Anxiety and Trust, Part I

Anxiety is in the air, and trust can be difficult, with fears about –  for many Catholics – the Synod on the Family. We have, in addition, Ebola, ISIS, the world economy, and the persecution of Christians abroad and –  increasingly – at home.

Regarding the Synod, I went through some real turmoil myself. Some of the lines of the relatio (the mid-term review of the discussions) simply made no sense. For example, in the notorious paragraph 50 mistranslation, which the media naturally ran with: how are we as Catholic Christians to “value” homosexual orientation? That would be equivalent to “valuing” depression, or PTSD, or obsessive-compulsive disorder. Obviously, we do value, love, and respect those with same-sex attraction, just as we value all human beings as made in God’s image; but that wasn’t what the relatio mistranslation said. And the section on “gradualism”: it gives the impression that cohabitation is kind-of-like-marriage-but-not-quite-as-good. Um…I thought that it was fornication?

I was therefore most relieved (see Jimmy Akin’s excellent article on this, in the National Catholic Register: “Good news from the synod of bishops: 12 things to know and share”) that the majority of the synod bishops were upset by the report, since it was heavily weighted toward the “liberal” elements of the synod, so that they asked that the full reports of each of the groups be published. It was also most encouraging and bracing that the African bishops pointed out that while some of the Western bishops seem to be bending over backwards to accommodate the world (any wonder their churches are empty?), the thriving Church in Africa is pouring out the blood of its martyrs to defend the truths of the Catholic faith. Likewise, a Polish bishop commented that the relentless emphasis on compassion, in the relatio, implied that up to this point the Church has been heartless and doctrinaire – meanies – rather than “speaking the truth in love”.

Most troubling, of course, has been the pope’s silence through all of this. Where’s the Chief Shepherd? Shouldn’t he be offering some guidance?  How much of the relatio reflects his thoughts? The next step, of course, is the worry: what do I do, as a faithful Catholic, if the pope teaches error?

So it’s back to trust: Jesus, I trust in you. Jesus, I TRUST in You. You guarantee that Peter is the Rock, and the jaws of death will not prevail against Your Church, built on Peter. And Pope Francis is a validly elected pope. So however close he may sail to the wind; however  (I’ll be blunt) loosely he may speak; however confusing or careless his off-the-cuff pronouncements are: he will not teach error. Neither will he, in union with the bishops, teach error. Our hope is not in a particular man, but in the words of Jesus Christ and the power of His Holy Spirit to safeguard the Church from error. That is a Rock that nothing will shake.

So let’s not be holding our breaths anxiously until this synod and the 2015 synod are over, hoping not too much damage will have been done. Let’s trust NOW. Let’s look at Abraham, our father in faith:

By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac, and he who had received the promises was ready to offer up his only son, of whom it was said, “Through Isaac shall your descendants be named.” He considered that God was able to raise men even from the dead; hence he did receive him back, and this was a symbol.  (Hebrews 11:17-19)

Abraham trusted that God knew better than he what was best. This is faith; this is humility.

There are no accidents; “all things work to the good” (Rom 8:28); we have nothing to fear. As a side note, the relatio has no teaching authority whatsoever – but that’s not the point. The point is that God can be trusted; Christ’s promise can be trusted. Because of those facts – ONLY because of those facts, and this applies to every pope, because we’ve had no perfect popes, Peter included – the Pope, insofar as he teaches authoritatively, can be trusted to teach the truth.

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The Eucharist as Radiation Therapy

Eucharistic adoration and radiation therapy aren’t terms most of us naturally link. But as a Catholic and a psychologist, I’ve found that they have much in common. I recently gave a talk about this link at a local Catholic event, “Ablaze”.

“Ablaze” marvelously combines Eucharistic adoration and worship music in a way that particularly speaks to young Catholics. It is modeled on the Saturday night Eucharistic adoration at the heart of the Steubenville weekend youth conferences. As a deacon friend told me, just go to a Steubenville conference if your hope in Catholic youth and the future of the Church is wavering. You will see 3000 high schoolers on their knees for hours before the monstrance, worshipping their Eucharistic Lord: weeping, singing, praising God with hands lifted; reaching out to touch the hem of the priest’s vestment as he goes through the crowd, row by row, blessing. You will see one of the keys to the new evangelization, just as St. John Paul II’s World Youth Day affected so many and helped raise a new crop of passionate, solid, fearless seminarians and priests. You will see that our youth don’t want to be entertained, fed spiritual junk food, or do endless “icebreakers”: they want to encounter the living GOD.

