A God of Both: Tough Love and Unconditional Love

                    The Return of the Prodigal Son, by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, 1670

Tough Love and Unconditional Love

Then let us celebrate with a feast,
because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again;
he was lost, and has been found.’ (Luke 15:23-24)

 The Prodigal Son 

     Who hasn’t heard, or at least heard of, Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son?  I’ve encountered people with no experience of Christianity whatsoever who are familiar with the story of the profligate son and the forgiving father from Luke chapter 15. Jesus’ characters bring to life some universal human experiences.  Many of us have been the foolish, headstrong son.  We may also have grown up to be the father anxious for the return of his erring offspring.  Let’s not overlook the resentful “good” brother.  All of us have probably played more than one of these roles at some point in our own lives.

     It’s not surprising that Jesus’ story has become so well known.  There’s something for everyone there, and many levels of meaning. As it happens, the Parable of the Prodigal Son was this past Sunday’s Gospel reading.  When I heard it along with the other readings for the 4th Sunday in Lent, it got me thinking. Specifically, it brought to mind the concept of tough love.

 

 Tough Love 

   The activist Bill Milliken first popularized the term “tough love” in 1968.  Milliken had spent a lot of time working with addicts. He had found that often the best approach was not to shield them from the consequences of their bad choices.  Once they had made themselves truly miserable, they were ready to get serious about turning their lives around. Milliken famously characterized the attitude of tough love as:

 

I don’t care how this makes you feel toward me. You may hate my guts, but I love you, and I am doing this because I love you.

 

     Tough love has enjoyed something of a mixed reception over the years.  Many supporters point out, correctly, that individuals intent on following an immoral or self-destructive course generally don’t want to change. Very often they won’t change until the pain their actions cause themselves become unbearable. When we indulge them in order to keep on friendly terms, we’re actually enabling their ruinous behavior.

 

 Unconditional Love 

   Critics point out in turn, with some justification, that a strong relationship of trust and love is the most essential thing.  Without such a relationship, the tough love approach is likely to do more harm than good. We will simply drive the suffering person away.

     The 4th Sunday of Lent’s scripture readings suggest that we need a robust mixture of both approaches. We see the love, for instance, in the reading from from St. Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians:

 

And all this is from God,
who has reconciled us to himself through Christ
and given us the ministry of reconciliation,
namely, God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ,
not counting their trespasses against them
and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. (2 Corinthians 5:18-19)

                    Manna From Heaven, by Giovanni Battista Naldini, 16th century

 

 Manna No More 

     The word reconciliation, however, implies a prior separation.  How does that separation happen?  Take a look at the first reading from Joshua (Joshua 5:10-12). The Hebrews are ready, after forty years in the wilderness, to enter the Promised Land.  During that forty years God has fed his people with divine food, manna from Heaven.

     No longer.  From now on the Hebrews will need to feed themselves from the “produce of the land.”  God has built up a relationship of trust and love with them over four decades.  He has fed them in much the same way parents feed their children.  Now they need to take up adult responsibility.

     We know from the books that follow Joshua in the Old Testament that they did not always exercise that responsibility wisely.  As a consequence, all the Hebrews eventually suffer subjugation by foreign powers, and exile from the Promised Land. Most of the tribes never return.  It’s a harsh lesson.  The members of the tribes of Judah, Benjamin, and Levi who do return, however, have learned the bitter lessons of defeat and exile.  They recommit themselves more deeply to the relationship their ancestors enjoyed with their loving Creator.  Eventually, the Divine Savior is born in their midst.

 

  Rock Bottom

 

The Prodigal Son Abandoned, by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo, c. 1660

   This same dynamic plays out vividly in the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke, 15:1-3; 11-32).  A young man takes advantage of his father’s love, and demands to receive his inheritance immediately.  He then goes out on his own, and wantonly squanders his inheritance. Bad choice. He eventually needs to take a job feeding another man’s pigs just to keep from starving to death.  He finally “hits rock bottom” and decides to change his life.  The repentant son knows that he has destroyed his claim to sonship.  At the same time, because of the love and respect he has for his father, he trusts that his father will treat him with compassion.

     For his part, the father allows his son to face the consequences of his actions. He doesn’t intervene when the young man is “swallowing up his property with prostitutes,” as the resentful elder brother puts it.  Nor does he come to rescue him from the pigsty.  The father knows that his son won’t truly understand how bad his choices have been until he faces the full consequences of his actions.  It’s only then that he will freely commit himself the right path.

 

 The Father is Waiting 

     Once the son does finally understand, and decides to turn his life around, the father is waiting.  Not only is he waiting, he’s actively on the look-out.  The eager father “ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him.” He restores the son to his place in the family, and throws a big feast in celebration.

     The readings from the 4th Sunday of Lent show us a Father who fully embraces tough love, but who is also fully committed to an unconditionally loving relationship. A full commitment to both may seem impossible for us, “but with God all things are possible” (Matthew 19:26).  He gives us complete freedom to choose our own course.  We are free to choose against his wishes.  We are free even to choose the eternal desolation of Hell.

 

 Joy in Heaven 

     But He wants us to choose to come to Him, all of us (1 Timothy 2:4).  Once we make that choice He will not only welcome us, He’ll come to meet us. He’ll throw a feast in our honor. As Jesus himself says, “there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance” (Luke 5:7).

