Being Good, Pleasing, and Perfect

All summer long, we have been making our way, Sunday-by-Sunday, through Saint Paul’s letter to the Romans, the longest and historically most influential of his letters. Having begun by denouncing the sins and vices of pagan society, Paul now exhorts us to behave differently. In one sense, I suppose, that’s where we would naturally expect him to go. We’re hardly surprised when Paul’s well argued doctrinal exposition ends in moral exhortation – in the practical expression of how to live now. Moral exhortation we expect, but we may be surprised by how he introduces the topic: I urge you, by the mercies of God to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God, your spiritual worship.
So far, Paul has been stressing what God has done for us. Thanks to what God’s mercy has accomplished on our behalf, we can now be different people from whoever we would otherwise have been, living differently from how we would otherwise have lived. Our bodies – in other words, the actual lived reality of our day-to-day lives – can serve as our sacrifice to God. The moral life of a Christian can be best understood, Paul seems to say, as a life lived as an act of worship.
The pagan Gentile culture of the Hellenistic world, which Paul could see everywhere around him and which he spoke so harshly about, operated out of a very different model from what Paul was proposing. Just watch some episodes of the HBO-TV series Rome from a few years ago! Our society, likewise, operates out of its own unique, post-modern model of human values and behavior, encouraging us to live lives based on feelings. Paul challenges us – as he challenged his contemporaries - not to conform to this age, but instead to transform our lives into an ongoing experience of worship, not conforming our faith to the world’s agenda but transforming that world by our faith.
In contrast to all the negative models we see all around us, Paul points us to the alternative model – Christ himself, whose death on the cross revealed a life lived as the most perfect worship of God his Father.
Peter’s negative reaction to Jesus’ initial prediction of his passion and death ought not to surprise us. If the path to be followed conformed to common expectations, Paul would not have presented it as such a contrast to what he saw around him, nor would Peter have objected, nor would Jesus have rebuked Peter so sternly. In Peter’s resistance, Jesus could hear the echo of Satan’s temptation in the desert – the perennial challenge (not just to Jesus but to all of us) not to be transformed ourselves and certainly not to transform the world.
This sort of came up during the Paulist Vocation Workshop I attended a week ago in New York. It seems evident that many young people who might be interested in some form of religious life are looking for a way to live a "counter-cultural" witness. Perhaps some religious communities may have over-adapted to contemporary culture in the 1960s (and after) and may now find themselves being especially challenged by this. Even so, as our presenter pointed out more than once, any authentic form of religious life is inherently counter-cultural. In a society which sees wealth, sex, and power as primary values, what could possibly be more counter-cultural than poverty, chastity, and obedience? That’s actually just one more reason why the promotion of religious vocations is so important for the Church’s witness to the world.
In some ways, we have of course, quite comfortably domesticated the cross that ultimate symbol of Christ’s world-transforming sacrifice. We have, in fact, often turned it into just an ornament, an item of jewelry. It can serve as a civic ornament also. All Christian kingdoms have a cross on their crowns – something I became very conscious of when stationed in Canada, where the highway signs all have crowns on them. The seal of Los Angeles County, until recently, also had a cross – a historical reminder of the place’s Spanish origin. In a fit of post-modern, secularist triumphalism, Los Angeles county’s cross has been removed, although the seal of the city of Los Angeles still includes the arms of the Spanish kingdoms of Castille and Leon. (I can’t help but suspect that our very Britsh and very Protestant Founding Fathers would likely have found the symbols of the Spanish crown more objectionable than the cross! But that’s another discussion!)
It is indeed no accident that the cross is the central symbol of our Christian faith. Jesus’ death was not some accident, after all, just some back luck that happened to him one day by the shore. It was the direct – and predictable – consequence of a life lived in total obedience to his Father. Such is the life that Jesus commands us to take up and follow him.

