Berkeley and UC Press
Apparently a great many books from these two sources are available online. Some of them of may interest some St. Blog's parishioners. I have yet to discover a good means to knowing everything available, as there doesn't appear to be a central index. But here's a couple of titles that may evoke some comment:
Papal Patronage and the Music of St. Peter's 1380-1513
Stravinsky and The Rite of Spring.
Later: Found the link to a general index:
University of California Press E-Scholarship Editions
For some reason can't seem to get to Catholic Bookshelf to blog so I leave this notice here.
You may want to check out Blackmask, which has two works (look like collections of short stories):
and
and another from Gutenberg, certain to show up at Blackmask shortly:
Continuing from this morning's post on prayer, this passage from the Psalms for the office of readings for the Feast of the Sacred Heart:
Sin speaks to the sinner
in the depths of his heart.
There is no fear of God
before his eyes.(psalm 36)
If we do not hold His word in our hearts, then it is most likely that we must number ourselves among those derided in this Psalm. Where His Word does not dwell, emptiness is enthroned. And we all know that nature abhors a vacuum--so that emptiness will soon be filled either by cares of the world, or more likely, by sin. And then, rather than contemplating His Word and hiding it in our heart, we are conversing with our sins and seeking clothing behind fig-leaves.
From the Intercessions in this Morning's Magnificat
If nothing can separate us from the love of God made manifest in the human heart of Jesus Christ, then nothing is too small or too great for His concern.
The ancient practice of lectio is a gateway from verbal prayers to the richness of meditation and contemplation. When I think of lectio, I think of the passage from psalms "I will hide His word in my heart that I might not sin against God." (RSV: "I have laid up thy word in my heart, that I might not sin against thee. "--Psalm 119:11). I also think of our model in prayer, "But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. " (Luke 2:19).
In the practice of lectio, most commonly done with scripture as the basis, we ponder God's word to hear what He is saying to us. A lot of people I know shy away from this because they perceive that such close communion in the Word borders on private interpretation. I think the fear may be overstated if the practice is rightly conducted. Moreover, the purpose of meditation is not to come up with new doctrine and new explanations for the way things are, the purpose is to talk with God and listen to Him in a way that is transformative. If prayer does not change you then it is not as efficacious as it can be.
How does one "do" lectio? All the standard rules of prayer apply--a quiet place, a few moments to recollect oneself and place oneself in the presence of God, an invocation of the Holy Spirit to guide and inform us as we meditate and to protect us from error and intrusion. And then we turn to a passage of scripture. It needn't be long--a single pericope from the gospels, a passage from daily Bible reading in your plan to read through the Bible, or the daily readings from Mass. Even the short verse used in morning and evening prayer can provide a wonderful foundation for prayer. God's word is loaded, packed, and infinitely expandable and ponderable. We read His word slowly and reverently knowing that His Word resides in these words. Jesus is present in the Word, throughout all of scripture. In the Old Testament, He is foreshadowed, announced, and present in a shadowy way and in images and types. (For example Jesus likens himself to the bronze serpent mention in Numbers 21:9 "So Moses made a bronze serpent, and set it on a pole; and if a serpent bit any man, he would look at the bronze serpent and live." And again in 2 Kings 18:4 "He removed the high places, and broke the pillars, and cut down the Ashe'rah. And he broke in pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until those days the people of Israel had burned incense to it; it was called Nehush'tan. ") When we look for Jesus in God's Word we will find Him. When we find Him, we need to listen to what He says.
How do we listen? There are a number of ways--we can pursue active imaginative meditation. We can place ourselves in the scene. For example, read the passage of the Gospel of Luke about Zacchaeus. (Luke 19: 2-10 or so). Where are you in the passage? Are you Zacchaeus, are you in the crowd milling about Jesus? Are you standing off somewhere watching the whole thing? Listen to what God has to say to you as the person you are in the meditation. If you are merely observer, what does that say about your involvement in the things of God?
In addition to meditation, if you take a sufficiently short passage, you can simply repeat the passage, turning it over and over in your mind, worshipping God in His holy word. You might in times of dire trouble turn to the Letter of Paul to the Philippians (4:13) "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. " We might rest in this word, awaiting the strength, taking to us the grace that comes from this promise, recognizing its truth and applying it to our lives.
There are many ways of conducting lectio and many worthy sources and books on how to go about it. But first and most important is to immerse yourself in the Word of God. The Church thinks this so important that a plenary indulgence is granted daily to the person who meets all the usual requisite conditions and spends a half-hour or more reading scripture. By reading scripture, I have always assumed that they meant even so small a portion as a verse considered continuously in meditative prayer for half-an-hour; however, I suppose one should consult a canonist on the actuality of this. Even lacking a plenary indulgence, spending half-an-hour in the Word is much like an entire day of vacation. Many cannot spend that much time, but any time spent is well worthwhile.
One major caution: lectio is NOT Bible Study. Bible Study is a good, necessary, and concomitant action that accompanies lectio, however, your meditative prayer time is not the time to mull over the aorist tense of verbs in Pauline injunctions. It isn't the place to ponder the civilization and achievement of the Hyksos or the Chaldeans. It isn't time to speculate about the kerygmatic implications of the Book of Micah. Bible study is a necessary outside activity that inculcates a base-level literal understanding of the text. In the course of Bible study, you may find yourself drawn off into lectio and you would do well to abandon your trials and worries over the text and vanish for a moment into your "private room" where you might spend a few minutes really speaking with God about what His word means.