     In a post earlier this week (“Our Goal is The Resurrection: Ain’t No Grave“) I suggested that we could look at the Season of Lent as representing our time of exile in this fallen world.  The 4th Sunday of Lent, Laetare Sunday, is a reminder in the midst of that exile that God has promised us a new life of eternal joy, if we persevere.  We might be feeling the tough love right now, but our Father is more than willing to come and welcome us on the road home.

 

 

Our Goal is the Resurrection: Ain’t No Grave

Our Goal is the Resurrection

Rejoice, Jerusalem, and all who love her. Be joyful, all who were in mourning;

exult and be satisfied at her consoling breast.  (Introit for the 4th Sunday of Lent)

 

Our Goal is Almost in Sight

     Why rejoice in the middle of Lent?  Isn’t Lent a solemn and penitential season? And haven’t we banned Allelu . . . um, I mean the “A Word”  until the Easter Vigil? What’s up with Laetare Sunday?

     Good question.  Yesterday’s mass opened with the introit at the top of the post, which comes from Isaiah 66:10.  The first word of the introit in Latin is laetare, “rejoice,” for which reason we have long called the fourth Sunday Laetare Sunday.  On this particular Sunday a priest may wear rose colored vestments (which can look suspiciously like pink to those who are not in the know). It does seem out of place in the middle of Lent.

     The primary reason for the (admittedly, subdued) theme of rejoicing on the fourth Sunday of Lent is as a reminder of where we’re heading.  We have just passed the midpoint of the penitential season. The Church is reminding us that our goal, the joy of the Resurrection at Easter, is almost in sight.  Don’t lose hope!

A Distant Glimpse of Heaven

     As always, we can find other levels of meaning.  We can look at Lent, for instance, as representing our time of exile in this world. Here we “dwell in the world, yet are not of the world,” as the Letter to Diognetus puts it. The joy-tinged reminder of our goal that we encounter on Laetare Sunday is like the promise of Hope that we find in the Revelation of Jesus Christ.  The flash of rose against somber purple is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1).  It’s a distant glimpse of Heaven amidst the gloom of our fallen world.

     I chose today’s musical selection with that idea In mind. This is a little unlike my usual music posts.  Ok, it’s a lot unlike my usual music posts. A gospel song with banjo, guitars, and mandolin is a clear contrast to the usual classical pieces.  Kind of like the difference between bright rose pink and dark purple.  In any case, I like the evocative way this song expresses our longing for Resurrection and for the Presence of Jesus as we experience the darkness that surrounds us in this life. Not only that, it really rocks.

Ain’t No Grave Gonna Hold My Body Down

This performance is from the Southern Gospel Revival Series.  Jamie Wilson sings lead and plays the banjo. Courtney Patton, Drew Kennedy, Ben Hester, Marty Durlam, and Jesse Fox are the backing musicians.

[feature image at top of post from pixabay.com]

Gabriel’s Annunciation and Mary’s Renunciation

                    Detail from The Annunciation, from the main altarpiece in Avila cathedral, by Juan de Borgoña, early 1500s

 

Therefore the Lord himself will give you this sign:
the virgin shall be with child, and bear a son,
and shall name him Emmanuel,
which means “God is with us!”    (Isaiah 7:14)

 

Gabriel’s Annunciation

 

     There’s something that doesn’t seem to make sense at first in today’s Gospel reading (Luke 1:26-38).  Here’s the scene.  God sends the Angel Gabriel

 

to a town of Galilee called Nazareth,
to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph,
of the house of David,
and the virgin’s name was Mary.

 

The angel brings incredible news.  He greets the young woman as “full of grace,” and tells her that she has “found favor with God.”  He then goes on to say:

 

Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall name him Jesus. He will be great and will be called Son of the Most High,
and the Lord God will give him the throne of David his father, and he will rule over the house of Jacob forever, and of his Kingdom there will be no end.

 

Now, it’s no surprise that her first reaction isn’t “Great! Thanks for telling me!”  But what she does say is, in its way, even more surprising:

 

“How can this be, since I have no relations with a man?”

 

Do you see the disconnect? She doesn’t object that she’s an insignificant maiden and that her child couldn’t possibly “be called the son of the Most High.”  Nor does she express any surprise at her offspring ruling over the House of Jacob as the heir of King David. Her first response is “How can this be, since I have no relations with a man.”

A Different Life

 

The Wedding Procession of Mary, by Giotto, 1303

    It’s not what we would expect. The Evangelist has just told us that she’s “betrothed to a man named Joseph.”  A young woman who’s about to be married would expect to conceive a child, especially back in the day when there were no contraceptives, and no Planned Parenthood to “take care of” an inconvenient baby. And yet, it’s not the exalted future predicted for her child, but the very fact of conceiving a baby that concerns Mary.

     Scholars have traditionally seen this apparent incongruity as consistent with the perpetual virginity of Mary.  Her response makes sense if she has taken a vow of virginity, and her betrothed has already agreed to live “as brother and sister” with his wife. Such a commitment would indeed seem to stand in the way of conceiving and bearing a son.

     Gabriel’s Annunciation, then, means that Mary has a very different life ahead than what she planned for herself.  God’s messenger is offering all the tribulations of motherhood without the compensations of a full marital relationship with her child’s father.  But that’s not what troubles Mary.  Compare her response to what Ahaz says in the first reading from Isaiah.  God instructs Ahaz to ask for sign. Ahaz answers, “I will not ask! I will not tempt the LORD!” Mary, in contrast, doesn’t refuse: she just doesn’t understand.

