Reflection for March 4, 2012

Despite the Transfiguration they saw no one but Jesus.

Today’s Gospel about the Transfiguration of Jesus offers us an insight into what happens when faith is awakened and later subsides, when what is a profound understanding of our Catholic tradition becomes shallow due to routine, familiarity. Peter, James and John are lifted to a vision of Jesus in all his significance – resplendent with meaning, set against the rich background of the Old Testament in the persons of Moses and Elijah. And then, when they come off that high, what happens? The radiance is gone; they no longer see anyone but Jesus – un-transfigured, the too, too familiar figure of routine piety, a plaster saint.

Beware of spiritual, mental shallowness. In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic, The Great Gatsby, which tells of the Roaring Twenties, the Jazz Age - the Lost Generation of the 1920’s - shallow characters abound. There’s the description of parties at Gatsby’s mansion that last from 9 in the morning to well past midnight, hundreds of guests coming and going – who don’t even know Gatsby. It’s a generation adrift from old traditions, excited about easy money, booze, good times – shallow. People become ecstatic over someone they have never met before and then pass on to some other novel experience. Phony.

In one scene Nick, the narrator of the story, walks into the mansion’s grand library, there to find a solitary fellow, a bit loaded, excited about something. Nick inquires and the fellow says, “What do you think?” “About what?” replies Nick. “About that . . . They’re real.” Nick again replies, “The books?” The fellow nods. “Absolutely real – have pages and everything. I thought they’d be a nice durable cardboard. Matter of fact, they’re absolutely real. Pages and – Here! Lemme show you . . . See! It’s a bona fide piece of printed matter . . . What thoroughness! What realism! Knew when to stop, too – didn’t cut the pages. But . . . What do you expect?”

I once knew a man who worked in a bookstore in Manhattan who told me wealthy people would come in and ask for four yards of red, six yards of blue . . . meaning yards of books of the same color for decorative reasons. Not to be read but only seen as symbols not sources of wisdom. How many Christians have a similar decorative interest in the Gospels and the deeper regions of our Christian tradition – pages uncut?

Shallowness. A dangerous thing. There is another character in The Great Gatsby named Tom Buchanan – a wealthy jock, star football player in his Harvard days, has a string of polo ponies, bored stiff with his wife and with his girlfriends, nostalgic for his playing days. Dangerous. An empty mind, starved for intellectual exercise, is susceptible to the first book one reads – and in Tom’s case it’s a diatribe about “The Rise of the Colored Empires”. Now at last he has something to think about – a threat to civilization, to his wealth, to occupy his vacant mind. A single issue takes over – he is obsessed with this one book – and moreover now thinks he is smart, possessed of an “intellectual” vantage point from which to judge society as a whole.

Lent is a season when the Church encourages us to deepen our understanding of Scripture, of the Eucharist, of the profound meaning of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, of the relevance of all this to the deepening of our understanding of who and where and why we are in this world. Don’t let the opportunity pass without cutting a few pages of the sacred heritage you hold in your hands.

Reflection for February 19, 2012

September 3, 1943 – The Allies land at Salerno to liberate Italy from its Fascist regime.

September 9, 1943 – I enter the minor seminary of the Franciscan friars at Graymoor, N.Y.

September 30, 1943 – Pope Pius XII promulgates his encyclical Divino Afflante Spiritu.

February 22, 2012 – The Gospel for this Sunday tells of stretcher-bearers breaking through a roof to lower a paralytic to where Jesus is teaching and healing.

That encyclical of Pius XII is the Magna Carta of Catholic biblical scholarship. After centuries of reading Scripture off the surface of the page the Pope ordered scholars to embrace modern methods of releasing the original sense of the writers which may have been lost over time - the Bible being well close to 3000 years old. So listen to what he has to say: Let the interpreter with all care and without neglecting any light derived from recent research, endeavor to determine the peculiar character and circumstances of the sacred writer, the age in which he lived, the sources written or oral to which he had recourse and the forms of expression he employed . . . What is the literal sense of a passage is not always as obvious in the speeches and writings of the ancient authors of the East . . . The interpreter must, as it were, go back wholly in spirit to those remote centuries of the East and with the aid of history, archaeology, ethnology, and other sciences, accurately determine what modes of writing . . . the authors of that ancient period would be likely to use, and in fact did use. For the ancient peoples of the East, in order to express their ideas, did not always employ those forms or kinds of speech, which we use today.

Supported by this encouragement Catholic biblical scholars ever since have raised to consciousness so much of the Bible that was obscure in prior times – with the result that our appreciation of our heritage can come alive with new insights regarding old beliefs.