Homily for the 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Immaculate Conception Church, Knoxville, TN,

August 28, 2011

1100 Acres

Thirty years ago today, I entered the Paulist Novitiate at Mount Paul, Oak Ridge, NJ. The property has occasionally been affectionately described as “1100 acres of rocks and trees.” True enough, but that leaves out the lake – in which those so inclined could swim and on which they could ice-skate, depending on the season. There were also several hiking trails, for those so inclined. And, of course, in the center of it all and the reason for it all (at least as far as we were concerned) was the Novitiate building itself – a typically tasteless, architecturally non-descript edifice erected c. 1960. It had functional bedrooms (equipped with sinks – a luxury we would lack the following four years in Washington), long linoleum corridors, a good institutional kitchen, a serviceable dining room, a decent downstairs common room, and, as its ostensible centerpiece, a modestly attractive chapel.
That was where 8 of us – ranging in age from 21 to 33 – had elected to spend a year in vocational discernment. Whatever God’s long-term providential plan for each of us vocationally, his short-term providence provided us with a wonderful (albeit challenging at times) experience of God, Church, and one another.
At present, I am the only one of my class still serving as an active Paulist priest. I have only occasional contact with some of my novitiate classmates and none at all with the rest. So my reminiscences remain entirely my own, neither augmented nor balanced nor corrected by those of others in my class. In one sense that is especially sad, because, whatever else it was, the novitiate year was pre-eminently and experience of community – in particular, our community with one another. It was, of course, intended to be a year of individual spiritual growth and discernment and an introduction to the Paulist community. And it was all those things. I did a lot of reading and “journaling,” tried to pray a lot, and met many, many Paulists whose past stories and present lives introduced me (more than any theoretical presentations did or could) to the Paulist Fathers as a living corporate reality – the minuses as well as the pluses.
Most of all, however, it was an intense experience of small community life, learning to live with others whom I had not chosen to live with (or even to know). Our wise novice master often characterized the novitiate experience as an atypical year designed to preclude our escaping from God, ourselves, and one another. Whatever happened with God and oneself, it most certainly was difficult to escape from one another. In that, it functioned as the beginning of a multi-year process of what is now officially called “human formation.” I don’t recall our novice master ever using that term, but he often spoke of its substance, and it clearly was his priority.
There were hot summer days at Mount Paul, to be sure, but what most of my novitiate generation remember is the cold. It was a damp cold. I remember some days getting into bed around 4:00 p.m. and running the electric blanket for about 10 minutes or so, to warm myself up sufficiently for the rest of the day. I remember attending Mass in the freezing cold chapel, wearing my winter coat. But, since I like winter and generally prefer the cold to the heat, my memories of all that are much fonder than those of some.
All in all, in was a good year – in a good place. I still mourn the fact that the novitiate is no longer located there and that today’s novices have nothing like the unique experience we had. And I likewise mourn the necessary but nonetheless tragic decision to sell the property to the state of New Jersey over a year ago.
But then we have not here a lasting city, but we seek one that is to come (Hebrews 13:14).

"Evangelical Catholicism"