Lectio is a very powerful, very fulfilling means of prayer. When we conclude our time of prayer it is well to finish with an "Our Father," and with one firm resolution of what we will take away from the time we have spent and practice in the world at large. That is, lectio should touch you where you live and change your life in some small way. After all, how can one sit with the King of Creation and not be transformed?
More about lectio, keeping a journal, and prayer later. For now, just go and try.
Life is made much simpler when other bloggers say what you would eventually get around to. The Blogmaster of Disputations has posted a remarkable little note on prayer as talking with God.
It seems we most often go wrong with prayer when we make it a lengthy list of petitions and pious meanderings through the wide fields of our daily concerns. These are legitimate topics for prayer time but they are not the sole purpose of prayer. There are times when we must share those things that burden us so that God can help us, so we utter our petitions. But we should make a space around our petitions to hear what God has to say back to us. Thus, if we have long lists of concerns and people for whom to pray, we should write everyone of them down, and offer God the entire list. And then, as we are moved to do so, talk with God about them--not monopolizing the conversation as it were with one petition after another, but taking those things that lay heavy on our hearts and offering them to God. Speaking the depth of our concern and then pausing, ending our portion of the conversation and assumng an attitude of listening.
I find petitions work quite well with Lectio. By that I mean that one spends some time listening to what God has to say. Hearing the word may in the course of events bring to mind certain concerns that then express, and we can return to the word to listen again. More on the ancient practice of lectio in another post.
But petitions must not merely be uttered, they must be offered and they must be the subject of deep conversation with God. Try to give them time and to hear what God has to say about them. You'll be surprised at what a fulfilling experience merely mentioning someone's name may be.
A lovely and moving account of one man's Thirty Day Retreat. What a blessing!
An interesting and speculative notion sent to me by a colleague, Constantine's Sign.
From the same gracious colleague--New Critters near New Zealand.
And one final link--same source--probably more useful to those using PCs--a "Who Links to You engine.
Both cool science things for those into impacts and critters. A short break from the heavy-going.
One of the first exercises in the Ignatian Retreat I attended was to focus on the fact that as unlovable as we tend to see ourselves, we are, nevertheless loved. This step was necessary before anything else could be done because recognizing that you are loved unconditinally makes it possible for you to let go of things that you tend to hold onto. For example, it made it far easier to feel contrition. You feel far worse for a trespass against a loving Father than you feel for rebellion against a stern tyrant with an iron fist. You are far more inclined to do something for the former than for the latter. And finally, there is the realization that if there is something truly lovable about you, despite your wretchedness, perhaps the same hold trues for the rest of creation. Perhaps service is not only an option, but a requirement. Perhaps others are as worthy of God's love as you, and perhaps, if they are worthy of God's love, they are worthy of your own weak reflection of it.
The meditation served other purposes in the grueling thirty-two week effort, as well. But it was most important for starting with the proper focus, "God loves me as I am, despite WHAT I am." When this really sinks in, the world begins to change. If it is so, then perhaps I will act in conformity with that love--perhaps I will act lovable to be loved. Perhaps I will love others as a share in this divine love.
Take time out to realize that God does love you. Take moments to see evidences of it. Be aware of the grace that surrounds your life. To use the stock terminology--"count your blessings." But really do it. This flows naturally from yesterday's thanksgiving litany. As you are giving thanks for each of these things, recognize in each one the sign of the Father's all encompassing love. Embrace each one as a cherished gift from the Father and send back a heart full of thanks.
Knowing that God loves you is opening a necessary door to love. But really knowing that God loves you takes much more work than you might think. You must break through years of knowledge of your own unlovableness. You must accept and embrace that as part of you. You must know that the Father loves you tenderly as though you were the only person in existence--His only Son or Daughter.
If you are a parent think of the things your child did as an infant or toddler that defaced, destroyed, dirtied, or otherwise diminished those cherished things around you. And yet, you did not stop loving this child of yours. So too with all the things we hold against ourselves. God does not stop loving us. He picks us up, washes us off, if we're lucky He uses His minister to help guide us, and then sends us on our ways. We are dirtied, but He loves us nonetheless. Dig below your own unforgiveness of self and find there the image of His Son, whom He cherishes and bestows upon us. Know that you are loved and you are lovable because He loves you.
The first step to loving is accepting love and knowing what it looks like and what it does. Learn from the Father who showers every blessing upon us. We all are loved, and in His eyes, despite our terrible rebelliousness and sin, we are all lovable. We are worthy of this love because He loves us.
Blogger Template Change Saves St. Blog's Parishioners
Yes. Because the template change occurred last night when my fevered brain wished to assault you with a lengthy discussion of St. Alphonsus di Liguori, you all may consider yourselves extremely fortunate. That brain wave passed and vanished into the sand. I may be able to reconstruct it in part, but rather than trying, I may just say, read Uniformity with God's Will. It's like a pocket version (perhaps a half-hour straight-read--hours and hours of Lectio or meditative consideration) of Jean Pierre de Caussade's monumental Abandonment to Divine Providence (q.v.) (Also highly recommended reading).
Incrementally, the discussion continues. Please bear with me. As people bring up points, it seems that there is more to say.
Today's point--detachment is not a comfortable or easy exercise.
