Michaelmas Day

At the mature age of nine when I was confirmed – on September 22, 1957 – I chose “Michael” for my confirmation name. I did not choose that name to honor some relative or family friend. As best I can recall, what impressed me most about that name was its association with the great warrior archangel. Then war broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels battled against the dragon … who is called the Devil and Satan, who deceived the whole world, was thrown down to earth (Revelation 12:7-9). In those days, we regularly prayed this prayer to St. Michael the Archangel after (Low) Mass: St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin and destruction of souls. I really liked that prayer. And for my confirmation, I definitely wanted to identify with the great macho warrior archangel.

For centuries, St. Michael the Archangel was honored on this day (at one time a holyday of obligation). Hence, the traditional English name Michaelmas for this date. Coming just after the autumnal equinox, as the days are visibly darkening, it must have seemed a very appropriate day indeed to honor the Church’s champion against the original “Dark Lord.” Since the calendar reform of 1969, the archangels Gabriel and Raphael (the only other angels identified with proper names in the Bible) have lost their individual feast days and have been folded in with Michael in one composite feast of the Archangels Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael.

Where would we be without angels? I haven’t yet encountered any images of the archangels in my new church, but I have found a beautiful statue of an angel kneeling in prayer, which I hope soon to put to good use. Individual angels and choirs of angels often appear in church decoration. At St. Malachy’s (“The Actors’ Chapel”) on West 49th Street in New York City, where I served as deacon in the early 1990s and celebrated one of my first Masses in 1995, paintings of angels adorn the upper reaches of the church. Ten blocks north at the Paulist “Mother Church,” St. Paul the Apostle, angels form the subject of statues, murals, and windows in the sanctuary – among them the three gilded bronze angels kneeling above the baldachin over the High Altar and the four bronze angels with outstretched arms and interlocking hands that encircle the huge globe of the sanctuary lamp. The circular painting, The Angel of the Moon, high up on the south wall of the sanctuary is considered one of the most notable of John La Farge’s murals. It companion piece, The Angel of the Sun, on the north wall, was painted by William Laurel Harris (the same artist who also did the monumental mural The Crucifixion above the Church’s main entrance). Above and behind the High Altar, the central window depicts Mary Queen of Angels. On the south side of that central widow is a stained glass window of the Archangel Michael, and on the north side is one of the Archangel Raphael. The Archangel Gabriel appears in the painting above the Annunciation Altar in the south aisle. Painted figures of angels also flank that altar on either side, and angels are depicted adoring the Blessed Sacrament in the monstrance painted about the Sacred Heart Altar in the north aisle.

Likewise, the words of the liturgy daily remind us of the angels. Thus, we join the angels and the saints in proclaiming your glory in the Sanctus, an acclamation based on the prophet Isaiah’s vision of the angels in heaven (Isaiah 6:3-4). The Gloria’s opening words – Glory to God in the highest, and peace to his people on earth – recall the hymn sung by the angels to the shepherds on the first Christmas (Luke 2:14). At Funerals, we pray (preferably in the hauntingly beautiful traditional chant) May the angels lead you into Paradise. That familiar In Paradisum prayer was, of course, the basis for Horatio’s famous farewell to Hamlet, Good-night, sweet prince; And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest (Hamlet, Act V, Scene 2).

According to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, angels (whose existence is called “a truth of faith”) are spiritual creatures possessing intelligence and will, surpassing in perfection all visible creatures. As servants and messengers of God, they have been present since the creation, announcing salvation and serving the accomplishment of the divine plan.

Then, there are the Guardian Angels, commemorated separately on October 2.

It seems the angels really are everywhere – not just in pretty pictures and in the countless books found on the shelves devoted to angels in contemporary bookstores! Where would we be without them?

Can the Truth Hurt?

President Obama has been getting so much criticism lately that one hesitates to pile on with any further critical commentary. However, there is something the President said last week, which seems to me emblematic of what passes for serious political and moral discourse these days

Asked about Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s claim that some segments within the U.S. government had orchestrated the 9/11 attacks (and that much of the world actually believes that), President Obama responded: “It was offensive. It was hateful. And particularly for him to make the statement here in Manhattan, just a little north of ground zero, where families lost their loved ones — people of all faiths, all ethnicities, who see this as the seminal tragedy of this generation — for him to make a statement like that was inexcusable.”

Of course, Ahmadinejad’s rant was offensive and hateful and inexcusable. But it was also untrue. Perhaps the President presumed that most sensible people already realized it was untrue and so that fact didn’t require repeating. But then I suspect that most sensible people probably also recognized Ahmadinejad’s statement as being offensive and hateful as well – and all the more so precisely because it is untrue.