Besides being a powerful source of Church renewal – St. John Paul II pointed out that the parishes most on fire are routinely those that emphasize it – Eucharistic adoration is also a wellspring of deep emotional healing, transformation, and holiness. We are told that Moses’ face became radiant as he conversed with the LORD at the tent of meeting, and especially after his 40 days atop Mt. Sinai. He was permeated with the presence of God, and his heroic holiness testify that the permeation wasn’t simply physical. He went from being from the timid evader of responsibility of Exodus 3, to the particular friend of God, of whom God said,

“Hear my words: If there is a prophet among you, I the Lord make myself known to him in a vision, I speak with him in a dream.  Not so with my servant Moses; he is entrusted with all my house.  With him I speak mouth to mouth, clearly, and not in dark speech; and he beholds the form of the Lord.” (Num 12:6-8a)

Now, all Christians have this opportunity: to encounter the Lord face to face, in every Catholic church and chapel in the world, as only privileged figures like Enoch, Moses, and Elijah did before all were given this incredible gift. Like Moses, we can be irradiated with the Divine Presence. The words of Job are fulfilled:

“Then from my flesh I shall see God,  whom I shall see on my side, and my eyes shall behold, and not another.
    My heart faints within me!” (Job 19:26b-27)

When we so sit before the Lord, we are defenseless. As with radiation therapy, we know that something is happening, but we don’t know what. We give the Lord the opportunity to remove our emotional and spiritual blocks; to nourish and strengthen all that is of Him while cleansing us of all that is not.

In my “Ablaze” testimony, I recalled an intense summer at St. Bonaventure University in upper New York State. The Lord gave me the grace to spend hours a day before the Eucharist, something I could never otherwise have done. It was almost not a choice – I was compelled to do so and could hardly tear myself away. There was an absolute conviction that He was “doing a new thing” in me. At the same time, He led me repeatedly to Romans 6-8, which are all about transformation and freedom in Christ; and to Isaiah, chapters 39-50 or so, which are words to Israel (and every believer) of comfort and being specially chosen by God after periods of desolation and seeming abandonment.

With both the adoration and the Scripture immersion, it was like eating and drinking. I was devouring the Word, soaking in the Lord. It was a time of immeasurable grace. Jesus irradiated me in the Eucharist while the Father spoke tenderly to me in the Word. The experience culminated in an interior vision as I read and re-read Isaiah 49.

I was in a crowd of people, as the Father paced back and forth. My head hung low, I thought, “He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know I’m here. I’ll never be noticed in this crowd.” Immediately the Father stopped, turned, and pointed to me: “YOU. I see YOU. I choose YOU. I know YOU.” It was overwhelming. It was entering into sonship with the Father my own father could never be; that no earthly father could ever be. It was the healing of a lifelong wound of feeling that I was superfluous; in the way; a burden, as the 8th of 12 children in a family hammered by financial strain, my father’s difficult health situation, and my parents’ own lack of having been parented. I belong; I am chosen; I am meant to be here; it is good that I am here; I am (as are all of us) an indispensable part of God’s plan.

Other graces flowed from that summer of “radiation therapy”. The Lord opened my heart to the possibility of a married vocation, later fulfilled through my lovely wife, Mary. He led me to a level of trust in friendships that had previously been closed to me.

So – I urge you to come to that Fountain, bathe in that Light. Run – do not walk! – to the nearest Eucharistic chapel. Spend some time, as St. Teresa of Avila notes, with Someone we know loves us very much. Fr. Corapi noted that a Protestant minister friend – since converted to Catholicism – told him, “If I believed what you do about the Eucharist, I would nail myself prostrate to the floor of the chapel and never leave!” Let’s do that; let’s sign on for a course in “radiation therapy”.

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Dryness in Prayer, Part III

So how, practically, does one do contemplative prayer?

  • Simply sit with the Lord: make an act of faith that He is gazing on you with love, give Him complete permission to do w/ you what He wills.
  • Make an act of faith at the beginning and end of your prayer time (make commitment to at least 15 minutes, half hour, hour, and don’t cut it short) that this is indeed prayer, and that God is at work

Most of prayer will consist of being repeatedly distracted, but then calling oneself back to quiet, loving attention to the Lord. Our imagination, writes St. Teresa, is like a wandering dog, sniffing at every tree and bush – so we have to “whistle” it back to attention.  The heart of this prayer basically is the will: deciding to refocus and be with the Lord. It’s fine to use a brief, Christ-centered or Scriptural phrase to try to keep focused – e.g., “Jesus”, “Lord have mercy”, “I love You, Lord”. It can help to have a religious image – e.g., an icon or a crucifix – to help one focus. If Eucharistic adoration is available, that’s ideal – it provides not just a focal point, but the Real Presence.

The heart of my prayer these last 26 years or so has been contemplative prayer. But naturally, along with our contemplative prayer, we still need to intercede for people; read spiritual books, especially the Bible; praise, thank, and just generally converse with the Lord spontaneously; journal and stay open to His speaking to us (“listening prayer”); pray the Rosary and other Catholic devotions; and of course, attend Mass at least weekly, with frequent confession.To begin praying contemplatively does NOT mean to abandon Scripture, listening prayer, vocal prayer, liturgical prayer (especially the Mass), or spiritual reading – but we simply do those at a separate time during the day or week.

The fruits of contemplative prayer are broad and deep:

  • God seems absent most of time in prayer, but the fruits of the Spirit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control) more evident in one’s life outside of prayer – more Christlike character, deeper conformity to God’s will, greater desire for God’s glory.
  • A deepened sense of God’s action and presence in the very ordinary things of life: everything in some sense speaks of God: a deep conviction that God is present always in all things.
  • Knowledge, not based on thoughts, emotions, or sensations, that God is quietly but powerfully working during the prayer time, despite the dryness.
  • A subtle sort of sweetness/peace/joy (St. John calls it “extremely delicate”) during prayer, at least at times.
  • Seeking the Giver, not the gifts. He is the Lord, and I pray because He calls me to. Will experience consolation on occasions, but it’ll have nothing to do w/ my efforts – clearly a gift from the Lord.