Below a commenter says that "it is easy to slip from detachment to indifference when it is difficult for you to form attachments anyway." Part of that statement evokes a certain misunderstanding of what detachment is. First to repeat: the point of detachment is to love God and the love of God needs some expression. That expression is found in love of neighbor and self. Proper exercise of detachment becomes a discipline of self-giving.
The desire or habit of not forming relationships is an attachment itself. There is something that has proven successful about not forming relationships. So detachment forces one out of this stable mode and into the mode of loving God through loving neighbhor. Love without works is dead (as St. Therese implies). And Jesus tells us, if we love Him, we will keep His Commandments. One of His commandments is feed the hungry, clothe the naked, etc. When becoming detached from our own preferences and our own desires, the road to indifference is a temptation, but not when the way of detachment is clearly the way of the cross.
Detachment is uncomfortable. It is a source of constant unease. It is constantly against the grain. If we would rather not become involved, then we are attached to the concept of non-involvement. And it is from this that we may have to work particularly hard to escape.
This is where detachment becomes really difficult. It's hard to identify what the attachments are. Sometimes they are defense mechanisms so thoroughly ingrained we can't see them. Sometimes they are participation in a really good thing. For example, if you absolutely must go to a Latin Mass--you wrench your schedule, the schedule of your friends and family, and generally discomfit and discombobulate everyone and everything around you in the search for a Latin Mass, that is a pretty certain sign of attachment. If you go to a Mass in English that, except for being in English, is otherwise properly conducted and carp about the music, the way the prayers are said, whether one is standing or kneeling, etc.--you are probably attached. When you cannot see Jesus for want of your preferences, attachment is indicated. John of the Cross says that even when you prefer your food prepared a certain way and will not eat otherwise, that is an attachment. (Obviously this is aside from doctor's orders. In fact, the unwillingness to follow a doctor's orders with respect to food indicates attachment.)
So, one of the difficulties is identifying the attachments. That is where prayer, patience, and focus help. If our eyes are on Jesus and we truly love and adore Him, everything else fades into the distance. Jesus truly becomes Lord of our life, and detachment from created things is a natural corollary. We might start by working at detachment, but unless our eyes are firmly set on Christ and Him Crucified, we will quickly lose our way.
It seems ridiculous to talk about training in love. We all know what it is, we all know how it goes. Well, true and false. We all know what the emotional aspect of love looks like, but as a fallen people we rarely live out what the emotional aspect calls for.
We all know, intellectually, that love is a movement of will, not merely an emotion. Love can act without an emotion necessarily being attached. More importantly, one of the tremendous pieces of doctrine that St. Thérèse of Lisieux left with us is that love without works is dead. This is a natural outgrowth of the understanding in the Letter of James that faith without works is dead. Faith, Hope, and Love grow together or die together. When one is supported and nurtured, all three thrive. That is why love is so important in approaching God. Love causes faith to thrive and gives birth to new hope that sustains us through the long languors of love.
Training in love seems a good idea. How do we begin to love God passionately if we do not already do so?
Pardon a brief digression here. Wittgenstein is reported by some to have intimated that words shape reality. I do not know if he actually said this, but if it is true, the man obviously needed a psychiatrist. Reality is. The Ground of Being that reifies all that is, is unchangeable, so too the reality built upon His constant attention. That is not to say that things do not change, but that reality is and is discernable and understandable to some extent to the human intellect. (Good thing Wittgensteinian disciples didn't promulgate their nonsense until after we had a firm foundation in the sciences.) At any rate, words do not shape reality. However, they do shape our perceptions of reality. How we talk about or describe something shapes our feelings about that thing. How we talk about or to a person shapes our feelings about the person. Talk is not everything, but it is a powerful way to shape perception. (Hence, part of James's further admonition to "bridle the tongue.")
So my first suggestion for training in love is to change or enhance the way we talk to God. In addition to formal written prayers or spontaneous prayer it might be good to add to our daily routine a litany of thanksgiving. Perhaps the first prayer in the morning could start with a line from Psalms--"This is the day the Lord has made, let us be glad and rejoice in it." From there we could move to a simple litany of thanksgiving, being mindful of the presence of God in morning ablutions and preparations. We thank Him for our own being, for another day, for our spouses and children (if any), for our lack of spouses and children (if we lack them), for our material goods, for our health, and then we move on to thank Him even for the challenges of the day--poor health, difficult tasks, even worries. We hand them all over in thanksgiving, knowing that He will support us through them all. The litany of thanksgiving puts us in the mindframe to be grateful and to perceive God's hand in the events of the day. A very wise Jesuit once said, "A grateful heart finds it hard to be unhappy." And a happy heart finds it easier to love the Person who gave it so much happiness.
Thus my first suggestion--start the day with a litany of thanksgiving. Everything you can think of to praise and thank God for say or sing in your own private litany. Thank Him for all that you have, all that you are, and all that is around you. Thank Him for being present to preserve it all. Thank Him for the guidance He gives and the love He pours out.
Perhaps this starts as mere words, but as the practice develops and continues it grows into a yearning to do something to express thanksgiving, to share with others the fantastic joy of knowing God. This is a first step in the dance of love. We are moved to do something, however small, however seemingly meaningless. We are moved to DO something beautiful for God.