Given that this is a case of words which were simultaneously both offensive and false, perhaps I am reading too much into the President’s remarks; but it strikes me as revealing – of something – that the emphasis seems to have fallen primarily on Ahmadinejad’s falsehood's offensiveness rather than on tis falsehood. Is this symptomatic of a way of thinking and speaking that is increasingly afraid of giving offense and is intensively offended by offensivensss, but seems less and less interested in the claim of truth?

It seems to me that something has happened in our moral language in recent decades that reflects a radical distortion in our way of thinking about things. Whether this reflects a widespread acceptance of an outright post-modern rejection of the possibility of objective truth or simply a decadent popular culture’s indifference to truth can be debated, but the practical result seems pretty much the same.

The consequence is increasingly evident in attempts to discuss moral matters, where a position (no matter how ancient and impressive its pedigree) can simply be dismissed as unacceptable because someone is offended by it (thereby freeing the one offended from having to confront alternative arguments and perhaps even reconsider his or her own position). It is certainly not a sign of a good and noble character to desire to be offensive. Ad hominem attacks, name-calling, dismissivenss of others’ motives and sincerity are always inappropriate. And, of course, many things that are offensive may also be demonstrably false. But surely there may be some things that are true that may also be offensive to some or even many people, and yet may need to be said if we are to see our way to moral clarity.

It’s purely a coincidence, but yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the first Kennedy-Nixon debate. I remember all four of those debates, but (like everyone else a that time) particularly remember the first one. As was noted at the time, many of those who listened to the first debate on the radio tended to consider Nixon the winner, while those who watched on TV considered Kennedy the winner. There was a lot of serious substance discussed in those historic encounters between two serious and qualified candidates, but the 1960 Presidential debates – and especially the first one – are primarily remembered in history as the triumph (thanks to TV’s new role) of style over substance.

It seems we have been sliding down this particular slippery slope for quite a while now.

A Great Chasm

Last Sunday’s Gospel [Luke 16:1-13] ended with the stern warning: You cannot serve both God and mammon. Today, Jesus brings his point even closer to home with a parable [Luke 16:19-31] that surely ranks among the New Testament’s story-telling masterpieces.

We hear this parable every year on the Thursday of the 2nd week of Lent, which somewhat personalizes the parable for the priest as he reads Jesus’ condemnation of the rich man dressed in purple, when he himself is, of course, conspicuously all dressed in purple. (At least we don’t have that problem today.)

Other than his wardrobe, we actually know next to nothing about the rich man – not even his name. (He is traditionally known as “Dives” – the Latin word for “rich” – thanks to the opening words of the parable: Homo quidam erat dives, "there was a certain rich man"). In the “real” world, it’s typically the rich whose names we remember. Here, however, it is the beggar, Lazarus, whose name everyone now knows. Nameless, the rich man functions as a kind of “everyman” figure. He could, perhaps, have been one of the complacent in Zion, whose self-indulgence and conspicuous consumption the prophet harangued against in today’s 1st reading [Amos 6:1a, 4-7]. Or he could be almost anyone in any prosperous, consumerist society.

To appreciate the scene Jesus sets, we need to remember one of the fundamental differences between a modern, capitalist society, such as ours, and a "traditional society," such as Jesus lived in – and most people have lived in for most of human history. A modern, capitalist society is much more economically productive than a "traditional" society. It produces much more wealth and for a lot more people. With so much more to go around, there is usually a large middle class in addition to the small, very rich, upper class, and there are far fewer in poverty. In less productive "traditional societies," where the amount of surplus wealth produced is relatively low, the result is usually a very small upper class, a very small middle class, and lots of poor people – not necessarily so poor as Lazarus in the a parable, of course, but poor enough to be close to the margin. That is the normal state of affairs in "traditional," pre-capitalist economies. In such a world, of course, there would be beggars aplenty; and the danger of becoming a beggar would be a very real worry for the large multitude of insecure working poor, just barely making it.

So the people in Jesus’ audience would certainly have understood this parable. They could picture it. Beggars were everywhere, and (since privacy is essentially a modern idea) there was no avoiding some direct contact between poor and rich. Thus, the rich man’s world and that of Lazarus were, so to speak, side-by-side. The parable suggests something more, however. It suggests that for the rich man, side-by-side had become separate.

Within his own separately constructed world, there is nothing to suggest that the rich man was particularly wicked or otherwise reprehensible. There is no suggestion that his wealth was obtained dishonestly or anything of that sort. His only apparent failing, in the parable, was his having created a private world for himself, separate from that of Lazarus – and his consequent failure to bridge the great chasm between himself and Lazarus. It’s not that he was personally hostile to Lazarus. Rather, he was simply indifferent – and hence disconnected. Reading this parable today, we cannot help but notice how modern in some ways the rich man seems, how much his self-constructed private world resembles the way so many people live today.

