A World of Grace

Just the other day, I posted on Facebook some old photos from the 1990s of the annual outdoor Saint Anthony procession at Saint Peter's parish in Toronto, in which I was privileged to participate (carrying the saint's relic) every June for six years (1995-2000) - the first year still as a deacon, and then the rest as a parish priest. Community life in most parishes tends to be punctuated by such repeating annual events, of which at Saint Peter's in Toronto the annual Saint Anthony Italian Festival (festa) was one of the highlights.

Over the centuries, some saints seem to have become particularly popular patrons. In many cases, this has been due to a saint's particularly powerful reputation for working miracles. Saint Anthony (1195-1231) was the first Franciscans to teach as a professor scripture and was called "the Living Ark of the Testament" by Pope Gregory IX. Fittingly, Anthony is also a Doctor of the Church - Doctor Evangelicus ("Evangelical Doctor"). But it is undoubtedly his reputation as miracle-worker that has solidified popular devotion to him. My grandmother, for example, credited Saint Anthony with the safe return of one of her sons who had been serving in the Pacific in World War II. She had a very high opinion of his intercession and believed that he ranked exceptionally high in the heavenly court. Of course, there is no such official ranking that I know of; but popular piety and widespread interest (including popular interest outside the Church) have combined to elevate certain saints above the ordinary rank and file of those already extraordinary figures. In today's Church, there is a kind of brown-robed trinity of particularly popular Franciscan saints - Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Anthony of Padua, and Saint Pio of Pietrelcina.

In one sense, miracles may appropriately be thought of as extraordinary incursions of the supernatural into our natural world. But taken too far that understanding can become excessively dualistic. For the natural world, we know, is already in some sense oriented toward the supernatural, and nature is intended to be perfected by grace. Miraculous incursions into ordinary experience may be much more common and less dramatic than the necessarily rigorous process for identifying officially documented miracles (e.g., for a beatification or canonization) might suggest.

Franciscan spirituality is rightly noted for its appreciation of the natural world. But it is a natural world with a supernatural orientation, a natural world in which grace is everywhere at work.

Climate Change and the Common Good

This is the title of the recent A Statement of the Problem and The Demand for Transformative Solutions produced by the Pontifical Academy of Sciences and the Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences on April 29. Despite its scholarly origin and title, it is actually a short document (about 8 pages of text), generally jargon-free, and so relatively readable by a general audience. Even so, I only just got around to looking at it this week - in anticipation of Pope Francis' much awaited encyclical on the environment, which is due to be issued within the next week.

(The Pontifical Academy of Sciences received its present name in 1936, but its origin dates back to 1603. It comprises 80 academic scientists appointed by the pope from around the world. The Pontifical Academy of Social Sciences was founded by Pope Saint John Paul II in 1994 "to promote the study and progress of social, economic, political, and juridical sciences in the light of the social doctrine of the Church.")

As its title, Climate Change and the Common Good, suggests, this short statement is focused on the impact for future life on earth and human civilization of the scientifically describable phenomenon of the climactic changes currently being caused by human activity,in particular "the continued extraction and use of coal, oil, and gas in the 'business-as-usual' mode." In reasonably accessible language, Climate Change and the Common Good summarizes the underlying science - how the technological developments of the past two centuries have led us to this predicament, the damage done already, and the projected future consequences if our behavior doesn't change very soon. The warning is stark:

As early as 2100, there will be a non-negligible probability of irreversible and catastrophic climate impacts that may last over thousands of years, raising the existential question of whether civilization as we know it can be extended beyond this century. Only a radical change in our attitude towards Creation and towards our fellow humans, complemented by transformative technological innovations, could reverse the dangerous trends that have already been set into motion inadvertently.

The report highlights the particularly pernicious contribution of modern economic systems and ideologies:

Our problems have been exacerbated by the current economic obsession that measures human progress solely in terms of Gross Domestic product (GDP) growth, a practice that could be justified only if natural capital were of infinite size. Present economic systems have also fostered the development of unacceptable gaps between the rich and the poor. ... The case for prioritizing climate-change mitigation depends crucially on accepting the fact that we have a responsibility not only towards those who are living in poverty today but also to generations yet unborn.

In the end, dealing with this devastating global problem requires a kind of personal and collective conversion of heart - the kind of conversion of heart which is an especially fitting topic, it seems to me, for a papal encyclical.

