receiving the adulation of the community who believe him to be particularly holy means he’s living a double life. His failure to own up to his sin and share the punishment meted out to Hester, his “partner in crime,” eats away at him.

     St. John points out how central living in truth is to following Christ: “Every one who does evil hates the light, and does not come to the light, lest his deeds should be exposed” (Jn 3:20). Just as a doctor cannot heal us if we hide our ailments from him, neither can God cleanse and heal us if we deny and hide our sins. We need to come into the Light: “If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, ... the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin. ... If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 Jn 7-9).

     Still, some might wonder why Catholics are supposed to confess to a priest; why not confess to someone of their own choosing? First of all, it’s not like you can’t confess to someone else. Usually, we should also admit our wrongs to those whom we have offended, and ask their forgiveness.

     One chief reason we confess to a priest is that God is invisible and His voice usually doesn’t sound in our ears. It is helpful to us to go to someone who represents Him (the priest is called an alter Christus—another Christ), someone whom we can see and hear, someone who, after listening to our sins and our repentance, audibly gives us that glorious message that our sins our forgiven!

     Another big reason is that whenever we sin, we do not merely offend God, we do not only hurt ourselves, we also hurt the Body of Christ. The Church is that Body, and when we sin we hurt all her members. So the priest is there also as a representative of the members, to whom we also owe an apology and the making of amends.

     Priests are also trained to give spiritual counsel, and often have very good and helpful advice. Christ promised to send his Spirit upon them and work through them. Even when I don't agree with a priest's personal perspective, I always find some beneficial kernel of truth in every confession. 

     The main reason Catholics confess to a priest is obedience. The sacrament originates from Jesus’ giving the apostles the authority to forgive sins: “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” (Jn 20:23).

     Jesus also gave His apostles the authority to make some of the rules (just as He had with Moses): “Truly, I say to you, whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Mt 16:19, 18:18). So if the Church says that for the forgiveness of mortal sin, the ordinary means of receiving God’s forgiveness is through the confessional, then we should obey. Considering that in the early centuries, Christians had to confess their sins publicly, we’ve got it relatively easy now.

     The point is that if one is really sorry for one’s sins, for having turned one’s back on God, then one should be willing to do whatever He might want. If God wanted us to apologize by composing an original sonnet and reciting it in the mall during lunch hour, who are we to argue?

     Though the Church requires confession only for mortal (serious) sins, she still highly recommends availing oneself of its graces for venial sins as well. Many saints and spiritual writers advise frequent confession, because it’s so helpful and such a wonderful means of growing spiritually. Some saints valued it so highly that even when they had nothing to confess, they would go, repenting again for past sins—not from a fear that they hadn't already been forgiven, but out of love, sorrow, and a desire for the graces flowing from the sacrament.

     While it’s very difficult to confess one’s sins, it is so worth it. We tend to think of it as something unpleasant or to be avoided. But just like eating vegetables or getting exercise, so with the sacrament of confession: the more you do it, the easier it gets and the more benefits you enjoy. And just as those other good things that require self-discipline lead to being healthy and feeling good, partaking in Reconciliation leads to great joy.