     Gabriel is happy to explain further:

 

“The Holy Spirit will come upon you,
and the power of the Most High will overshadow you.
Therefore the child to be born
will be called holy, the Son of God.”

 

Mary’s Renunciation

 

After that, satisfied that bearing this son is God’s will for her, Mary completely turns over her own will. In response to Gabriel’s Annunciation she replies:

 

     “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord.
May it be done to me according to your word.”

Pope St. Paul VI

   The Vulgate Latin Bible renders Mary’s answer: fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum. We call this response”Mary’s Fiat,” from its first word, fiat, “let it be done.”  Mary willingly gives up anything and everything she has planned for herself, in order to follow God’s plan. Because of the completeness of her surrender to God, we consider her the model Christian believer.  As Pope St. Paul VI put it, she “displayed the perfect form of a disciple of Christ” (perfectam Christi discipuli formam expressit).

     Today’s feast is called The Solemnity of the Annunciation. But in addition to Gabriel’s Annunciation, it also entails a Renunciation on the part of Mary.  That is to say, when Gabriel announced God’s plan for her, Mary freely renounced all her plans for herself.  All generations call her blessed (see Luke 1:48) precisely because her renunciation opened the door for the Divine Savior.

Making Mary Our Model

 

Mary’s renunciation also gives us a helpful way of looking at the disciplines of Lent.  We give up things we want, things that may even be good in themselves, to train ourselves in renunciation.  At some point God will make his plan for our lives known to us.  When he does, how much better if we can follow the example of Christ’s Blessed Mother and say: fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum.

 

More Than a Building: A Church is Much, Much More

More Than a Building:

                    Red Mass at the Basilica of St.s Peter and Paul, Lewiston, Maine (https://www.sunjournal.com/)

  Christ is Our Model in All Things  

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God . . . And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us . . . (John 1:1,4)

 

     Any truly Christian anthropology needs to start with the Gospel of John, chapter 1.  The incorporeal Eternal Word, the second Person of the Holy Trinity, takes on human flesh and lives a material existence in the world. In a similar (albeit limited and human way) we are composed not only of flesh and blood, but also an immaterial soul that God has created to last for eternity, for an immeasurable time after our earthly bodies are gone. In this, as in other things, Christ is our model.

     One consequence of our body/soul composition is that we need tangible things to help us grasp abstract or spiritual realities.  That’s why Jesus taught with parables, and with images such as the mustard seed, or salt that has lost its savor.  For the same reason we use spoken prayers, liturgical gestures, sacred music and art, and a whole range of sacramentals.  No doubt Jesus chooses to use Sacraments as a means of bestowing Grace for this reason as well.

     Needless to say, it follows that church buildings are also an important means of communicating, in a nonverbal and non rational way, the truths of the faith.  I touched on this idea in last year’s piece, “Has Tradition become a Dirty Word?” I’m returning today to an article I published a number of years ago.  I discuss these issues in the context of a particular church, the beautiful Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul in Lewiston, Maine.

The Basilica: a Beacon on a Hill

Basilica of St.s Peter and Paul, Lewiston, Maine (ladphotography.com)

     Many a visitor to the old textile city of Lewiston, Maine, experiences surprise when, driving through a run-down neighborhood of shabby old New England triple-decker tenements, he suddenly finds an enormous and beautiful church looming over him.  This is the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, formally consecrated in 1938.

   Its location is not at all as incongruous as it might at first seem. It was the most natural thing in the world for the inhabitants of those cheap apartment houses to put all their extra money and effort into building the most magnificent church possible. At the time, the parishioners were mostly French Canadian immigrants who had come to Lewiston to work in the dark red-brick mills that lined the Androscoggin River.

     And yes, it was those poor laborers, not wealthy benefactors or (Heaven forbid) government grants, that built the Basilica.   “Religion is the opiate of the people” is not the least foolish of the foolish things Karl Marx said.  Opiates deaden the soul and weigh down the limbs: nobody pushes themselves to the limit to build monuments to those.  No, the Faith these humble workers brought with them from Quebec didn’t numb them into acquiescence, it gave them real assurance that they had something worth working toward: admittance to the presence of the living God.

 More Than a Building: Enormous Sacramentals 

     And so naturally it was a Church that they chose as the focus of their devotion.  Churches are much more than just buildings.  They are enormous sacramentals, consecrated objects that can help connect us to the Grace of a God who is pure Spirit. Churches are iconic representations that teach us at an unconscious level about an ordered Universe with God at the apex . . . or at least they used to be.  They are also places closely connected to some of the deepest experiences of our lives, such as baptisms, weddings and funerals.  Finally, they are places that gather communities together.  Sometimes families and communities build these connections over many generations.  That’s why the closing of a church is so much more traumatic than the closing of a movie theater, for instance, or a department store.  The local church is, for most people, their concrete connection to transcendent realities.