Not that the early Church was not aware of the depths of Scripture. Why just the other day the official prayer book of the Church cited the 4^th century St. Ephrem: Lord, who can comprehend even one of your words? We lose more of it than we grasp, like those who drink from a living spring . . . Within it he has buried many treasures . . . And so whenever anyone discovers some part of the treasure, he should not think that he has exhausted God’s word . . . So let this spring quench your thirst, and not your (limited) thirst the spring.

Today’s Gospel reading supports such an effort on your part. The four stretcher-bearers couldn’t get close to Jesus with their paralyzed friend. He was surrounded by mere onlookers and then by scribes with only a legalist sense of Scripture. So what did they do? They went up to the roof of the house, dug out the ceiling, and lowered their friend into the direct presence of Jesus – who healed him of both his sins and his paralysis!

Which is what Pope Pius was asking Catholic scholars to do: dig down deeper into Scripture and thereby bring paralyzed people closer to Christ. As for my own inclusion in the dated events of September 1943 – little did I know then that one day I would be sent on to study Scripture in the manner decreed by Pope Pius XII and find my own assisted way down into the depths of that house where Jesus awaits to heal us all. In closing let me ask: when did you last give some serious time to a course on Scripture?

Reflection for February 12, 2012

Comedy is not anarchic; it is a defender of a more human order. William Lynch S.J.

Many years ago, as I sat among 300 other seminarians in the large amphitheatre classroom of the Gregorian University in Rome listening to a lecture by Fr. Tromp on the nature of the Trinity, I caught - out of the corner of my eye - some movement in the balcony which stretched along the front of the hall and over the high dais and lectern where Father Tromp was speaking. Now you have to realize these 300 seminarians came from every nation under the sun. There were Germans in red cassocks (possibly including a fellow now known as Benedict XVI), Frenchmen in blue sashes, Scots in the color of heather, Brazilians in green piping, Africans and Asians, all of whom were wearily trying to follow Fr. Tromp’s monotonous discourse.

But obviously they too saw what I saw, for now all eyes were raised to that balcony where the figure of an American seminarian had sidled along until he stood directly over the unsuspecting Fr. Tromp. This seminarian then produced a cup of soapy water and a bubble pipe and began to do you know what. Just at that moment Fr. Tromp had lifted his head and hand to make a point when down before him there fell a continuous flow of glistening, rainbow hued bubbles. He paused, looked up. Then the whole chamber roared with laughter. That seminarian had brought us all down to earth – having probably been inspired by the Trinity itself to do so, since Fr. Tromp was having a terrible time explaining it to us in the first place.

There were other such incidents – as when in the midst of a lecture on the Church in that same vast amphitheatre a groveling Capuchin friar carrying an armful of books came in late, slamming the door. As he passed right in front of the lecturer, he dropped all the books on the floor and spent all of what seemed forever trying to gather them up – only to drop the armful twice more with much clatter before reaching his seat high in the hall’s back row. We learned later that he was not a Capuchin friar at all but some wag from the English College dressed like a Capuchin - out to break up the monotony of the class.

Breaking the monotony! That’s what humor does, nor do I think we fully realize the redemptive importance of such humor in our lives. Of course, I don’t mean ridicule, for ridicule is not funny but the product of a mean streak characteristic of people too serious for their own good, like Bible-thumpers, ideologues and snide fellows posing as stand up comedians. And why are they inclined to ridicule? Because they’ve got everything figured out. Monotonously “correct” in their assessment of life, they have no compassion for its often hilarious complexity.

In the Gospels for February Jesus insists on going about healing, delivering Good News, “tidings of joy” to people far and wide; to shower a world of Pharisaical religion with rainbow-hued bubbles as did my seminarian friend of long ago. He came to initiate a Divine Comedy, bring joy to the faces of the oppressed. But he ran into resistance from the more sober scribes of this day, even at times from his disciples. And so what was meant to be a Divine Comedy ended in tragedy. A humorless world unamused by the mercy, the magnanimity of Christ would expel him from the amphtheatre of this world.

Except, come Easter, we shall all know who had the last laugh!

Reflection for February 5, 2012

The Blue Mesa

I’ve never been to Mesa Verde (the Green Mesa or Table) in Colorado – but I have recently been to the Blue Mesa (a fictional version of Mesa Verde) in Willa Cather’s novel The Professor’s House. Like the actual Mesa Verde (which is now a national park) Cather’s Blue Mesa was a prominent feature of the flat landscape of the Southwest. It jutted up, “a pile of purple rock, all broken out with red sumach and yellow aspens up in the high crevices of the cliffs.” Thus it appeared to a young cowpoke named Tom Outland and his sidekick as they grazed cattle in the region over several months. “The mesa was our only neighbor (he wrote), and the closer we got to it, the more tantalizing it was.” Even their cattle were seduced by it – for other cattle had crossed over to it in the past to become permanent strays amid its upper recesses.