Here's another very critical point about detachment. Detachment in the sense used here does not have the same definition one might give it in ordinary life. It takes on the patina of a technical term. Detachment is NOT synonymous with indifference. Detachment allows you to separate from creation in order to make room for the Creator. The end result of this will be to love Creation and Creator far more than you could otherwise do. Indifference is the true opposite of love--it is a cool and killing emotion or attitude that can look upon a drowning person and say, "I warned you not to go in the water." Detachment sees the same person and for the sake of the love of God sacrifices itself in order that the other might live, and does so joyfully. Hope this helps somewhat. Please, please, ask questions so I can clarify these points that I kind of take for granted.
[Sorry, another long post, but may as well write them as they occur to me--otherwise they're gone.]
You may wonder why I tend to go on so about detachment. Putting aside the fact that it is absolutely central to all of the teachers (and Doctors of the Church) within my Order, there are good and proper reasons for thinking about detachment and taking steps to become detached.
In all of my reading of the lives of the Saints the central theme is one of self-giving love. For one to be able to be self-giving, one must not be too strictly tied down or restricted in motion. One cannot give oneself if one is not free to do so.
Jesus told us, "You cannot serve God and mammon." His statement was not strictly about money, but about split allegiances. You cannot serve two masters. When you are attached to things you are serving the master of self-interest while trying to serve God. These two, while not always diametrically opposed do often tend to take different forks in the road. You cannot travel two paths.
St. Thomas Aquinas has a long discussion of the simplicity of God (practically the only thing from the Summa that I think I grasp). In it, he ultimately proves that God is simple, speaking in the terms of the time, He is of one substance and mind. How can anything that is duple (or worse) hope to unite with what is simple and single? It can happen via miracle, but God prefers methods that are not so invasive of creation and of personal sovereignty. And personal sovereignty, make no doubt of it, is what God is asking us to surrender. We are to give Him rule of our lives. If we are being pulled this way and that by creation, we cannot be drawn as swiftly to the creator.
Detachment is a means to an end. It is a necessary means, but in no way a sufficient means. Grace, sacraments, prayer, and many other attainments of a life lived in accord with God's will are required. But without detachment, all of these other things will not bring one to Union with God--the ultimate aim of all Christians, and an end that is within the grasp of all at God's good pleasure. Every Saint teaches detachment in one way or another, either through their writings or through their practice and the lives that they lived.
Detachment is not easy but it is very simple. On our own it is impossible, with Christ it becomes possible. It is "simply" a matter of learning to live as St. Paul described when he said, "I know how to be rich and I know how to be poor." That is, your state in life becomes meaningless because all meaning is invested in the centrality of God.
Detachment is not easy for several reasons. First, we often don't recognize attachments. Second, even when we recognize them, we often rationalize them. An example--I was in an extended Ignatian Retreat with a gentleman who was very devoted to the Rosary. The retreat master laid out the rules in the first session--there would be no spiritual reading material other than the Ignatian Exercises, the Holy Bible, and The Imitation of Christ. All other habitual devotions should be put aside for the duration of the retreat so that energy could be focused on the intense retreat exercises. The gentleman asked about the Rosary, and while the good Priest praised the devotion, he discouraged it for the duration of the exercise. The gentleman did not return. Now, this could well be a case in which the man discerned through this mechanism that he was not called to the retreat, but equally likely, it could be an example of an attachment getting in the way of a good that could draw one on toward God. I cannot know that, but proper discernment by the person involved could show which was true.
Third, even when we do not rationalize and we do recognize, sometimes we simply do not wish to give up the object, idea, or practice to which we are attached. This is typified by St. Augustine's famous prayer, "Lord make me chaste, but not just yet." Yes, Lord, I want sanctity, but not as much as I want ___________. And the things that fill in the blank vary from person to person.
The first step toward union with God is recognizing that our entire lives are meaningless without it. When we finally come to terms with the fact that God is our meaning and He is the only thing that will completely fill the empty spaces we try to cram with all manner of junk, then we can begin down the proper road. In other words, when love of God takes priority, detachment from things becomes a possibility, but not until then. And detachment is only a means--it must happen, but it doesn't happen necessarily by focusing on it. In some really tough cases, you might have to concentrate energy, prayer, and resources on becoming detached. But detachment is often a natural corollary of loving something else more. I have no difficulty choosing between say flan and chocolate because I have a built-in liking for chocolate. The choice becomes easy. When you prefer God to all other things, it becomes a matter of making choices that reflect that preference--detachment has begun.
Detachment is also somewhat like Zen. If you become aware that you are practicing it, you almost undo its effects through pride and through the idea that YOU are practicing it. Yes, your will is involved and you are actively doing something, but God and the Holy Spirit within you are more important in the overall efficacy. Here again a statement of Jesus applies in context, "Do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." Detachment is most effective when you are detached from doing it and its effects.
However, as I pointed out, sometimes it is sufficiently to light wash and rinse the pan, at other times one needs steel wool or scouring pad. At these times, a deliberate, prayer-infused, sacrament-powered pursuit of detachment is called for. Put in the proper context, it is amazing what one person can do. My father-in-law went for a medical checkup one day and the doctor informed him that cigarette-smoking was shortening his life and interfering with his health. He could choose between cigarettes and unassisted breathing. He went home, dumped the cigarettes and never again took a puff. A truly remarkable instance of the power of really making a choice.
So, detachment is necessary--but it is a means that should not be a focus. Detachment comes very naturally when the things to which one is attached are not valued as much as something else. So the next step is to think about the cultivation of active, responsive, all-encompassing love of God.