But then he died. In fact, they both died, as indeed we all will die. It is appointed that human beings die once, and after this the judgment [Hebrews 9:27]. This is the only parable in which Jesus speaks so specifically about what we customarily call “the particular judgment” – the definitive judgment of each person immediately after death, determining each one’s ultimate destiny, a judgment which (as the parable pointedly illustrates) simply confirms the kind of person one has become over the course of one’s life.

And so, in the case of the rich man, the great chasm his chosen lifestyle constructed between himself and Lazarus during their lifetimes is now conformed as permanent in eternity. Who I become now, in the span of time allotted to me in life, is who I shall be forever.

The parable concludes with the rich man begging Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his 5 brothers. Something of the sort famously does happen in Charles Dickens’ classic Christmas story, A Christmas Carol, with which we are all familiar. There the rich man himself (as the ghost of Jacob Marley) returns to warn his business partner, Ebeneezer Scrooge, who does indeed repent in the end. Abraham, however, is not Dickens. “They have Moses and the prophets,” Abraham replies. “If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise form the dead.”

The intended irony of the parable is, of course, that someone has, in fact, risen from the dead – the teller of this parable. That, of course, is meant to make the point of the parable that much more urgent for us who hear it today.

So are we listening?

Homily at Immaculate Conception, Knoxville, TN, September 26, 2010.

1902

A long-time parishioner recently lent me a copy (one of the few still in existence, I suspect) of the 1902 Official Guide Book of General Information Pertaining to the Church of the Immaculate Conception.

What a treasure is contained in that little blue booklet’s 96 pages! (Half the pages are advertisements, and what a picture they paint of Turn-of-the-20th-Century Knoxville – complete with an ad for $13.50 bicycles!) The booklet lists the names of the pastor and his one assistant, the parish ushers, and other prominent parishioners and a full roster of parish societies (Altar Society, Young Ladies Sodality, Newman Literary Circle, League of the Sacred Heart, Boys Sodality, Catholic Knights and Ladies of America, Knights of Columbus, Ancient Order of Hibernians, and Irish Benevolent Society). Low Mass on Sundays was at 8:00 a.m., followed by Sunday School at 9:15, and High Mass at 10:30. Baptisms were celebrated on Sunday afternoons at 2:00 and there were Vespers, Lecture, and Benediction at 7:30 p.m. Weekday Masses were at 6:30 and 8:00 a.m. Confessions were heard every Saturday afternoon and evening, before Sunday and weekday Masses, and on the afternoon and evening before First Friday.

Apart from such specifics, however, the bulk of the booklet is, as it professes to be, “General Information” – in effect, a kind of mini-Catechism. It explains the different sacraments and various sacramentals, prayers, and devotions. It provides practical norms for how to behave in church, how to send for a priest to visit the sick, and how to prepare the sickroom for the celebration of the sacraments. It explains Mass stipends, the precepts of the Church, holydays of obligation, fast and abstinence, what is expected of a godparent, the importance of Catholic education and the Catholic press – and much more. The total number of Catholics in the area at the time may have been modest when compared with elsewhere in the country, but notable effort was obviously being expended on their instruction in the faith and their formation as a vibrant Church community.

A person of my generation would have no trouble recognizing and relating to the Church life revealed in those pages, despite the occasional quaintness of expression in the language. Indeed, sometimes the situations described can seem quite contemporary. Consider, for example, this sentence about what might be called “parish shopping”.

To go now to one and then to another for various purposes, merely to enjoy a personal advantage, merely to enjoy a personal advantage in the one and to escape a burden in the other, is unjust, productive of confusion, and renders one liable to be overlooked in the hour of need, with no one to blame but oneself.

Sometimes, however, the quaint mode of expression offers insight into a now seemingly long-lost religious universe. For example:

Do not greet your acquaintances in church, much less hold conversation with them there. Do not be offended, if your friends, holding the church more sacred than yourself, take little or no notice of your courtesies. Do not expect the priest to notice you, even in the rear of the church.

Through it all, one senses the deep faith, commitment to the Church, and serene self-confidence which have characterized the American Catholic community for most of its history.

The Prudent Steward

An earlier translation of today’s Gospel [Luke 16:1-13], that my generation grew up with, had the about-to-be unemployed steward say to himself: To dig I am not able; to beg I am ashamed. The fact that I can recite that line and that some of you at least can also remember it says something about the difference between a memorable line and a forgettable one.