He goes on to write: “It was light up there long before it was with us . . . the mesa top would be red with sunrise, and all the slim cedars along the rocks would be gold – metallic, like tarnished gold-foil.” As evening approached “the sunset color would begin to stream up from behind it. Then the mesa was like one great black-ink rock against a sky on fire. No wonder the thing bothered us and tempted us; it was always before us, and was always changing. Black thunder-storms used to roll up from behind it and pounce on us like a panther without warning. The lightning would play round it and jab into it . . . I’ve never heard thunder so loud as it was there. The cliffs threw it back at us, and we thought the mesa itself, though it seemed solid, must be full of deep canyons and caverns, to account for the . . . growl and rumble that followed each crash of thunder.” It makes you understand why God drew the ancient Israelites into the Sinai desert to snap them out of their nostalgia for the fleshpots of Egypt.

But that was not all. Tom went climbing into the canyons of the mesa. “I was soon in a warm sweat . . . In stopping to take a breath, I happened to glance up at the canyon wall. I wish I could tell you what I saw there, just as I saw it . . . through a veil of lightly falling snow. Far above me, a thousand feet or so, set in a great cavern in the face of the cliff, I saw a little city of stone, asleep. It was like a sculpture . . . pale little houses of stone nestling close to one another, perched on top of each other . . . narrow windows . . . a round tower.” It was red in color – or like winter oak-leaves. Silent, in immortal repose. The village “sat looking down into the canyon with the calmness of eternity.”

Soon Tom, his companion and a friend named Father Duchene studied the place – found artifacts spanning perhaps 800 years of habitation, which revealed the inhabitants (according to Fr. Duchene) to have been a provident people. “There is evidence on every hand that they lived for something more than food and shelter . . . I see them here making their mesa more and more worthy to be a home for man, purifying life by religious ceremonies . . . entertaining some feelings of affection and sentiment for this stronghold . . .” Indeed, says the priest, as they advanced as human beings they “declined in the arts of war, in brute strength and ferocity.” (Could that be why they disappeared a thousand years ago?) Willa Cather became an Episcopalian in her mature years and was sympathetic to Catholicism – so that I wouldn’t be surprised if for her the novel’s Blue Mesa were a metaphor of the Church in some ideal way – a nest within which a sane, productive, creative humanity might grow – at least in its innermost recesses. Even today – in that sense of a sane, peaceful humanity nurtured upon the grace of God – it seems hidden to many people behind a formidable façade. But to those of us, who share Tom Outland’s curiosity about its innermost recesses, the arduous trek to its grottoed City of God continues to entice us.

Reflection forn for January 29, 2012

It takes a while

Everyone must remember that story about young Francis Bernardone who, while reconsidering his profligate life, paid a visit to a run down chapel outside Assisi in Italy, knelt to pray before a painted crucifix and thought he heard Christ’s voice saying, “Go, Francis, and rebuild my house for it is falling into ruins.” So Francis bought materials and labored to refurbish the chapel. He did not realize the full scope of Christ’s words: that he rebuild the universal Church itself, as a whole; that he revive it from the complacency and politics and mere ritualism into which it had fallen. In other words, the message from the cross had a slow fuse as far as Francis was concerned; it took a while for his response to match the magnitude and depths of its intent.

The Gospel of John especially illustrates this tendency of ours initially to fall short of grasping the wider intent of Christ’s discourse, the Holy Spirit’s influence in our lives. For instance when Jesus says to the Samaritan woman by the well of Jacob: “If you knew the gift of God and who is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” Taking him literally she says in effect, “How can you do that, since you have no bucket and this well is deep?” OK, the well might have been deep, but she was shallow – not deep enough into her spiritual life to understand the kind of depth perception, freshness, vitality the presence and words of Jesus could bestow on her. The same misunderstanding was shown by the Pharisees when Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.” In effect they immediately thought, “There’s no bakery around for miles; where will he get sufficient literal bread for this crowd!”

Even the saved in Matthew’s parable of the last judgment struggle when Jesus says, “I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me.” They reply, “When was that? When did we see you hungry, thirsty, an alien . . .?” They couldn’t see past the faces of the poor they served to detect the face of Christ in each of them - and the presence of Christ in their own behavior.