The Scriptural bases of contemplative prayer can be summed up by: “How did the prayer giants of the Bible pray?” (Moses, Elijah, David, Paul, and Jesus Himself)

Moses Exodus 24:12-18. 40 days and nights on the mountain with the Lord: was Moses talking that whole time? Or sitting and gazing on the Lord’s presence?

Elijah and the still, small voice 1 Kings 19:11-13. The Lord’s presence requires attention and can by very subtle.

David and the other psalmists Ps 27: 4, 7-8 (about gazing on the Lord’s loveliness); Ps 42: 2-3 (As the deer longs for running streams, so my soul longs for you, my God…); Ps 63 (O God, you are my God, for you I long…through the night-watches I meditate on you): themes of longing, waiting, gazing, meditating echo throughout the Psalms, Israel’s prayer book. The recurrent theme of waiting for, hoping in the Lord throughout the psalms captures the spirit of contemplation. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10): this is the essence of contemplative prayer.

The Song of  Solomon (The Song of Songs) is best understood in the light of contemplative prayer. The groom is the Lord, and the bride who passionately seeks Him whom her heart loves is the soul. It’s no accident that the great mystics – St. Bernard of Clairvaux, St. Teresa of Avila, St. John of the Cross, and St. Therese of Lisieux – so frequently described their passionate love for the Lord in terms taken from the Song of Solomon.

St. Paul (2 Cor 3:17-18) “We, gazing on the Lord with unveiled faces, are transformed from glory to glory by the Lord, who is the Spirit”; 1 Thes 5:17 tells us to “pray without ceasing” – contemplative prayer, especially, fosters an ongoing, loving awareness of the Lord throughout ordinary life.

Jesus In Luke, especially, Jesus is always going off by himself to pray. In the gospels, He spent 40 days and nights fasting and praying in the desert. Just before walking on the water He spent all night in prayer (at least 9 hours). Was he talking that whole time? He certainly wasn’t reading the Bible! He must have been gazing at the Father who lovingly was gazing on him.

Finally, the Catholic Church has a rich tradition of contemplative prayer, going back at least to St. Anthony of the Desert in the first few centuries of the Church, echoing throughout the monastic movement, and shining out repeatedly in the lives of the saints and other giants of church renewal. Once one learns what contemplation is, one sees it everywhere. There are too many examples to enumerate.

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Dryness in Prayer, Part II

So how do I know that the Lord may be calling me to contemplative prayer? The following “signs” are derived from two of the masters of the Christian spiritual life, St. John of the Cross and St. Teresa of Avila.

  • Increased desire for the Lord, to live the Christian life better, and for prayer. Despite this increased desire, prayer itself tends to be disappointingly dry: when you show up, the Lord seems absent. Great frustration that now that you desire Him more than ever, He seems to have withdrawn.
  • Painful fears that His seeming absence is due to some lack or fault on your part, although your conscience is basically clear. Trying to scramble for the “right combo” of prayer practices to regain the sense of sweetness in prayer, but this has a deadening sense – it feels like running away rather than encountering the Lord.
  • The dryness isn’t due to a lack of devotion, persistent sinful habits or thought patterns, or slacking off on prayer, Mass, the sacraments, Scripture reading
  • Meditative prayer (e.g., reflecting on Christ’s sufferings, or the joys of Heaven, or the 7 Deadly Sins) becomes difficult or impossible
  • Activities outside of prayer that used to be fun or exciting become bland. (For example, I used to love amusement parks, and I still enjoy them – but they don’t “do it” for me as they used to. Put simply, only Jesus “hits the spot”.) I can’t enjoy the Lord in prayer, or life outside of prayer. St. John calls this the “Night of the Senses” – the Lord is usually undetectable in prayer, and things that used to stimulate the senses before no longer do.
  • However, if asked where I’d rather be when experiencing dryness in prayer, I’d say “nowhere else than here with the Lord”. And when not praying, there’s a persistent tug toward prayer – one wishes one had more prayer time, and wants to get through other things in order to get to prayer.
  • The person finds great consolation in reading about contemplative prayer. The sense of floundering is relieved once the person finds God has called him/her to a different mode of prayer.

Why does prayer shift in this way? Scripture tells us that we are body, soul, and spirit. “Body” needs no explanation. The “soul” is what enables us to think, imagine, remember, and feel emotions. But in contemplative prayer (sitting in the Lord’s presence and letting Him work on me, while I’m simply receptive and attentive) the Lord works directly on my spirit, the part of me capable of directly relating to God; and the spirit’s way of knowing is wordless and intuitive.

So in contemplation, God bypasses the soul (emotions, memory, understanding, and imagination) and the body (physical sensations). This type of prayer, by definition, an experience that can’t be put into words (since words deal with effects on the soul and the body), so attempts to describe it necessarily sound vague. Yet for those called to it, the descriptions hit home: the person feels relief: “So THAT’s what’s going on.” It is not “listening prayer”: it’s just being with the Lord. God is very much at work, but I may not feel much emotion, or have beautiful thoughts. I will have a “confused, loving knowledge” (as Diefenbach writes in Common Mystic Prayer) that the Lord is at work, without being to explain how.