It seems that the first step toward becoming a Saint is deciding to do so. It seems probable that the majority of us in St. Blog's have consciously or unconsciously done so. So, once you've decided what it is you are called to, how do you go about achieving it?
There are several difficult points in this whole formulation, probably more than spelled out below. Here is a start on some disconnected thoughts having to do with the pursuit of holiness.
(1)The very first decision you face upon opting for holiness is the question of your motivation. Why do you wish to become a Saint? There are several possible reasons, all with a psychological validity, but all with different degrees of spiritual efficacy. The worst reason is the selfish one, which will act as an immediate obstacle to your pursuit. You want to be a saint because people will then remember and perhaps even venerate you. Everyone can see immediately what the problem with this is so I will not continue. But I have come to believe that there is a small element of this in most beginners on the road.
The second reason is because you are commanded to do so by Our Lord and Savior. This is a much better motivation, very close to the best, because it is related to the best. But if we act merely under commandment, the will flags and the pursuit fades. We soon are trudging down the road of sanctity in a way that reminds me of one of La Madre's quotes, "Lord, preserve me from sour-faced saints." Pure obedience and doggedness can lead very readily to becoming a sour-faced saint--or, in other words, not much of a saint at all.
However, if that obedience springs from and is constantly nourished by the best motive, it is nearly certain that you will succeed. Naturally, the best motive is sheer love of God. We become Saints out of obedience that springs from our desire to do everything possible for the beloved. We love God so much that we fear to offend Him--not fear in the servile sense, but fear in the sense that we never wish to cause pain to the one we love. I am only now beginning to open up this mystery myself. I have always wondered about the meaning of "Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." And certainly some conversions and some part of our turning to God comes from the sense of what He could do if He chose to. However, (and I may be very off-target here) what fear of the Lord is likely to turn into, particularly if it is to be fruitful, is fear of offending the Lord--not because of the consequences meted out by God, but because of the pain it would cause both God and the true lover of God. Obedience that proceeds from and is fed by this spring of love is the well-spring of sainthood.
(2) How do we get to this point of being true "lovers of God?" I would propose that the essential element is self-emptying--"I must decrease so He may increase." And this self-emptying occurs most often through detachment. I will not say that there are not other means; however, it would seem that so long as we are attached to any of the created things of the world, we inhibit progress toward God.
How might one achieve detachment? It would seem to me that there are a great many ways--numerous paths delineated throughout time by different Saints. Let us examine very briefly two that often show up here--Carmelite and Dominican. I will start with the spirituality about which I know nothing, but describe how I believe it to work in part. It would seem that Dominican spirituality is predicated on knowing God thoroughly and intimately through the works of the intellect. These works of the intellect cannot be done without affecting the will. As we come to know and understand better, we gradually learn to leave behind what does not honor God. Seen from outside and interpreted with this Carmelite's mind, I see the Dominican path as a way of gradual detachment from our own agendas and a gradual emptying of self through glorying in what can be known of God. Please understand, this is sheer speculation but I would call it "detachment through knowledge." It is not Carmelite because the detachment comes more in a "via positiva" as knowledge is an essential good. In this sense, I see Dominican and (forgive me John d) Ignatian Spirituality quite closely related. In some sense it is like Jacob wrestling with the Angels--eventually, after enough wrestling, the pathway is opened up to pure and serene surrender. The intellect is sated and one can continue to pursue God's will in a new and uplifting way. Dominicans who have struggled to this point are supremely equipped to tell others of the Glories of God, and thus their charism of preaching.
Carmelites on the other hand pursue a "via negativa" in a shroud of silence. (Though one would not know that by visiting this blog.) Detachment is an active pursuit, aligning your own will to God's through identifying and releasing yourself through the sacraments and prayer from the bonds that hold you in. I have talked some in the past about the Carmelite way of detachment, and will probably do so more in the future. For the sake of abbreviating this post, let me say simply that the Carmelite way of detachment is more like a waltz than wrestling. We seek to know God not necessarily through the faculty of the intellect, although there is nothing wrong with really knowing Who God is, but through Love. As Thérèse said, and the recent Carmelite rule repeats and admonishes all Carmelites, "My vocation is to be love at the heart of the church." Thus, in the body framed for us with Christ as the Head, metaphorically we might see the Dominicans and Jesuits as the "brains" of that body, providing the faithful with good reason for faith and achieving union with God and deep and pervasive Love for him. through truly knowing him. We might see Carmelites, Franciscans, and other contemplative orders as the "heart" of the Church, seeking God somewhat through knowledge, but mostly through ardent burning love. Now, this is merely metaphorical, and it does gift short shrift to the importance of Love in both Dominican and Jesuit vocations, and it does diminish the critical importance of the intellect in the contemplative vocation--but it is for illustration only.