                    Current Portland Bishop Robert Deeley (far right) attends a Traditional Latin Mass at the Basilica (https://latinmassme.com/)

     The Basilica of Peter and Paul, fortunately, is still going strong. It no longer draws its community, however, mostly from the immediate neighborhood.  People have come from miles away to attend Mass in the Extraordinary Form every Sunday since 2008.  That’s when then-Bishop Richard Malone designated it as one of two churches (the other being the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Portland) to host a new Latin Mass Chaplaincy.  There is also a Mass in the Ordinary Form celebrated with a reverence that draws worshipers from a wide area, and a French language Mass that is very well attended by French speakers from all over southern Maine.   Many other churches, to the great sorrow of parishioners who have been orphaned, have not been so lucky.

 The New, New Evangelization 

     It’s in that connection that this post on Fr. Z’s blog (here), about parishioners in Buffalo who have enlisted the Vatican’s help in their attempts to keep their parish open, first caught my eye.  Buffalo Bishop Richard Malone is the same man who, as Bishop of Portland, helped keep the Basilica thriving. Here, he comes off as the Bad Guy of the piece.*  As it happens, Bishop Malone also oversaw the closing of many parishes in Maine, a practice he seems to have continued in Buffalo. Unfortunately, that appears to be one of the first lessons they teach in Bishop School these days. In any case, Fr. Z’s post made me wonder.  Would it have made a difference if some of those other parishes had thought to appeal to the Pope?

     There are bigger questions, of course.  Fr. Z asks:

What sort of faith in an effort of “New Evangelization” do we evince if, while chattering about it, we are closing the churches we need to fill in the very places where the “New Evangelization” needs to be pursued?

 More Like Evangelists 

Saints Peter and Paul Basilica towers over Lewiston, ME. Franco Center (formerly St. Mary’s Church) in foreground. (photo http://www.danmarquisphotography.com/)

     That’s a good point.  Today, all those triple-deckers around the Basilica in Lewiston still overflow with people.  The difference is, they are no longer (mostly) people who actually attend the church that dominates their neighborhood. We can say the same of many churches we are decommissioning.  The populations around them are (mostly) as large as when the churches boasted full congregations every Sunday. The difference is, they aren’t making up for the shortfall with people from further afield. And, yes, bishops and their staffs around the country should certainly learn to think more like Evangelists and less like Administrators.  We lay Catholics, also, (and I include myself) need to do our part. What more we can do to invite all those people on the outside into the Church? If earlier generations with fewer resources but great faith could build the basilicas, could we not at least put enough people in the pews?

 

*A few years later, sorry to say, Bishop Malone’s tenure in Buffalo ended very badly indeed.  Happily, that’s beyond the scope of this discussion.

The Spirit of Lent: Two Choruses from Handel’s Messiah

The Spirit of Lent

                    Flagellation of Christ, by Michael Pacher, c. 1495-98

Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows;  yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted.  But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with his stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5-4)

 Capturing the Spirit of Lent

     The Spirit of Lent is penitence and sorrow.  If I may state the obvious, penitence and sorrow are not a lot of fun.  Rewarding, salvific in fact, yes . . . but not a cause for joy until later, when we realize their fruits. Not surprisingly, composers creating music for Lent need to make music that’s moving and beautiful, but at the same time appropriately somber.

     As we saw in a previous post, George Friedrich Handel originally composed his oratorio The Messiah for Lent. Much of the music, however, is far too sumptuous for this most penitential of seasons, which is why we have come instead to associate Handel’s greatest work with Advent and Christmas. Nevertheless, the sections of the oratorio dealing with the Passion and Death of Christ powerfully capture the spirit of the liturgical season leading up to the Triduum and Good Friday.

Grief and Healing

Christ Carrying the Cross, by El Greco, c. 1580

     The selection below is a good example.  The first part is the chorus “Surely he hath borne our griefs,” a musical meditation on Isaiah 53, verse 4 and the first part of verse 5.  Handel’s libretto, following the King James translation of the Bible, reads:

 

Surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.
He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised.
The chastisement of our peace was upon him.

 

The second piece completes verse 5.  In a haunting fugue, the chorus repeats the line: “and with his stripes we are healed.”

     Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to find a clip on Vimeo containing both of them, although “With his stripes” comes immediately after “Surely he hath borne our griefs” in The Messiah. There are good performances of the two togeher on another platform.  Sadly, Google owns it, and I reject Google and all its works and empty promises. Well, as Hannibal said before leading his army across the Alps, Aut viam inveniam aut faciam! (“I’ll either find a way or I’ll make one”). I made my own video and posted it to the Vidyard platform.  The music is a perfomance by AD LIBITUM Orchestra and Chorus.  The images are Christ Carrying the Cross, by El Greco, painted c.1580, and the Flagellation of Christ, by Michael Pacher, c. 1495-98.

You’re Standing on Holy Ground

Detail from Landscape with Moses and the Burning Bush, by Domenico Zampieri, 1610-1616

 God said, “Come no nearer!
Remove the sandals from your feet,
for the place where you stand is holy ground. (Exodus 3:5)

 

  The Burning Bush

 

     I was fascinated by the image of the burning bush when I was a little boy.  I was also intrigued by God’s demand that Moses remove his sandals.  What exactly is “holy ground,” I wondered. How was this dirt different from the dirt twenty feet away?

      The meaning “holy” is well worth considering on this 3rd Sunday of Lent. What does it really mean? The word “holy” itself comes from an Old English word which means “separated” or “set aside for God.”  The synonym “sacred” is derived from a Latin word which means the same thing.  Both are used to translate the Hebrew word qadosh, whose literal meaning, according to the Ancient Hebrew Research Center, is “set apart for a special purpose.” The ground upon which Moses meets God is separated from ordinary ground, and so Moses needs to leave behind his ordinary footwear before he can stand on it. He mustn’t bring the worldly dust into the sacred precinct.  He needs to meet God on God’s terms, not his own.