In contemplation, God is purifying me by dryness and the painful longing for Him, by the withdrawal of the sense of pleasure in worldly pursuits (“and when I am with You, the earth delights me not” – Ps. 73) and by the direct work of the Holy Spirit on my spirit. St. John of the Cross writes, “This is Purgatory” – i.e., the work of purgation is similarly painful and purifying, and it works toward the same goal: gradually stripping me of everything that is not of God, to “fit us for Heaven to live with Thee there”, as the carol says.

My next post will explain how to “do” contemplative prayer, the marvelous fruits it fosters, and its bases in Scripture and Tradition. Stay tuned…

 

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Dryness in Prayer, Part I

Dryness in prayer is an inevitable stage in the life of the committed Christian. Not many who reach that stage of dryness have any idea how to proceed. Hence, these posts on the topic. The source of much of the material, besides the counsel of some wonderful spiritual directors and my own experiences, is the marvelous book, When the Well Runs Dry: Prayer Beyond the Beginnings, by Thomas Green, SJ, as well as a less-known gem, Common Mystic Prayer, by Gabriel Diefenbach. If you’re struggling in prayer, yet long for closeness with the Lord, these posts are for you!

By “dryness in prayer”, I don’t mean the lack of experience of the Lord that those who’ve never made a commitment to Him, and never or rarely pray, experience. I refer to those who’ve made a decisive commitment to the Lord, after which they’ve experienced a deep sense of devotion, a “honeymoon” with the Lord. The honeymoon (much as when one first falls in love) features emotional highs, even pleasant physical sensations of elation or warmth. At this point, Scripture in particular comes alive, but all prayer is sweet most of the time – whether verbal, liturgical, or meditative. Praise, adoration, thanksgiving, worship may also come to the fore.

Inevitably, though – sometimes within a few months, sometimes after a year or two – the honeymoon ends. Periods of “consolation” – of experiencing the Lord’s presence and sweetness – become infrequent, and dryness in prayer becomes the rule instead of the exception. This transition means it’s time to shift to a different mode of prayer altogether: contemplative or mystical prayer.

While the honeymoon lasts, we might do Scripture reading; talking to God; rote prayers such as novenas, the Rosary, or the Chaplet of Divine Mercy; liturgical prayers such as the Mass. Some of these are normally done alone, others often or (in the Mass) always in community. Another form of prayer we might do is meditation, which involves nonverbal but structured prayer in which we think about this or that truth or “mystery” of the faith, or some event in Scripture. Examples of meditation include the Rosary or the Stations of the Cross. As prayer, none of these modes are just reciting words, or thinking. They are motivated by devotion to the Lord and open to the Holy Spirit.

In the beginning, all of these types of prayer may yield sweetness. And then, as Green notes, “the well runs dry.” When I first experienced more and more dryness in prayer, after a year or so post-conversion “honeymoon”, I assumed I was doing something wrong. I tried reading more Scripture; journaling more; spending more time interceding for people or praising and thanking God. I read additional spiritual books. Through many activities, I tried to get the feeling back, but nothing worked. My activities in prayer seemed to get in the way of closeness to God. Strangely, I longed for Him more than ever. But what was I to do?

Thank God, I went to see a Franciscan priest, Fr. Roch, for spiritual direction. In response to my frustration, he asked, “Why are you doing all of those things in prayer?” Surprised, I said, “Well, I have to do something!” To which he responded, “Do you?”

Fr. Roch explained that in contemplation, prayer becomes more God’s work in us than our work. Our role shifts from much activity to “active passivity”: receptivity to the Holy Spirit’s working in prayer. Prayer becomes more and more, not what I do with God’s help, but what God does in me. As in the episode about Martha and Mary (Lk 10:38-42), I learn to stop “doing things” in prayer, and I learn to sit at the Lord’s feet. Practically, this involves setting aside the activities – even including “listening prayer” – and simply sitting before the Lord, “gazing” at Him while He gazes at me. Fr. Roch stressed that it was more important to keep in mind that God was gazing at me, than I at Him.

And my prayer life – my life  – changed forever.

In my next post, I’ll look at how to know if God is leading you into contemplative prayer; how to pray contemplatively; why the journey of prayer normally lead to contemplation; and what are the (wonderful, life-changing) fruits of contemplation; and what is its basis in the Scriptures. Thanks be to God, there is a path through the desert, prepared for us by prayer warriors like St. John and St. Teresa. We don’t have to wander in thirst: we can blossom in the desert.

 

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“Radical” Islam and Reality, Part II

As noted in my last post, I’d like to address how Christians can respond to Islam, as well as why the secular media so thoroughly misrepresent Islam (as well as Christianity). Ironically, I just read an article clearly highlighting the media bias against Christianity – particularly Catholicism – and Islam’s protected media status: http://cnsnews.com/commentary/l-brent-bozell-iii/when-child-sex-abuse-isnt-news

The article compares the many times the Catholic sex abuse scandal has made the front pages of, e.g., the New York Times, or garnered time on major news channels, versus the scant attention given to the 1000+ cases of sexual abuse by Pakistani Muslims perpetrated on white girls in England over the past 13 years. British police apparently failed to address this horrendous abuse for fear of seeming racist. The U.S. secular media, in the rare cases in which the outrage has made the news at all, have avoided identifying the perpetrators as 1) Pakistani (since the readers would identify them as probably Muslim) or 2) (more directly) as Muslim. U.S. journalists have no such shyness in identifying Catholic clerical sex abusers as such.