(3) Now, with regard to this second point, people have developed a million and one very clever, very useful means of avoiding the detachment that leads to doing God's will and to sanctity. One of these is hinted at by the quote from Dorthy Day that Mary offered in a comment box below. Paraphrased it says something like, "Don't call me a Saint, I don't want to be dismissed so easily." That is, we have constructed paper Saints--really unholy images of otherworldly sanctity that lies outside the realm of what a real person in the real world could possibly obtain. We look at the real accomplishments of Saints and say, "I could never do that. They were so holy from the very beginning." You know the kinds of things that might spring to mind when you read the lives of the Saints. There is really only one response to this obstacle and that is to crush it. No, you could never do that, I could never do that (whatever it may be), but then why would God want me to--after all I am not that person. My path to sanctity will not be the same, whatever is accomplished in the course of it will be uniquely the expression of God's grace working on the talents He has granted the individual. We should not look at the saints and despair at their actions, reactions, or accomplishments. We should look at the saints as individual mirrors of God's all-encompassing love. Thus, when we see Thérèse smiling at an unlikable nun, we should not think, "I cannot do that," but rather, "Lord, show me how you would like me to bring your love to the world." It may not be your vocation to smile at unlikable people, but rather to help the underprivileged, to assist those who have lost their way, to smile at those who have been confined to nursing homes and psychiatric facilities. Do not despair, but see first the love and know that the same love, the same Holy Spirit lives within each of us and is capable of expressing itself in ways miraculous--if we will get out of the way.
Another way we throw up obstacles for ourselves is that we become attached to the method rather than the goal. Thus it is entirely possible for a Dominican to be one of the great scholars of the age and yet to have that scholarship and study not ever touch his heart. We can have wonderful Carmelites so engaged in omphaloskepsis and nearly fetishistic pursuit of detachment that denial becomes the whole point of what they are doing. Neither the cultivation or the intellect nor the pursuit of detachment is an end, both are merely means to the same end--Union with God and a life of holiness. However, if we do not keep our reason for these pursuits clearly in focus, they quickly become an end in themselves. There is no point to detachment if it leads merely to endless self-examination and scouring to get out this or that tendency. Detachment should very naturally make room for God as we remove the clutter of self, God fits more naturally and more evenly into our lives. So too with intellectual pursuits in a different way. As we come to know and understand and revel in the glories of He who created all, as we get a sense of the complexity and brilliance of the Divine Way, we cannot help but more away from our own things and toward those that He has designed. And I'm sure this works for any number of other ways of approaching God. But we need to clear the path. When a method becomes an obstacle, it must be cast aside no matter how fond we are of it. If Teresa of Avila had spent all of her time detaching herself, she would never have had time to establish her foundations that changed forever the face and character of the Carmelite Order.
I've gone on quite a while here already, so I'll leave off, but I hope it is with some sense that each of us has the means to achieve holiness. We cannot do it on our own. In fact, given our stumbling steps, I would say most of us are just learning to walk. So we cannot take more than a step at a time. And the first step is to cultivate through sacraments, prayer, scripture reading, meditation, and growing selflessness an ardent desire to be God's presence in the world, not for our own sakes but for the sake of the world and for the sake of the many we see about us floundering and without hope.
I have read now, in several places, of the Pepys Now project, and heartily recommend it to your attention because the blog entries that have resulted from it have been most fascinating and enjoyable. I don't know about the promised instant immortality but I do think the personalization of history through such details is a powerful and persuasive argument for it.
The post that follows started as a response to Mr. Dhingra's comment on a post below. It grew too large for the comment box and so it ends up here.
Once again you [Mr. Dhingra] ask some interesting and pertinent questions and this is an area that is new for me. I had not considered the matter. There are a couple of points I'd like to make.
(1) I'm not against those who speak their minds even in opposition to the opinion of the Bishops in prudential matters. I just choose not to be one of them. I think your point about continually asking questions is important, but I do not feel qualified to ask those questions. Anyone who has read the disputed questions here on the site will know why. Reasoned argumentation on theological matters is something I am better at following than I am at producing. I understand the articulation of theories and notions, but I do not have the background to say anything. The same holds for most economic and social theory. I have opinions, but the opinions are rarely formed from sitting down and carefully reasoning through each issue. More often they are the result of anecdotal observations of causes and effects. Therefore, I leave all logical dissent to those better informed and more capable of considering the ramifications.
(2) On a personal note--where did obedience come from? I wish I could say that obedience sprang naturally and is the milieu in which I thrive. Unfortunately, that is not completely so. My obedience comes only after endless wrangling, wrestling, and explanation, hundred and thousands of questions. I do not act in opposition to what is stated, but I do question it to some point. So, too, with the Church. I spent a good many years questioning not merely prudential judgments, but judgments that carry the weight of the magisterium. As a protestant entering from the enlightened world of our present society, the first bit of wisdom I challenged was Humanae Vitae. Along with this I also questioned the Church's teaching on homosexuality, marriage and divorce, etc.
Over time, I found that the Church was right, again and again, on dozens of lesser matters that I questioned. Over and over again, I saw the weight of truth on the side of the Bishops, and most particularly of the current Bishop of Rome. This man I came to see as nearly miraculous in his grasp of the truth and its implications. I won't claim to understand everything the Holy Father has written, nor even to have read it, but everyday personal experience convinced me of its correctness. So much so, that my eyes were opened to the fact that in making judgments about theological matters and even about matters affecting society the bishops drew upon two-thousand years of tradition, reflection, and consideration of social, political, and theological considerations. In that time, the Bishops undoubtedly made a great many errors, even as they may do so today; however, it seemed sheer folly for a single person of limited experience in the world to set his judgment against that of so august a body.