 

 Sacred and Profane 

     While we don’t take our shoes off before we enter a church, the same principle applies to us as well. Our churches themselves are holy ground, of course.  They are formally consecrated, which comes from the same Latin word as “sacred.” They are set aside for God’s purposes. The same is true of the Mass itself.  It’s an action that’s set aside, separated, from the usual events of our lives.  The priest wears clothes for liturgical worship that he doesn’t wear anywhere else (and the rest of us don’t wear at all). We hear music that is different from ordinary music (or is supposed to be).  We also use a distinctive language.

     You can see this reality, by the way, in the word “profane,” which originally meant no more than “not sacred.”  It comes from the Latin words pro, in front of, and fanum, shrine. When the presiding priest was sacrificing the victim at the altar, the unconsecrated people remained outside of the sacred precinct.  They were literally in front of the shrine, pro fanum, rather than in it.

 

 Lent is Holy Ground 

     The season of Lent is also holy ground.  It is time set aside for a special purpose. Lent prepares us to relive the passion and death of Jesus, just as Moses’ time in the Sinai is preparing him to face Pharoah and the events of Passover.  And just as Moses leaves behind his sandals, and along with them the dirt of his everyday life, we also need to leave something behind. That’s one way, at least, of understanding the sacrifices and deprivations of Lent.

Sacred Space: blessing a new altar rail at St. Joseph Church in Macon, GA (https://unavoceofga.blogspot.com/2015/01/altar-rail-installed-at-latin-mass.html)

     There’s another message for us here, as well.  The purpose of religion isn’t to put God to work for us (as if such a thing were even possible). Religion is intended to reconnect us to Him (religio = “a binding back”), not the other way around. All the things that are “set aside” for God’s purposes  (sacraments, sacramentals, sacred space, sacred music, sacred language) are meant to draw us out of ourselves  and into His orbit.  A sacred space tells me I’m no longer on my own turf. Sacred language tells me that I’m no longer in my own world.  Sacred liturgy takes me out of myself.  It’s not about bringing God down to my level, it’s about lifting me closer to him.

 

  Take Off Your Sandals 

     And so it is with the Lent.  When we shed some of our worldly pleasures or pursuits during the penitential season, it is to remind us that we need to set aside our wordly disposition as well.  “If you do not repent,” Jesus tells us, “you will all perish as they did.” (Luke 13:5)  After all, we’re standing on holy ground.

 

 

St. Joseph: Steward of the King

The Dream of St. Joseph, by Juan de Borgona, c. 1535

St. Joseph and Joseph Son of Jacob

. . . He had sent a man ahead of them,

Joseph, who was sold as a slave.

His feet were hurt with fetters,

his neck was put in a collar of iron;

until what he had said came to pass

the word of the LORD tested him.

The king sent and released him,

the ruler of the peoples set him free;

he made him lord of his house,

and ruler of all his possessions (Psalm 105:17-21)

 

     The Joseph in the psalm passage above is, of course, Joseph the son of Jacob, not the Joseph whose feast we celebrate today.  Don’t worry, I’m not confusing one Joseph for another.  I’m beginning with this reading because there’s more to the comparison of the two than the same name.  In fact the comparison is very likely the whole point of the same name. “The New Testament in the Old is concealed,”  as St. Augustine said, “and in the New Testament the Old is revealed.”

Lord Over His House

     This is not something that I’ve heard discussed or explained. I’m sure someone discusses and explains it somewhere, however, because it’s in the Litany of St. Joseph.  There, just before the closing prayer, we find this verse and response:

 

V. He made him lord over his house,

R. And the ruler of all his possessions.

 

That’s a word-for-word borrowing from Psalm 105:21, written a millennium (give or take) before the birth of Jesus. Clearly, we are intended to make a comparison between the two men. Here’s what we find: the first Joseph came to Egypt as a slave, and because God gave him the ability to interpret dreams, he rose to become Pharoah’s right hand man (Genesis 41:15-44).  The second Joseph also obtained his position because of a dream, in his case one he dreamed himself.  As he was sleeping an angel of God came to him and said:

 

“Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit; she will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”(Matthew 1:20-21).

 

And so Joseph agreed to the marriage with Mary, and became the adoptive father of the Son of God.

                    Joseph Interpreting Pharoah’s Dream, by Reginald Arthur, 1894

Steward of the King

     The significant connection between the two Josephs, however, is not that they’re dreamers.  That’s not the detail that made its way from the Old Testament to the litany of the New Testament saint.  Rather, it’s the fact that both were chosen as stewards of a king.  Joseph Son of Jacob is actually a type, that is, a foreshadowing in the Hebrew Scriptures of someone or something that emerges in full with the coming of Christ.  Joseph son of Jacob serves a human king, but Joseph father of Jesus serves the King of all kings.

     I’d like to look a little closer at the idea of stewardship on this Feast of St. Joseph.  I referred above to St. Joseph as the “foster father” and the “adoptive father” of Jesus.  These are terms we often use to describe him. It might be more helpful, however, to think of Joseph as adopted rather than adopting.  An adoptee receives his father’s authority just as a natural born son would do.  Pharoah adopted Joseph the Patriarch when he passed on his kingly authority to him.  God likewise adopted St. Joseph and passed on his paternal authority to him. St. Joseph, in turn, passed it on to his own adopted son, who was also the natural born son of the supernatural Father in Heaven.