Some people just don’t seem to “get it” about World Youth Day. Some, for example, (some more ideologically motivated perhaps than others) like to point out that pilgrims to World Youth Day are not necessarily representative - in the intensity of their religious identification and commitment - of the majority their generation. Is that supposed to be a surprise? If so, why and to whom? When have intense religious identification and commitment marked the majority of that – or any other – generation? For most of history most people have practiced some form of religion – as indeed most people still do today in most of the world. In some instances, it may be primarily part of a tribal identity – what one observer has called “belonging but not believing.” For most people, I suspect, religion is much more than just an ethnic or cultural identity. It is an important part of life, but it is still but one part of life. And, as we all know, people vary in their differing priorities reflecting their different evaluations of relative rewards and benefits.
But among them are also those – in all religions and in all societies – for whom religious identification and commitment to a spiritual life (however defined in any given religion) are higher-than-average priorities. Those are the kinds of people who are attracted to religious activities above and beyond the minimum. They are the ones more involved in our parish activities. They are the ones most likely to consider a vocation to priesthood or religious life. They are also the ones who, as parents, are more likely to make the religious formation of their children a priority. They are not the whole Church Militant, by any means, but they are its standing army!
John Allen in his August 19 column “All Things Catholic,” made precisely that point regarding the participants in World Youth Day: “We’re not talking about the broad mass of twenty- and thirty-something Catholics, who are all over the map in terms of beliefs and values. Instead, we’re talking about that inner core of actively practicing young Catholics who are most likely to discern a vocation to the priesthood or religious life, most likely to enroll in graduate programs of theology, and most likely to pursue a career in the church as a lay person -- youth ministers, parish life coordinators, liturgical ministers, diocesan officials, and so on. In that sub-segment of today’s younger Catholic population, there’s an Evangelical energy so thick you can cut it with a knife. Needless to say, the groups I’ve just described constitute the church’s future leadership.”
In an American context, “evangelical” is a highly synthetic term, laden with all sorts of distinctly American cultural baggage. What Allen (and others who employ the language of “Evangelical Catholicism") mean by it is both more universal in application and more precise in meaning. True to the root word evangelium, it means faithfulness to the Gospel message as it has been proclaimed in the Church, with a concurrent attachment to how that message has been incarnated both in the Church’s doctrine and in the Church’s worship life – as per the ancient dictum, lex orandi lex credendi (the law of worship is the law of belief). From this follows also a serious commitment to witnessing to the faith of the Church even in a less than accomodating world.
In his above-mentioned column, John Allen addresses what he calls “the contest for the Catholic future,” which will most certainly not be between today’s young Evangelical Catholics and an older generation of liberal reformers (however adamantly some of them try to hold on to their made-in-1968 alternative image of Church). Rather, the contest will be among Evangelical Catholics themselves, between what Allen calls “an open and optimistic wing” that emphasizes “what the church affirms rather than what it condemns,” and, on the other hand, “a more defensive cohort committed to waging cultural war.”
In a society increasingly polarized along political-ideological lines, Catholics – not least those engaged in ecclesial ministry or in religious life – experience that tension all the time. Like anything else, some people “get it” more than others. For example, Archbishop Timothy Dolan of New York hit the nail on the head during his August 17 World Youth Day catechetical session, when one Australian participant asked how to interact with those who may disagree with and live contrary to the Church’s teachings. The Archbishop’s response clearly portrayed the two competing approaches and which one we may infer is the more promising: "We can scream, we can yell, we can castigate, we can alienate, we can nag, and most of the time if we do that we lose," answered the Archbishop. "Or we can be gracious, patient, loving, understanding, persistent, welcoming. And most of the time when we do that, we're also going to lose. But less than the first one."

"Upon this Rock"