Why would this be? According to Robert Spencer, in Not Peace, But a Sword, because Muslims in the U.S. are a minority, the U.S. media tend to treat them with the same kid-gloves, politically correct approach with which it treats other minorities. That worldwide, nations with Muslim majorities tend to be brutally oppressive of minorities seems to escape most U.S. journalists. On the other hand, Catholics and other Christians (at least nominal ones) are in the majority in the U.S. – so, of course, they couldn’t possibly be persecuted.

But committed Christians believe in moral and philosophical absolutes, and oppose the more and more normative depravity of U.S. secular society. Such “intolerance” and “judgmentalism” is the unforgivable sin in the media’s eyes; it must be punished and eradicated. Ironically, the very freedom of the press to attack Christians arises out of the Christian emphasis on freedom of conscience, religion, and expression that undergirds the Deistic beliefs of the Founding Fathers. Should sharia law become the law of the U.S. (which Heaven forbid!), the secular media (not to mention the ACLU) would be the first to be silenced, imprisoned, or executed.

My wife would wisely say, “Sean, this is just the ‘world’ (in the Biblical sense of the life of society as lived without reference to God) being the ‘world’. It has always hated Christianity and always will.” True. So how can we as Christians respond to that hatred?

The only possible response is to speak the truth in love. As Pope Emeritus Benedict the XVI pointed out in his encyclical Caritas in Veritate (Love in Truth), truth spoken without love isn’t really truth, and love given without truth isn’t really love. So we must speak out. We do no one any favors by pretending that mainstream Islamic practice isn’t filled with problems: it is. We help no one by minimizing the profound differences between Islamic and Christian belief, and how these differences lead to equally profound differences in practice: those who live Christianity in all of its fullness we rightly call “saints”. Those who live Islam in all of its fullness, very unfortunately, support or act on the abhorrent practices outlined above. These are simple truths; they need to be spoken. One cannot love another and lie to him or her at the same time.

But it is truth in love that must be spoken and lived. I was dismayed, after 9/11, that although many church marquees I saw encouraged the faithful, “Pray for the victims of 9/11”, not one added, “…and for our enemies”. This is where the Christian rubber hits the road; not only “see how these Christians love one another”, but “see how these Christians love their enemies“. Love of enemies is the single most effective witness to Christ. The beginning, end, and middle of the Gospel is this:

“In Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us.” (2 Cor 5:19)

God forgave me everything, so I must forgive others everything. I have freely received God’s love; I must freely give it. This doesn’t mean that war crimes can’t be prosecuted; it doesn’t necessarily rule out military action against, e.g., ISIS, to prevent the continued slaughter of innocents. But if I am truly to be a minister of reconciliation – our primary vocation as Christians – I am forbidden to hate; I am charged to love and pray for persecuted and persecutor alike; I may not dehumanize or objectify those who commit outrages; I must, however reluctantly, admit, “There but for the grace of God go I” and “Jesus died a bloody death out of absolute love for that person”.

As a Christian – I would say, as a rational person – I must reject Islam. But as a Christian, I must love, accept, and will the good of Muslims and all others. Do I have my moments of “Nuke ’em back to the Stone Age”? Absolutely. Is that the counsel of the Holy Spirit. Um…no.

 

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“Radical” Islam and Reality, Part I

I’m back after a much-relished, dare I say much-deserved family vacation in the Rockies. The world is indeed charged with the glory of God! In the meantime, the violence, darkness, and fear engendered by “radical” Islam continues to grow apace. As awful as the violence itself, however, is the deep lack of reality surrounding the violence.

First of all, I put “radical” in quotes as applied to Islam because the phrase “radical Islam” obscures the fact that orthodox, mainstream Islam is inherently radical. As noted in Robert Spencer’s chilling review of orthodox Islam, Not Peace, But a Sword, Islam at its very roots is hostile to Christianity and Judaism, not to mention secular non-Muslim culture; and violence, hatred, and unforgiveness – at least toward non-Muslims – are core to it. I took the trouble to read the Koran myself, cover to cover, so disturbed was I by Spencer’s account: could it really be that bad? Yes. Is he exaggerating? Unfortunately, no.

Please understand that I’m not leaping from “Islam is inherently DEEPLY flawed, and if practiced fully, is evil” to “and therefore there are no good Muslims”. It’s similar to atheism: atheism, if practiced fully, is completely amoral and is not geared to producing virtuous, joyful, loving people. Thank God, most atheists don’t fully live out their atheism and can have all of those qualities; the same goes for Muslims. But living out Islam in its fullness? That is a serious problem.

For example, the popular media account is that Islam respects Christians and Jews as fellow “People of the Book”. But the Koran and orthodox Muslim interpretation clearly proclaim that the only good Christian or Jew is, in fact, Muslim. To explain: the Koran asserts that the Old and New Testaments in their present form are highly distorted versions of the “original” Old and New Testaments. In the “original” versions, Noah, Moses, and Jesus himself profess Allah as God and deny that God has a son. Jesus describes himself only as a prophet. Per Islam, then, orthodox Jews and Christians are stubbornly holding on to a distorted version of their respective faiths: the “true” Jewish and Christian faith, remarkably, corresponds with Islam exactly.