All Fathers are Stewards

     St. Joseph as steward puts flesh on St. Pauls admonition: “Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger, but bring them up in the discipline and instruction of the Lord.” (Genesis 6:4) The idea of stewardship means the children put into our care are our children, but they are God’s children first: “Behold, all souls are mine; the soul of the father as well as the soul of the son is mine.” (Ezekial 18:4)  Just as a steward is answerable to his king for his use of the authority given to him, we are answerable to our Lord for how we care for the children he has given to us. Our authority exists solely for their sake, to form them as God wants us to do, not to build up or to please ourselves.

     On the other hand, St. Joseph’s example also reminds us that, as stewards, we exercise real authority, since it doesn’t derive from our own worthiness, but from God the Father.  I’ve heard some parents say that they feel like hypocrites for warning their children against sins that they have committed themselves.  It’s not hypocrisy at all: that’s our job.  God determines what’s right and wrong.  We, as his stewards, simply pass it along.

Failure of Stewardship

The refusal of so many fathers to accept that authority, has profound negative consequences for individual children and society as a whole.  Children who grow up without fathers are much more likely to live in poverty:

Graph from fathers.com

Children from fatherless homes are also much more prone to a whole host of pathologies:

 

Graph from “Effects of Fatherlessness on Children’s Development,” The Marriage and Religion Research Institute (https://downloads.frc.org/EF/EF14K18.pdf)

     According to the Pew Research Center, 23% of children in the United States, almost 1 in 4, live in single parent households.  That’s higher than any other country in the world. Given the other statistics cited, that’s also disastrous news for those children individually, and for society as a whole. Clearly, it’s much better for us fathers to marry the mothers of our children and stay with the family.  But is that all we need to to do to fulfill the responsibilities of paternal stewardship?

     Again, no, that’s just the minimum requirement.  Consider one more statistic, derived from Swiss census information.* Researchers in Switzerland examined  the relationship between the parents’ church attendance and that of their children, and examined the different effects of the father’s religious practice (or lack thereof) and that of the mother. The researchers found that, however frequently or not the mother attended church, if the father of a family was not a churchgoer only 1 in 50 of the children attended as adults.  In families where the father did attend church regularly, at least 1 in 3 of the children were church attendees as adults.

The Prayer of a Righteous Man

    Whatever the conventional wisdom of our present gender bending world, mothers and fathers have separate but critically important tasks.  Mothers play a crucial role in the early development of children. Fathers, as the data above demonstrates, have a responsibility for teaching their sons and daughters how to connect to the world outside the home.  That paternal responsibility is not limited to helping them learn  how to navigate this present world. Fathers are also a living link between their children and the Father of fathers beyond this world.

     St. Joseph can serve much the same role for all of us.  He serves as a model of the paternal virtues of love, patience, self-sacrifice, and protection of his family.  He is also a powerful intercessor: as St. James reminds us, “The prayer of a righteous man has great power in its effects. ” (James 5:16) And after all, just as Egyptians could appeal to Pharoah’s steward Joseph, we can appeal to the steward of the King of Kings, Joseph Foster Father of Jesus.

 

V. He made him lord over his house,

R. And the ruler of all his possessions.

Let us pray.

O God, who in Thine ineffable providence didst vouchsafe to choose blessed Joseph to be the spouse of Thy most holy Mother: grant, we beseech Thee, that we may have him for an intercessor in heaven, whom we venerate as our protector on earth. Who livest and reignest world without end. Amen.

 

*details can be found in The demographic characteristics of national minorities in certain European states – Volume 2 (Population Studies No. 31) (2000).   

The Lorica of St. Patrick Is As Timely As Ever

The Lorica of St. Patrick

                    Window in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Armagh

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

As Timely As Ever:

Pious Tradition v. The “Experts”

   Pious tradition attributes authorship of the prayer above, known as “The Lorica (or “Breastplate”) of St. Patrick”, to the Apostle of Ireland himself.  As is the case with the beloved “Prayer of St. Francis”, experts tell us the eponymous Saint is most likely not the real author.  I myself trust Pious Tradition more than The Experts any day, but for our purposes here we’ll just say that it could have been written by St. Patrick.  In any case, while the prayer as you see it above is the most well-known version, it is really only a part of a much longer composition (I’ve put the full text at the bottom of this post).  At one time this magnificent prayer, in its complete form, was a part of my morning devotions every day.
     “The Breastplate of St. Patrick” is, in fact, written as a morning prayer, and more: it is a statement of faith, a brief but comprehensive catechesis, and a call for Divine help against the dangers that beset us from both earthly and spiritual sources.  Those things are as necessary today as they were in 5th century Ireland, and St. Patrick’s prayer is a powerful and inspiring way to start our daily journey.

“I Arise Today . . .”