So long experience has shown me how weak my own intellect is when wrestling with these matters, I choose to defer. The Church has long proven prophetic in its utterings, and I have come to trust that voice. Yes, the Pope could have been wrong when he spoke out against the recent conflict in Iraq--I'm still pondering that, but more and more, I become convinced that he was not wrong. Despite the good that was done in delivering the Iraqi people and the world from the hands of a monster, I still wonder about the means and its propriety. (I say that without any hint of a lack of support for the brave men and women who effected the will of this country's President.) But I gradually come to believe that the Holy Father was once again correct in his statement concerning it.
I could dredge up endless examples from experience, but let's leave it at the fact that the Bishops have been correct on many things more often than I have.
(3) Obedience stems from a third source and that is sheer human limitation. I have neither the experience nor the intellect to consider ever single issue on which the Bishops see fit to make some sort of statement. Some issues I feel that I have better capacity to understand and make decisions. More often that simply means that I've formulated an opinion and so feel qualified to discourse upon it. For example, when the Pope or the Bishops speak about the death penalty, because I have spent a great deal of time formulating an opinion, I feel that it is a matter on which I can speak with some authority. In fact, my opinion have no authority, nothing to back them up, and no real logic to hold them together. I naturally embrace the Church's teaching on this issue because it agrees in large part with my own opinion, so there is no struggle. But the Church, by issuing a teaching, has given a coherent presentation to my rambling thoughts on the matter. I "feel" that the Death Penalty is wrong, and the Church articulates why that might be.
In some cases, I disagree, or more likely, I know nothing of the matter whatsoever. I recently read a rash of criticisms of some bishop's letter or another that talked about Jewish/Christian relations and "ecumenism." I have no real idea what the Bishops said or why they were so roundly criticized for the statement. But this is a case where I have no expertise in Church tradition or law to say whether they were correct or not, and that whatever the statement, it has no real bearing on my life or conduct. Whatever they may have said (or may not have said) regarding the salvation of the Jews, seems to me a matter between the individual Jewish person and God. My duty in the meantime is to love all, Jews, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, whatever ilk or stripe, as I love myself. To hold them in respect and to exercise whenever possible the spiritual and corporal works of mercy toward them. How God effects their salvation is a matter for theologians to tussle over and which has no relevance to how I am to conduct myself.
(4) Obedience is also an exercise both in humility and detachment. When I spend my time second-guessing Church leader, formulating opinions in opposition to suggested guidelines, and questioning how we might best implement this or that prudential judgment, I wind up tied in knots emotionally and intellectually--unable to speak to God in any way that would be meaningful and resentful of Church authority and magisterium. I become self-absorbed and self-interested. So, very obviously, the questioning of prudential judgments is often an occasion of pride. My whole life is better when I accept the judgment and attempt to act on it (if it is something that I can act upon). Or, often, it is simply better when I don't worry about the prudential judgments of others at all--when I choose not to formulate an opinion, but act on the general principles we are all to be living. No matter what the Vatican chooses to do about Bishops like Bishop O'Brien, I will not change the fact by vociferously dissenting, nor will I help Bishop O'Brien by becoming wrapped up and tossed about by the issue. Rather, I lend my help through constant prayer for the wisdom of those taking action, and for the soul of Bishop O'Brien that he might find himself "right with God." Rather than worrying whether this or that action is the right and proper thing to do--a point I leave to those better qualified to judge, I can always pray for the Bishops and for those affected by the ruling as I continue to feed those who are hungry and visit those in prison. . .
I guess part of what I'm saying is that just as i wouldn't go around challenging every prudential judgment I hear from the gallery, neither am I inclined to do so with respect to the Church. Moreover, I am inclined, when the issue comes up to ask first, "What does the Church say?" If the matter is not definitive, my second recourse is almost always, "What do the Bishops (the Pope) say?" I find that it spares me a great deal of conflict in my already conflicted world. Moreover, it also wraps me in a mantle of protection when accosted by supporters of this apparition of Mary or that revelation of some seer. My first question can always be, "What does the Holy Mother Church say of the matter?" If she has not deigned to speak, I'm not inclined to pay attention.
All of that said, I'm not inclined to say that all should follow this path. I think I say all of this merely to be truthful to my readership, so that they (and incidentally I) will have a better understanding of my failings. When it comes right down to it, I'm more inclined to trust the Church than to voice my own opinion--my track record is far worse than that of the Bishops in Conference.
This brief passage, excerpted from a letter of Sophia Hawthorne may give some indication of why Rose Hawthorne Lathorp was able to develop in the way she did. For the complete work, look here
from Memories of Hawthorne Compiled and annotated by Rose Hawthorne LathorpWe breakfast about nine o'clock, because we do not dine till three; and we have no tea ceremony, because it broke our evenings too much. I break my fast upon fruit, and we lunch upon fruit, and in the evening, also, partake of that paradisaical food. Mr. Emerson, with his sunrise smile, Ellery Channing, radiating dark light, and, very rarely, Elizabeth Hoar, with spirit voice and tread, have alone varied our days from without; but we have felt no want. My sweet, intelligent maid sings at her work, with melodious note. I do not know what is in store for me; but I know well that God is in the future, and I do not fear, or lose the precious present by anticipating possible evil. I remember Father Taylor's inspired words, "Heaven is not afar. We are like phials of water in the midst of the ocean. Eternity, heaven, God, are all around us, and we are full of God. Let the thin crystal break, and it is all one." Mr. Mann came to Concord to lecture last week. He looked happiest. What can he ask for more, having Mary for his own? Hold me ever as Your true and affectionate friend,
SOPHIA.