Regarding “stubbornly”,  orthodox, “mainstream” Islam makes no allowance for exercise of freedom of religious conscience: those who reject Islam do so, not out of a genuine difficulty believing its teachings, or out of a need to think about it further. They do so out of sheer sinfulness and perversity. Christians and Jews are allowed to practice their religion under sharia law, yes: but they must wear special garb (think of Jews and homosexuals under the Nazi regime) and must pay fines for not embracing Islam. They are forbidden to proselytize or any public practice of their religion – including wearing religious symbols. Orthodox Jewish expressions of faith – e.g., that Mohammed is not God’s prophet; or orthodox Christian expressions of faith – e.g., that Jesus is God – in any public forum are treated as blasphemy and punishable by death.

Except for Egypt and Turkey, every country with a Muslim majority has in fact imposed sharia law. And at least in Egypt, persecution of Coptic Christians is rampants, with rapes and enslavement of Christian women, murders of Christians during their worship services, and burning of Christian churches – while the Muslim authorities turn a blind eye. Even before the “Arab Spring”, all Egyptians had to have their religious affiliation on their citizenship I.D. cards: the I.D. cards would be changed to reflect conversion from Christianity to Islam – but not vice versa.

The “radical” difference between the Christian God and Allah is far starker than the popular media depicts. As Hillaire Belloc noted, Allah is pure Will, to the point that saying Allah cannot or will not do evil is seen as a restriction on Allah’s freedom. Allah is a very far cry from “God is love”, a passionately good and loving Father. The supreme emphasis on Allah as pure Will is a rejection of human free will: hence, the acceptability of “convert to Islam or die” (or, if you practice Judaism or Christianity, “convert or pay a fine and become a persecuted, second-class citizen”).

Islam’s vision of humanity is also radically different from Christianity’s: Allah is an Oriental monarch demanding complete submission. He is completely alien from humanity: to say we are made “in the divine image” is pure blasphemy. The Christian teaching that women are fellow heirs of salvation with men and to be loved “as Christ loved the Church” is wholly alien to women’s firmly second-class, property-of-the-husband status in Islam.

The relationship between Christians and non-Christians, according to Christ’s teaching, is best summarized as loving service and compassion: “Whatsoever you do for one of these least ones, you do for Me”. The obligation to love and serve, in Islam, is reserved strictly to other Muslims. For example, Muslims are allowed to deceive non-Muslims: if the former are a minority, they can pretend to be friendly and pleasant to their non-Muslim neighbors. But the mask may be dropped once Muslims gain the majority. And to use non-Muslim women – literally – as sex slaves, when captured in war, is fully accepted Muslim practice.

Why the disconnect between the reality of Islam and its media portrayal? And how are Christians to respond? Stay tuned.

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The Crucible of Marriage

One of the many blessings that flow from the Catholic Church’s unswerving stance against divorce – or better, for the permanence of marriage – is that the Catholic theology of marriage has a depth and richness rarely found in Protestant thought, and wholly foreign to secular thought.

Many threads make up the theology of Catholic marriage. Some threads do overlap with Protestant thought – e.g., marriage as an image of the union of Christ and the Church. Other threads tend not to, particularly those that focus on marriage as a pathway to holiness; as a “school” of sacrificial love; and as a microcosm of the Body of Christ – because Protestant thought tends not to emphasize holiness, sacrifice, and the Body of Christ. And any theology based on marriage as a sacrament, of course, is foreign to Protestantism.

Regarding marriage as a pathway to holiness: the Catholic tradition does not specifically endorse the romantic idea that I and my spouse were destined for each other, out of all people in the world (except in the general sense that all things fall under God’s direct or permissive will). However, once spouses enter into sacramental marriage – once they make the covenant – the spouse then becomes a particularly powerful means of sanctification, especially designed, by who he or she is, to make the other more like Jesus.

Iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens the wits of another (Prov 27:17)

For example, my wife Mary’s wisdom, gifts, and shortcomings (few as the latter are) are exactly what I need to make me the best man I can be; as mine are for her to become the best woman she can be. The ways we inspire, as well as exasperate each other, strengthen us by bringing out our best, and purify us by bringing up our worst so that the latter can be dealt with. Marriage is a crucible, burning off the dross and making the gold purer and brighter. The crucible requires an unshakeable commitment to the other: no matter how tough it gets, I’m here for life; the close quarters and vulnerability to the other is for life; there’s nowhere to hide – and for the sake of the marriage and my spouse, neither do I choose to hide.

Marriage is a school of sacrificial love, on many levels. First, God, in His sense of humor, put men and women – Mars and Venus – together in marriage. Comedians and columnists have made a living over male and female differences, and however much genderlessness is the politically correct stance of this mightily confused age, we instinctively know – and smile about – those differences. For example, men (get ready for this!) tend to be more sexually motivated and not into deep conversations about their feelings. Women (drum roll) are not as sexually motivated but are usually game for – deep conversations about their feelings. Obviously, then, for a marriage to work, men will make love to their wives less, and talk about feelings more, than they would be inclined – and vice versa for women. Similarly, men will need to pay more attention to table manners and other social niceties, while women spend less energy remaking their husbands. The gist of the above is that marriage, as a union of two genders, means stepping out of oneself enough to learn how the other’s needs and perspectives: making those needs important to oneself just because those needs are important to the other.