     The complete “Breastplate” opens with “I arise today/Through a mighty strength, the invocation of Trinity . . .” St. Patrick is famous for his emphasis on the Trinity, reportedly using the tree-leafed shamrock to illustrate the doctrine (as memorialized in the present-day stained glass window from the cathedral in Armagh, his primatial see).  Here, he also emphasizes “the Oneness of the Creator of creation.”  In converting a pagan people, Patrick needed to impress upon them that there was indeed only one God, as distinct from their pagan pantheon, although expressed in three Persons.  The Triune God is also unlike their familiar gods in that He alone is the universal Creator, as opposed to pagan deities who were more powerful than mortal men, but still finite and fallible beings. In our own day we also need to be reminded that God is Love (1 John 4:8), and Love reaches its perfection in a union of persons, but also that God the Creator is master of all the blind forces of nature with which we wrestle.

                    St. Patrick Lighting the Paschal Fire on the Hill of Slane, 433, by Vincenzo Waldre, 1792

     The next “I arise today . . .” is followed by a brief Christology: incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection and descent to the Dead. We, no less than our newly-christened forefathers did, need to understand exactly Who and What is the God that we follow.
     A third “I arise today . . . .” is followed by a litany of various Angels, Patriarchs, Prophets, and Saints, which re-establishes for us that our devotion to the Person of Jesus Christ also connects us to all the lesser persons, living and dead, in the Communion of Saints.
     Next, “I arise today/Through strength of heaven,/the light of the sun . . .” and so on, through a list of natural forces which, St. Patrick here reminds us, come below us in the order of creation, and are so much the more under God’s power (how often we moderns forget both of these truths!).

God’s Providential Care

     After a fifth “I arise today . . .” we see a litany of the various manifestations of God’s Providential care:

     God’s strength to pilot me,
     God’s might to uphold me,
     God’s wisdom to guide me . . .

And so on. At the end of this section we shift our focus to the various evils that beset us:

     God’s host to save me
     From snares of devils,
     From temptation of vices,
     From everyone who shall wish me ill,
     Afar and near.

    In the next section we call for God’s help against these evils, which are laid out in more detail:

     I summon today
     All these powers between me and those evils,
     Against every cruel and merciless power
     That may oppose my body and soul,
     Against incantations of false prophets,
     Against black laws of pagandom,
     Against false laws of heretics,
     Against craft of idolatry,
     Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
     Against every knowledge that corrupts man’s body and soul.
     Christ shield me today
     Against poison, against burning,
     Against drowning, against wounding,
     So that there may come to me
     an abundance of reward.

Notice the priority given to spiritual evils, which Christians have traditionally understood to be far more serious dangers than the physical hazards at the end of the passage. Today we often ignore or even deride these deadly perils (as I discuss in my post “For Such a Time as This: Powers, Principalities & The Culture Wars“).

The Lorica

     At this point we come to the famous passage quoted at the top of this post (Christ with me,Christ before me, Christ behind me . . .), from which the prayer takes its name. Here we call upon Christ to surround us, to “armor” us, with his protection.
     Finally, the prayer ends by repeating the invocation with which it starts:

     I arise today,
     Through a mighty strength,
     The invocation of the Trinity,
     Through belief in the Threeness,
     Through confession of the Oneness
     Of the Creator of creation.


     As I read through this prayer, which was composed for ancient pagans who knew nothing of Christianity, I am struck by how well it is suited to our current post-Christian, neo-pagan culture. We shouldn’t kid ourselves.  Even with all the amazing gadgetry that we’ve concocted for ourselves over the centuries, we’re still subject to the same basic temptations and hazards that have always haunted humanity. We still could use the breastplate of Christ.

(See also “St. Patrick, Julius Caesar, and Slavery to Sin“)

Here’s a beautiful setting for St. Patrick’s prayer by contemporary composer Ola Gjeilo:

The Breastplate of St. Patrick:

I arise today

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of Christ’s birth with His baptism,
Through the strength of His crucifixion with His burial,
Through the strength of His resurrection with His ascension,
Through the strength of His descent for the judgment of doom.

I arise today
Through the strength of the love of cherubim,
In the obedience of angels, In the service of archangels,
In the hope of resurrection to meet with reward,
In the prayers of patriarchs,
In the predictions of prophets,
In the preaching of apostles, In the faith of confessors,
In the innocence of holy virgins,
In the deeds of righteous men.

I arise today through
The strength of heaven,
The light of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendor of fire,
The speed of lightning,
The swiftness of wind,
The depth of the sea,
The stability of the earth,
The firmness of rock.

I arise today through
God’s strength to pilot me,
God’s might to uphold me,
God’s wisdom to guide me,
God’s eye to look before me,
God’s ear to hear me,
God’s word to speak for me,
God’s hand to guard me,
God’s shield to protect me,
God’s host to save me
From snares of devils,
From temptation of vices,
From everyone who shall wish me ill,
afar and near.

God’s Providence

I summon today
All these powers between me and those evils,
Against every cruel and merciless power
that may oppose my body and soul,
Against incantations of false prophets,
Against black laws of pagandom,
Against false laws of heretics,
Against craft of idolatry,
Against spells of witches and smiths and wizards,
Against every knowledge that corrupts man’s body and soul.

The Lorica

Christ shield me today
Against poison, against burning,
Against drowning, against wounding,
So that there may come to me
an abundance of reward.

Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.

St. Patrick baptizing Irish king

Fear and Hope: Confutatis and Lacrimosa from Mozart’s Requiem

Fear and Hope are the twin themes of the “Confutatis and Lacrimosa” from Mozart’s Requiem.

                    The Last Judgment, by Michelangelo, 1536-1541

If thou, O LORD, shouldst mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand?