"A Devout, Learned, and Useful Clergy"

Of all the currently reigning monarchs of Europe (including the Pope), only one - Elizabeth II - enjoyed the benefits of a traditional coronation service. Her coronation - 62 years ago this month - employed a ritual more than one thousand years old, which has experienced some major and many minor modifications since Saint Dunstan first adapted an even older Frankish service for the coronation of the Anglo Saxon King Edgar in 973. Thanks to the Protestant Reformation, it was translated into English in 1603, and since 1689 has been set within a Book of Common Prayer Communion service. As a classic Anglican service, it contains some priceless prayers. Among them, one of my personal favorites is the "Prayer of Benediction," which comes shortly after the actual crowning. In it, the Archbishop of Canterbury prays God to bless the newly crowned sovereign with the sorts of people and things we would want God to bless a sovereign (and his or her country) with, but which may at times seem to be in limited supply: 

The Lord give you faithful Parliaments and quiet Realms; sure defence against all enemies; fruitful lands and a prosperous industry; wise counsellors and upright magistrates; leaders of integrity in learning and labour; a devout, learned and useful clergy; honest peaceable and dutiful citizens.

All of these are important, of course, and much to be desired. Within this this lovely little list, however, it is inevitably the petition for a devout, learned, and useful clergy, which immediately invites my further attention. (Actually, from 1760 until 1937, the text prayed for a pious and learned and useful clergy. But, for the 1953 coronation, pious was, for whatever reason, replaced by devout, a distinction without much of a difference in this context, at least as far as I can sense. So here at least I will treat the two words as effectively interchangeable.)

How edifying to consider that for centuries successive Archbishops of Canterbury have asked God to bless their sovereigns with a devout, learned, and useful clergy! Given the increasingly perilous present state of the Church of England (and of religion in contemporary Western societies in general), one might be tempted to repeat that prayer perhaps even more earnestly today, well before any anticipated next coronation.

Needless to say, as a clergyman myself, I should certainly aspire to be devout, learned, and useful. But what precisely is meant by being devout, learned, and useful? And useful to whom, or for what? And how does one become such, or more so, or at least sufficiently so?

As I look ahead to summer's somewhat more contemplative pace, to my upcoming retreat with my community, and to some alternative time with friends and family, I plan to think more about the meaning of those words and expect to return to consider some of those questions both for myself at my stage in life and in terms of the broader needs of today's Church in this time of traumatic change.

Corpus Christi

Thursday, June 4, was the 60^th anniversary of my First Holy Communion.  While I can’t claim to remember all that happened that day, I do remember some of it. Certainly I remember the rehearsals we had beforehand. The Dominican Sisters were perfectionists when it came to such things, and everything was going to go just so! And I remember being taken to the photographer’s studio to pose for pictures, and how my mother fussed about that and made sure she knew which side of the church I would be on, so she would see me walking back to my pew and then I would see her in turn when she went up to the altar rail. 

Finally the big day dawned, Saturday, June 4, 1955. Dressed up in the prescribed outfit, I was out of the house early - to the safety of the school (where there was no danger of anyone inadvertently breaking the fast). Finally, we all lined up, and all those rehearsals paid off as we walked in absolutely perfect formation into the church at exactly 8:00 a.m. It was, as I later learned, a solemn Mass, with deacon and subdeacon, although I honestly don’t remember any of that. But I do remember walking two by two up the marble sanctuary to kneel before the main altar, then returning by the Epistle side, And I remember seeing my mother go to Communion, just as she had wanted me to.

Napoleon Bonaparte - the revolutionary Corsican soldier who eventually turned himself into an emperor and successfully persuaded/compelled poor Pope Pius VII to come to Paris in person to watch Napoleon crown himself - that Napoleon, who presumably enjoyed many successful and happy days in his adventurous life, famously described his First Communion as the happiest day of his life. 

Of course, what many – maybe most – of us remember best about our First Communion Day, is all the frills: the outfits, the photos, the presents. Those are all perfectly nice things, of course, and should not be disparaged. As for the actual act of Communion itself, it may perhaps stand out less because it in fact merges in memory with so many other subsequent trips to the altar rail - for many of us  (brought up post-Pius X) at least once a week, for those of us in religious life, likely as often as once a day. That's a lot of Communions!

So, if the first one merges in memory with all those subsequent Communions, that may be as it should be. As I always like to say to First Communicants on their big day, the key word to remember about the experience is first – the first time they are doing what (hopefully) they are going to be doing many more times, over and over again, at least once each week, all the rest of their lives.

Today the Church celebrates the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, the feast commonly called Corpus Christi. The meaning and spirit of this festival is succinctly summarized in the familiar collect – so familiar because it is also the collect traditionally sung after the hymn at Benediction: O God, who in this wonderful Sacrament have left us a memorial of your Passion, grant us, we pray, so to revere the sacred mysteries of your Body and Blood that we always experience in ourselves the fruits of your redemption.