Besides gender differences, the very closeness and “inescapability” of marriage means rubbing up against the other’s personality differences on an at least daily basis. One’s a spender, the other’s a saver; one talks a lot, the other’s quiet; one loves to socialize, the other prefers a quiet evening at home; one needs to process, the other wants a quick decision; one’s “love language” (Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages does a great job with this concept) is affirming words, the other’s is acts of service – such as cleaning the garage or making dinner. It requires love, love, love to take the time and effort to work through these differences, compromise, listen even when the other seems to be completely unreasonable, and mend fences as quickly as possible after the inevitable disagreements.

Finally, marriage is a microcosm of the Body of Christ – the Body’s smallest building block, after the individual Christian. This has profound implications. It means that together we reflect the complementariness and variety of gifts in the Body. “None of us has it all together, but together we have it all”: Mary has the gift of quiet wisdom; I have the gift of the gab and of thinking quickly on my feet. Mary knows her feelings instantaneously – and usually mine as well; but I “keep her steady” with my relative absence of moods, she’s told me. Mary keeps track of the personal details in our friends’ and relatives’ lives: number of children, birthdays, whose parents are deceased (yup, I tend to forget such inconsequential details); I’m usually good for an (almost always) clean joke. It’s a wonderful antidote to envy: I don’t have to have that particular gift or talent, as long as one of us has it to some degree. You know that love has ripened when you are just as happy to see a gift shine and be recognized in your beloved as when it does so in you.

The love that the above aspects of marriage require make it so right that marriage is a sacrament. How could Christ not be the center of such a feast? How could such a daily living out of love – extended, as well, to the children born out of the holy union – not require the special graces the sacrament brings? Such a school of love is a dynamo that brightens the world: a good Christian marriage and family is a powerful instrument of evangelization and witness, a unique and radiant instance of “see how these Christians love one another”. How marvelous that the grace of the whole Body of Christ “abundantly blesses this union. It is no accident that Heaven is called a “wedding feast”: a marriage steeped in and enlivened by Christ is the closest thing to Heaven on Earth.

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Raising the Dead, Part II

I noted in the previous post that the preaching at my parish – in fact, in many Omaha parishes – is good. However, even when Catholic preaching on the parish level is solid, it’s rarely on fire. The homilist may make a good, even profound point, about the Scriptures or our relationship with Jesus and neighbor. But I sometimes wonder: is he aware that Western civilization is collapsing around our ears? Is he aware of the huge rise of atheism/agnosticism in my 20-year-old son’s generation? Is he aware that we are being pummeled in a moral battle that threatens to drag countless souls to Hell? Does he believe in the possibility of damnation? Is he concerned that most Catholics are identical to nonbelievers in their divorce rate, choice of entertainment, and overall moral stances? Do these issues trouble him? Why doesn’t he say something? What is he waiting for?

In one U.S. archdiocese, the archbishop went from parish to parish: staying at the rectory, observing priestly life there, and giving feedback on the preaching. From what I gather, the priests at first saw this as meddling. Eventually, they were eager to get his feedback, especially on their homilies. In Protestant churches, if the congregation doesn’t like the preaching, they find another church. Or, because the pastor is usually an “employee” of the congregation, if his preaching isn’t up to snuff, he can be fired. Obviously, the latter measure is not (nor should it be) Catholic practice. But the outflow of Catholics to other denominations, or out of church attendance altogether, is at least partly a “voting with one’s feet” regarding poor preaching. Very seldom is feedback sought from Catholic congregations – on a specific level, not just “Do you like the homilies at St. ___?” – regarding their preaching. What I, as a man on the street, hear about Catholic preaching is far from pretty in most cases.

Not just the preaching: even “good” Catholic parishes are phenomenally unwelcoming  and user-unfriendly compared to many Protestant churches. As my wife has noted: if we were a business, we would be scoping out our “competition” and seeing what are they doing right that we’re doing wrong. For example, welcoming new members and encouraging faithful attendees is something the megachurches do very well. I do not exaggerate that in many Catholic parishes, all but the most established parishioners could be lying dead for weeks in their home and apartment – and no one would notice, much less call to see what’s going on.

A good friend who entered the Catholic Church two years ago – Shaun Mcafee – is in the process of getting a book published by Sophia Institute Press whose working title is something like What Catholics Need To Learn from What Protestants Are Doing. Based on his own experience of attending a Protestant megachurch, he outlines crucial areas – such as immediate opportunities for newcomers to be involved in faith-sharing groups; a hospitality ministry to welcome, chat with, and follow up with newcomers; regular surveys (regarding level of satisfaction with the preaching, the services, the level of welcome, child-friendliness, sense of needs being met) to be systematically reviewed and then implemented where feasible; and opportunities for evangelistic and charitable outreach to and involvement in the surrounding community – that are rarely seen in a Catholic parish.