I love the image of "phials of water in the midst of the ocean." We cannot see what surrounds us even though it is at the same time within us.
Rose Hawthorne Lathorp
The following is excerpted from a Gutenberg edition of one books of Ms. Lathorp's poetry.
from Along the Shore Rose Hawthorne LathorpGOD-MADE.
Somewhere, somewhere in this heart
There lies a jewel from the sea,
Or from a rock, or from the sand,
Or dropped from heaven wondrously.Oh, burn, my jewel, in my glance!
Oh, shimmer on my lips in prayer!
Light my love's eyes to read my soul,
Which, wrapt in ashes, yet is fair!When dead I lie, forgotten, deep
Within the earth and sunken past,
Still shall my jewel light my dust,--
The worth God gives us, first and last!
Who recently republished a very lengthy and good series of posts on poetry, the majority of which I concur with.
However, the list of worthwhile poets (extending back to Blake) probably needs qualification because it excludes the now infamous, and not lately mentioned Glorious Seventeenth Century.
So to Lee Ann's group of necessary, interesting, and powerful poets we add the following:
John Donne--surprisingly modern in his concerns, some techniques and concerns. And yet stolidly metaphysical in rejecting the spirit/body dichotomy espoused by the Puritans and so blatantly affecting culture today and making it the somewhat schizophrenic qualities it has.
Henry Vaughn What can one say about the poet who "saw eternity the other night, like a ring of pure and endless light."
Richard Crashaw
Oh, let's face it-- the entire Luminarium set.
There are a great many people who have opinions on how best to solve whatever the current crisis may be. (Very honestly, I know too little about whatever crisis people are talking about to make any informed comment whatsoever.) Many would probably like to be advisors to the Vatican, and I applaud them for their willingness to advance and defend opinions I can only just begin to understand.
However, one of the great Spiritual Mothers of the Carmelites, St. Teresa of Avila, has some better advice for me, which I have found enormously helpful in these crises--obedience. Obedience is one of the very hardest things in the world--particularly when our judgments on matters that are open to dispute differ. And yet, it is at this time that obedience may be at its most important.
God, for whatever reasons He may have, has placed over us a hierarchy of people who have authority in spiritual matters. In all matters touching on faith, these people are our leaders. Now, this is not to say that if someone suddenly did something in direct defiance of Scripture, Tradition, or sanity, that I would blindly follow their lead. I am not becoming a Pelagian or a Nestorian (I sometimes think the poor bishop was terribly maligned, but I leave that to others) any time soon. However, if the Pope determines that a given Bishop will stay in office, then I assume he has done so for very good reason and that Bishop will remain. Would I like a Charles Chaput in every Bishopric? No question. Will the Pope give me one? Probably not, for more reasons that I will not go into (considering I am already following La Madre in the tacking-on of endless digression).
But Teresa of Avila was adamant in her insistence on obedience. She said that you explicitly and implicitly follow the law of those who are over you spiritually and you pray continually to God about the matter. If it is in His Will to change the heart of your director (or priest, or Bishop, etc.) He will do so. If for some reason it is not, it is better to serve obediently.
Now I'm certain La Madre would not countenance anything that went explicitly against all of Church History and teaching--if, say a Bishop came out and said that all pro-life teaching was null and void. But when it came to matters of individual judgment, she encouraged us in spiritual matters to abandon our own and cling to that of our superiors.
Why might this be? I think it is part and parcel of humility. That is, we abandon ourselves and prefer the judgment of those God has set over us. (Or in the cases of the two diocese that I have recently lived in, the lack of any stated judgments.) Thus, when I became a Carmelite, I promised obedience to the Carmelite Superiors in the Province and in the Order. When they produce a document or revise the rule, my life and my choices are guided by that. I may not like some of the statements or provisions they have made (in point of fact, that is not the case, I delight in the recently promulgated revision to the rule), but I have promised obedience, and that promise is a promise not just to the superiors of the Order, but to God Himself.
What is the point of all of this? I suppose it is to confess what will probably be viewed as irresponsibility on my part. But in the matter of prudential judgments I prefer the judgments of my superiors, in the Order and in the Church. If the Pope says it is wrong, then it is wrong. If the Bishops say one thing or another, that really matters and affects me where I live, then I should prefer their judgment to my own--even in matters that are open to discussion. So on matters of controversy, I try as much as possible to follow our magnificent Pope. I trust his prudential judgments as worthier than my own for several reasons--(1)surely some of that guidance of the Holy Spirit that protects the Church rubs off on other matters of opinion (perhaps not, but a man of deep prayer seems reliable in more than the statements recognized as infallible), (2) deference to age, experience, and intellect--this good man has all three, hands down, over me, (3) track record.
So, when the Pope makes a decision, I do not consider that I have the wherewithal to second guess him. Ditto for most of what the Bishops have to say. When one makes a blatantly idiotic remark on a subject outside his purview, we're talking another matter. But in all matter affecting the Church, the better part seems to be simple obedience and constant prayer for God's guidance of the hierarchy. I'll leave the espousal of differing opinions to others. I'll also say, that in matters where there is some doubt it is important for people who are qualified in the matter to express their opinions. However, until such opinions trickle up to the hierarchy and effect a change, I will decide obedience to the opinion given and not trouble myself with things that doubtlessly beyond me. (Anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time knows how unreliable my own judgments and thought can be on disputed issues.)