This prayer reminds us that the sacrament of the Eucharist is intimately connected with Jesus’ Passion, Death, and Resurrection.  The Mass of the Lord’s Supper on Holy Thursday recalls the anniversary of the institution of the Eucharist, but there is so much else going on then that over the centuries it was thought appropriate to accent the Church’s joy in this wonderful sacrament on a day all its own. Hence, this feast – established by Pope Urban IV in 1264 with its Mass and Office specially composed for the occasion by the great 13th-century Dominican Doctor of the Church Saint Thomas Aquinas.

The prayer he composed calls on us to revere the sacred mysteries of Christ’s Body and Blood. Hence the special traditions of Eucharistic veneration associated with today – the traditional outdoor procession, for example, which elaborately marks this occasion in Catholic countries. As a seminarian in 1984, I had the privilege of witnessing the impressive outdoor Corpus Christi procession in Montreal’s Old City. In Germany, they have a tradition of the procession stopping at four altars erected along the way, at each of which is read the beginning of one of the four gospels before Benediction is given with the monstrance. It is a symbolic way of suggesting that the entire story can be summed up in some sense in the sacrament of the Eucharist.

But along with our veneration of this wonderful sacrament, the primary point is for us to experience its benefits. One particular ancient Roman prayer expresses this idea very eloquently in the Canon of the Mass:

In humble prayer we ask you, almighty God, command that these gifts be borne by the hands of your holy Angel to your altar on high in the sight of your divine majesty, so that all of us, who through this participation at the altar receive the most holy Body and Blood of your Son, may be filled with every grace and heavenly blessing.

In other words, by participating in the Eucharist and receiving Holy Communion, we, like Christ’s offering of himself, are, so to speak, carried along, to the Lamb of God’s heavenly altar, as a pledge of our future glory.

In the beautiful words of Saint Thomas Aquinas, which the Church recites this evening at Vespers: 

How holy this feast, in which Christ is our food; his Passion is recalled; grace fills our hearts, and we receive a pledge of the glory to come.

Homily for the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (Corpus Christi), Immaculate Conception Church, Knoxville, TN, June 7, 2015.

60 Eucharistic Years

Today was the 60^th anniversary of my First Holy Communion.  I'll be reminiscing a bit about that event in my homily for Corpus Christi (transferred in the United States from its proper day, today, to this coming Sunday.) So I'll spare such details today. 

Napoleon Bonaparte - the 18th-century Corsican soldier who eventually turned himself into an emperor and successfully persuaded/compelled poor Pope Pius VII to come to Paris in person to watch Napoleon crown himself - that Napoleon, who presumably enjoyed many successful and happy days in his adventurous life, famously described his First Communion as the happiest day of his life. 

Of course, what many – maybe most – of us remember best about our First Communion Day, is all the frills: the outfits, the photos, the presents. Those are all perfectly nice things, of course, and should not be disparaged. As for the actual act of Communion itself, it may perhaps stand out less because it in fact merges in memory with so many other subsequent trips to the altar rail - for many of us  (brought up post-Pius X) at least once a week, for those of us in religious life, likely as often as once a day. That's a lot of Communions! So, if the first one merges in memory with all those subsequent Communions, that may be as it should be. As I always like to stress with First Communicants on their big day, the key word to remember about the experience is first – the first time they are doing what (hopefully) they are going to be doing many more times, over and over again, at least once each week, all the rest of their lives. (In Napoleon's time, that was less so, of course, which may have especially elevated the event in theconsciousness of late 18th-century children.)

Unlike Baptism, Confirmation, and Holy Orders, which are defining, once-for-all events, unlike matrimony, which for many is a once-in-a-lifetime event and is normally at most celebrated only rarely in one's life, and unlike the "healing" sacraments of penance and anointing, which are occasional, as needed, events, the Eucharist really is meant to be the regularly repeated sacrament. That sense may have been lost for much of our history, but that was always contrary to the plain sense of the liturgy, e.g., so many of the  post-communion prayers. As Saint Thomas Aquinas explained, by Baptism a person is ordered to the Eucharist, so that by virtue of being baptized one is destined for the Eucharist by the Church (Summa Theologica, III, q. 73, art. 3)

I understand, of course, the new problems the practice of frequent communion may have inadvertently created. Even so, in this most important respect, I count myself very fortunate to have come of age in the post-Pius X Church.