But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.

I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope . . . (Psalm 130:3-5)

 

Fear and Hope

     Fear and hope power this short musical piece. While it’s not strictly speaking a Lenten composition, Mozart’s Requiem Mass, which he was still completing at the time of his death, lends itself to the penitential nature of the liturgical season.  This excerpt (“Confutatis and Lacrimosa”), part of the setting for Thomas of Celano’s great hymn Dies Irae, looks ahead to the Final Judgment.  Here, Mozart’s music powerfully complements the words of the hymn: we can almost feel what it’s like to be unworthy sinners approaching the Throne of God to throw ourselves upon his Mercy (which, indeed, we are).

     I didn’t choose the clip below because it is the most polished performance on the web. Instead, I liked the way this ensemble captures Mozart’s vivid dramatization of the struggle between fear and hope. The male voices and the pounding, insistent strings in the “Confutatis” section powerfully evoke our fear of damnation.  The plaintive female voices in the “Lacrimosa” express our hope in God’s mercy and the promise of salvation.

     It’s a short piece.  Take a couple of minutes here in the second week of Lent to meditate on the Drama of Salvation along with one of the great musical masters, Wolfgang Mozart.

Latin and English Text

Confutatis maledictis,
flammis acribus addictis,
voca me cum benedictis.
Oro supplex et acclinis,
cor contritum quasi cinis,
gere curam mei finis.

     When the wicked are confounded,
     and consigned to bitter flames,
     call me among the blessed.
     I pray humble and downcast,
     my heart worn down like ash,
     take up the care of my end.

Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus,
pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.

     That day,full of tears,
     when from the ashes shall arise,
     Man, the accused to be judged.
     Have mercy on him, therefore, O God,
     faithful Lord Jesus,
     grant them eternal rest. Amen

2nd Sunday of Lent: Keep Your Eyes on the Prize

 2nd Sunday of Lent:

 

2nd Sunday of Lent: What is the Goal?

    One of the first things a new teacher learns is that you need to start with a clear idea of where you want to end up.  If we’re not clear on what we want our students to learn, then our efforts will be misdirected and wasted. When we plan our lessons, we choose activities and resources that are most likely to bring our students to that outcome. Not only that, we need to stay focused on that outcome as we progress through the lesson.

     But that’s not all.  I remember very clearly my first day as a teacher some three and a half decades ago. One of the religious brothers for whom I was working told me: “Always remember, take your students where they are right now, then bring them up to where you want them to be.”  We need to start with the real world, not our ideal reality.  We need to recognize the true state of affairs.

 

Look to the Stars

     Today’s readings do something of the same thing. In the first reading from Genesis (15:5-12, 17-18).  The Lord has taken Abram, who is elderly and childless, out to show him the stars.  

 

“Look up at the sky and count the stars, if you can.

Just so,” he added, “shall your descendants be.” 

 

God also promises Abram the possession of the land in which he is living, to which he has come as a dispossessed stranger. Abram asks the Lord:

 

“O Lord GOD,” he asked,

“how am I to know that I shall possess it?”

 

God directs him to offer up a curious sacrifice which involves cutting the bodies of the victims in two and leaving a space between them.  Having done so, Abram waits patiently for God to act.  His patience is rewarded by a supernatural breaking through of Divine Power when a fire appears and passes between the split carcasses of the animals. This manifestation of God’s power is a sign to Abram that his patience will be rewarded.

                    Detail from The Transfiguration, by Raphael, 1516-1520

The Transfiguration 

    The Gospel reading for the 2nd Sunday of Lent also involves a breaking through of the Divine Promise into the world of the here and now. Luke describes the Transfiguration of Jesus on Mt. Tabor (9:28b-36).  The glimpse of the Glorified Christ, accompanied by Moses and Elijah, is a powerful promise to Peter, John, and James of a much greater reality toward which they are working.  But here we also see a warning: the Glorified Jesus is talking to Moses and Elijah “of his exodusthat he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.”  That is, his Passion and death. The Transfiguration is not a reality, yet, for Jesus’ disciples.  There is still the Mystery of the Cross.

     The first and last readings remind us of the objective, the “where we want to go.”  The second reading, from St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians (3:17—4:1), reminds us of the reality from which we’re starting out:

 

For many, as I have often told you

and now tell you even in tears,

conduct themselves as enemies of the cross of Christ.

Their end is destruction.

Their God is their stomach;

their glory is in their “shame.”

Their minds are occupied with earthly things.

 

The God of Our Stomach

     That is, to some degree, all of us. We all face the temptations of the “god” of our “stomach,” which represents our appetites, not just for food, put for earthly pleasures, possessions and powers.  If we let those things be our gods, and therefore set our goals, our end can only be destruction.

     St. Paul offers us instead the divine objection we see more vividly in the other readings:

 

But our citizenship is in heaven,

and from it we also await a savior, the Lord Jesus Christ.

He will change our lowly body

to conform with his glorified body . . .

 

     The disciplines of Lent are intended to give us a concrete reminder that we need to say “no” to the god of our stomach.  The few brief weeks of the penitential season represent the brief span of our life here in this world.  Today, when we are still near the beginning of our Lenten journey, we are reminded of the glorious goal that lies at the end . . . if we persevere.  We need the patience and faith of Abram, and we need to keep our eyes on the prize.