Watching World Youth Day in Madrid on TV this week recalls wonderful memories of the World Youth Day I attended in Germany 6 years ago - and of other Papal events I’ve attended in Rome and during Pope Benedict’s 2008 visit to New York. Among the many wonderful things which one can watch on YouTube, there are some 25 Italian videos of the coronation of Pope John XXIII, on November 4, 1958. Several times during that lengthy ceremony, the Sistine Choir chants Jesus’ words which we just heard in today’s Gospel: Tu es Petrus, et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam (“You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church”). In addition to that, today’s entire Gospel account is chanted, not once but twice – first by a Latin deacon, and then by a Greek deacon. I think that’s what called making a point!
Today’s Gospel takes us back in time - from the baroque splendor of St. Peter’s Basilica and the modern papacy to the region of Caesarea Philippi and to the 1st Pope, Peter himself. Caesarea Philippi was situated about 20 miles north of the Sea of Galilee in territory ruled by King Herod’s son Philip. The place is now known as "Banias," a deformation of its pre-Roman name, "Paneas," referring to the Greek god Pan. At the time of Jesus, a fertility cult was thriving in the pagan temple to Pan at this location at Israel’s northern border at the foot of Mount Hermon. That border was obviously a lot easier to cross in Jesus’ time, than it is now; but it was still a border, laden with symbolic spiritual significance.
It was in that faraway, pagan place that Jesus challenged his disciples to answer what is, in some sense, still the basic Christian question: Who do you say that Jesus is? As befits the prominent role he is being groomed for, Peter answers on behalf of the disciples – on behalf of the entire Church: You are the Christ [the Messiah, the Anointed One], the Son of the living God. Not only does Peter proclaim that Jesus is Israel’s hoped-for Messiah, but – in that site sacred to Pan, the son of Zeus – he proclaims Jesus as the Son of the living (that is, the one true) God.
Then, as now, Peter speaks for the Church – not just for his fellow apostles, but for all of us. In response, Jesus assures us that Peter’s profession of faith is not some mere human opinion, one option among many in the global religious marketplace, but a revelation from God – one which Peter himself, at that stage, still probably at best only poorly understood. From such a modest beginning in such an oddly out-of-the-way place, Peter’s profession of who Jesus is, has been the center of the Church’s proclamation – as Peter’s role has since likewise remained central to the Church’s identity and mission.
Fast forward to the baroque basilica built above Peter’s tomb, to where the current occupant of Peter’s office continues to speak - on behalf of the Church for the sake of the whole world. As the Successor of Peter, the Pope serves as the visible source of the unity of the Church across space and time. Across space, “people of every nation, culture, and tongue” (as we say in the Eucharistic Prayer) are “gathered as one,” so that “in a world torn by strife and discord,” we “may stand forth,” as a Universal Church, “as a sign of oneness and peace.” Such a unity across space is, in turn, uniquely possible because of the Church’s unity across time - our unity with Peter in his profession of faith in the Christ, the Son of the living God, whose own victory over death has definitively guaranteed that the gates of the netherworld shall not prevail against the Church. Our unity across time in professing the ancient apostolic faith of Peter, makes possible our present unity across space as Christ’s Church in the world, which in turn fosters – for both the Church and the world - our future hope for both space and time in the kingdom of heaven.

Homily for the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time, Immaculate Conception Church, Knoxville, TN, August 21, 2011

History

Last week in my post about the Berlin Wall, I remarked how the world of the Cold War era had more in common with the world of the 19th and earlier 20th centuries than with the present (despite the short lapse of time). I also opined that, while the “lessons” of that recent history should never be automatically or uncritically applied to the present, our current amnesia about history may be even more problematic. That all reminded me of some wise observations by the late Tony Judt in his 2008 essay “The World We Have Lost” (the Introduction to his final published collection of essays, Reappraisals: Reflections on the Forgotten Twentieth Century).
The key word in that title is "Forgotten." Reflecting on our contemporary alienation from history, Judt wrote [pp. 4-5]: “Whatever the shortcomings of the older national narratives once taught in school … they had at least the advantage of providing a nation with past references for present experience. Traditional history, as taught to generations of schoolchildren and college students, gave the present a meaning by reference to the past. … In our time, however, this process has gone into reverse. The past now has no agreed narrative shape of its own. It acquires meaning only by reference to our many and often contrasting present concerns. … What is significant about the present age of transformation is the unique insouciance with which we have abandoned not just the practices of the past … but their very memory. A world just recently lost is already half forgotten.”
It’s not just the Cold War, of course, that’s been virtually forgotten. There are people alive today who have never actually heard a dial tone. Our alienation from the recent past seems almost as complete as our alienation from the pre-industrial world Peter Laslett recalled in his 1965 classic (also provocatively titled The World We have Lost). It’s not technological change per se that is the issue, however, but rather the changed way we have come to experience the world. In the process, we seem to have forgotten fundamentals about why Western 20th-century societies organized themselves the way they did.
Of particular importance, because it seems so relevant to our present political malaise, is what (for lack of any more elegant term) I’ll call the 20th century nation-state’s democratic reconstruction of society. In that same 2008 essay, Judt observed [p. 21]: “We may discover, as [our 20th-century predecessors] did, that the collective provision of social services and some restriction upon inequalities of income and wealth are important economic variables in themselves, furnishing the necessary public cohesion and political confidence for a sustained prosperity.”