Well, we’re not here today to talk about the merits of comparative translations! Whatever words we put into the steward’s mouth when we translate him into English, his plight remains the same; and in this time of recession we may be even more sympathetic to his situation then we might otherwise be. We do not know exactly how the steward mismanaged his employer’s property, or even whether the accusation was true. Either way, the steward knows he’s going to lose his job. Rather than wasting energy trying to defend himself in a probably pointless effort to save his job, the steward looks ahead to the future. Building on the business relationship he already has with his master’s debtors, he cleverly ingratiates himself with them, networking with them for their short-term interest, in effect putting them in his debt, thus hopefully furthering his own long-term interest. And the master commended that dishonest steward for acting prudently.

Presumably, his master still intended to fire him. So whatever he had done to lose his job in the first place was not being commended. Even so, the master recognized his steward’s cleverness in crisis and praised him for that. Maybe, he was wishing the steward had shown as much initiative and ingenuity in managing his employer’s affairs as showed in providing for himself!

Jesus too holds the steward up as a model – not necessarily for his failures as a manager, in other words, for whatever got him fired in the first place, but for his initiative and ingenuity in providing for his future. Jesus wants us to appreciate just how important it is to have proper priorities and a plan of action to get there. If we are serious about the kingdom of God, then we have to be as focused on getting there as the steward was on his future survival; and, like him, we too have to learn and employ the necessary means available to us.

The actual details of the parable are somewhat unclear. It is just a parable, after all. It is possible, for example, that what the steward was actually doing in reducing his master’s debtors’ obligations was simply foregoing his own share – his commission. If that is the case, then the lesson is even more pointed. To get where we want to go, we have to ready and willing sometimes to sacrifice short-term benefit for long-term fulfillment. If that is true even in worldly matters then how much more true must it be when it comes to the kingdom of God?

In the process, Jesus is also reminding us how part of getting from here to there, essential to the process of attaining the kingdom that is supposed to be our ultimate priority is making best use of the opportunities presented to us in the here and now. We are already citizens of God’s kingdom, and the new reality of God’s kingdom has already begun to take shape in our world in our life together as his Church. But it is precisely in our world that this is happening. And it is precisely this world in which we are now living that makes certain serious claims upon us.

An example of what this means is found in St. Paul’s instructions to Timothy in today’s 2nd reading [1 Timothy 2:1-8]: First of all, I ask that supplications, prayers, petitions, and thanksgivings be offered for everyone, for kings and for all in authority, that we may lead a quiet and tranquil life in all devotion and dignity.

At a crucial juncture in the Church’s 1st century, Saint Paul highlighted the connection between what we would nowadays call the secular with the spiritual – forever forcing us to do the same. Of course, the experience of life itself forces us to do the same. In the words of one famous early Christian writer from Roman North Africa: When the Empire is shaken, all of its parts are shaken also, hence even though we stand outside its tumults, we are caught in its misfortunes [Tertullian, Apology, 31] . Not much has changed since then, has it? He too promoted prayer for Emperors, their ministers, for the condition of the world, for peace everywhere, and for the delaying of the end [39]. And so too must we! If a fully human life requires taking seriously the world we live in, then even our prayer and worship must actually acknowledge this.

Throughout Christian history, there have been repeated examples of individuals, movements, and sects, which have undervalued and tried to avoid the complexities of economic life, social institutions, and political obligations.

Yet, even if my involvement in earthly life – in my family, my work, my country – even if all that is ultimately temporary and transitory, still that remains where I am right now, where I am living, growing, developing, for better or for worse, into the particular person I will remain for all eternity.

In the Old Testament, when God allowed his Chosen People to be driven into exile in a foreign land, he gave them this parting advice through his prophet Jeremiah: Thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel, to all the exiles whom I exiled from Jerusalem to Babylon: Build houses to dwell in; plant gardens, and eat their fruits. … Promote the welfare of the city to which I have exiled you; pray for it to the Lord, for upon its welfare depends your own [29:4-7].

What Jeremiah calls the welfare of the city – prosperity, peace, personal and collective security, and some relative degree of justice – such are the purposes of economic activity, social relationships, and political obligations. We cannot accomplish any of those purposes by being just passive spectators in the story of life, living as if life were like a short ferry boat ride, and not even noticing or caring how the boat is being steered and whether or not all the passengers are adequately equipped with life jackets. On the contrary, economic activity, social relationships, and political community are serious business that make serious demands upon us both short-term and long-term.

In today’s threatening and dangerous world, we are, if anything being challenged even more, to take seriously the world in which we live and what makes it work, stepping beyond our purely private space in order to be accountable for and to one another. Then, and only then, may we hope to lead what Saint Paul calls a quiet and tranquil life in all devotion and dignity.

Homily at Immaculate Conception Church, Knoxville, September 19, 2010