Shaun mentioned a book – Rebuilt  (http://rebuiltparish.com/book) – by a Catholic priest and Catholic layman. I have it on my list to read, but it sounds great. The authors scoped out a number of megachurches and successful businesses, speaking with their pastors and higher-ups,  and gained a wealth of knowledge to apply to their parish – tripling attendance and vastly enriching participation. Not that the Church is simply a marketing and business venture – but we need the humility to be willing to learn from people who do these things well – that is, better than we do!

You sense my frustration; I know I’m not alone in it. It truly will take a sovereign move of God – and our humility and openness and courage and willing to work hard, sustained and empowered and urged on by His grace – to remedy the situation. There are signs of springtime, to be sure. Oh Lord, hasten it! We do believe in a God who raises the dead, who does new things. I’m reminded of Ezekiel 37 – “The Dry Bones”. “Son of man, can these bones live?” “Lord, you alone know that.” And the bones came together, and flesh covered them, and the Spirit breathed life into them, and there they stood, a vast army. Oh, Lord God – let it be! Oh, Lord, revive and renew and purify Your Bride! The hearts and voices of so many cry out for this! Amen! Let it be so!

 

 

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Raising the Dead, Part I

There is a real suffering in seeing the gap between what the Bride of Christ – the Church – could be, and what it is. This suffering is like the Lord’s suffering throughout the Old Testament. The prophets cried out at the gulf between the vision the Lord had for Israel, and the desperate state Israel was actually in. They pulled no punches: their words were like hammers, like fire; upsetting enough to get Isaiah sawn in half and Jeremiah thrown into a well for daring to challenge the priests and rulers who had abandoned their covenant with the Lord in their zeal to become just like the pagans. Sounds frighteningly familiar.

Often over the years, as Western civilization stands on the brink of – I believe, if nothing halts the trajectory – the worst persecution of the Church in history, I have sat in the pew, listening to another deadly dull or at best nice-but-shallow sermon with a sense of frustration that has had me climbing out of my skin. Thank God, my current parish has some good preaching. But the more common experience has been “My gosh! He’s got a captive audience. The readings are so rich. There’s a feast to be had, and he’s feeding us stale porridge! We don’t need platitudes: we need power! We don’t need soothing: we need waking up!”

One reading it seemed the Lord gave me years ago was from Jeremiah 19:9 – “I say to myself, I will not mention him, I will speak in his name no more. But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones. I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.” Not to speak became so very difficult. But speak to whom? Where? On the street corner? Stand up in church and shout? Who would listen? Who do I think I am, anyway?

My wife Mary and I attended Catholic charismatic prayer meetings for years. We were distressed by the fact that virtually all of our peers, after having experienced a relationship with Jesus and the reality of the Holy Spirit, ended up leaving the Catholic Church for nondenominational or Pentecostal churches. The reasons were always the same: “I’m not getting fed by the sermons at St. such-and-such’s; this new church has in-depth Bible studies/wonderful worship/real fellowship/scads of young people/a dynamic pastor who preaches with power. They are giving me the tools to grow in holiness and with my walk with the Lord.” Some missed the Eucharist – but not enough to give up the rest.

 A sense of “That’s IT! I can’t take it any more!” hit me several years ago when a lifelong, prayerful Catholic told me he had switched to a Protestant church in the area. The same, predictable reasons: not fed by the preaching, not inspired by the services, excruciating music – and finding a delightful contrast at the other church. We all know these people – there are a lot of them; maybe some of you have been these people for a period; maybe some of you are toying with the idea right now. And it’s rarely the blasé or the unenthused who do so: it’s some of “the best and the brightest”, the people who are starving for a feast that they’re not finding in the Catholic Church as experienced on Sunday mornings, or through the week for that matter.

My wife Mary experienced the following, which is scandalous if you think about it: during her years teaching high school theology, she brought a number of students to know the Lord. And then she didn’t know where to send them. To the prayer meeting we attended? But they’d likely end up using it as a doorway out of the Catholic Church, like our friends. To the local parish? The preaching was excruciatingly dull and the median age was decades older than they. Do you set teenagers on fire only to send them back where their enthusiasm will be at best looked upon as unusual and at worst actively discouraged? Or even if they’re welcomed, where they have no one anywhere near their age for support?

I am very pleased that there are signs of the “new springtime of evangelization” St. John Paul II prophesied. There are some young people, including young priests, whose zeal puts us older Catholics to shame. There are points of renewal like “That Man Is You” for men, Fr. Bob Barron’s “Catholicism” series, and Jeff Cavins’ “Bible Timeline”, around which parish faith sharing groups have formed.

Nevertheless, the Catholic Church in the U.S. is in crisis. Not the sexual abuse scandal, although that’s a very alarming symptom of a much deeper disease in the Body. The elements of the crisis are not generally spoken out loud – rather, there’s a vague or strong uneasiness regarding the unfilled pews; the Protestant church up the road that’s bursting at the seams with young people, great worship, “solid preaching”, comprehensive and broad ministries with dedicated, well-paid ministers; the lack of young priests on the altar and of young people in the pews; the steadily more anxiety-provoking question, “Who will be in the pews after the 40+ generation dies? Am I one of the rats on a sinking ship?”

This last point is the most telling: I may feel strong in my faith, but how confident am I that my children’s children will also be committed, lively Catholics? How many in my immediate or extended family, and their peers, have dropped nearly all church involvement?

To be continued…

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