In his poem about the journeys of St. Brendan John Savant writes of one monk showing dismay over the whales swimming just beneath the surface of the sea: . . . the young monk cries / “Whales!” And then fearfully, / “Many whales – one / a wee fathom under!” // And Brendan: “Why do / you fear? It’s shadows / that guide us, our dreams / that drive us, more / than ordinary light.” As Christians, of course, we trust that it is more than shadows, dreams – but the intervention of God as an undercurrent in our lives, bringing us with each revelation closer to him.

I have spoken in the past of an incident in my teen years when I was in high school. It happened during a music appreciation class – in which we bored freshmen had to listen to classical music instead of Glenn Miller. Then one day the brother played Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. The melody woke me up, I snapped out of it, listened, felt carried away – I had crossed a horizon into a world of heartfelt experience. But you know what? The experience of something special, hidden in that music, only burst into bloom a few days ago when, during a discussion with some retired ministers, that high school experience came back to me with the message I didn’t quite get 70 years ago. It dawned on me that what the moment was saying to me, what Schubert was saying to me, what the Holy Spirit was saying to me was: I myself am an Unfinished Symphony; everyone of us is an Unfinished Symphony! A divine composition that shall never end! One could say with regard to that freshman moment in my life that Jesus got through to me - after all - with living water – having no need for a bucket.

Reflection for January 22, 2012

Verifiable

Often when I meet with people to discuss Scripture the question arises: did this really happen. Take for instance last Sunday’s account of Samuel’s being awakened by a voice calling to him – so he goes to the priest Eli (his mentor), wakes him up and asks what he wants. Eli – probably disgruntled over being awakened – says he didn’t call him and that Samuel should go back to sleep. This happens three times before Samuel realizes God is calling him directly – and pays attention. Then there is the Gospel of last week in which the first disciples begin one by one to respond to Jesus’ invitation to come and see where he lives – and pretty soon we have a little procession of followers trailing behind this unusual Pied Piper.

Then there is today’s first reading about Jonah – being sent to Nineveh (a ruthless city) to demand repentance – and the Gospel reading about Jesus calling Simon and Andrew and then James and John to leave their fishing nets to join Jesus in “fishing for men”.

So it’s back again to the question that comes up: did these events really happen or are they fables. Well, I trust the integrity of the ancient writers – they are writing about things that radically changed their lives, recording moments that added up to great significance for them and others. To fabricate would only be to fool themselves as much as others. Of course such events are told with embellishment or a succinctness that captures the essence of what happened. But many people, because the Scripture is so ancient, wonder how you can verify these episodes.

Well one way of verifying them, trusting that they really happened is to study the course of your own life. All these events are verifiable in my own life; they have happened and continue to happen to me (and you?). The voice of God has intervened in indirect ways in my life since my childhood – even as it woke up Samuel in the night. Often I did not quite hear it right, went running to someone else for answers to the questions it raised and was just as often told by “people in the know” like Eli to go back to sleep. But sooner or later that “sacramental” voice really woke me up – in this classroom or in some startling or even ordinary experience. The same goes for the Gospel account in which Jesus invites his first disciples to “come and see” where he lives, how he lives, why he lives – and in the supplementary account in which he disentangles his disciples from their nets. The same beckoning, seductive voice caught my attention (and yours?) at several stages of my life, each adding up to a deeper knowledge of who Jesus is and what he’s about. That same beckoning voice disentangled me (and you?) from distorted notions of what’s right and wrong, from a sick sense of low self worth, from biases that I thought were virtuous – and so on.

Of course biblical scholars do hold the Jonah story (with his being swallowed by a whale) to be an inspired piece of fiction with a moral. But I can say, and so can you if you think about, that that whole story has happened to me. How often have I run away from God’s command to do something heroic, how often have I allowed myself to be swallowed up by fear, by self-preservation only to find my condition stifling? And how often have I with the help of God been thrown up out of the belly of that “whale” to follow God’s way as I was first commanded? So you see – every event – even the more imaginative ones – in Scripture is verifiable – both back then in many cases and certainly now, as I myself experience every moment of that ancient biblical drama.

Reflection for January 15, 2012

Not always so prompt but - persistent

The Church has been compared to many things: a Mother, a City built upon a hill, a Sheepfold. The early Fathers of the Church sometimes compared it to the ship of ancient Ulysses, which wandered sometimes too close to hazardous rocks and whirlpools or whose crew let itself be seduced by siren songs of wealth and power or lolled away its time ultra-piously among the lotus-eaters – or (bedeviled by single-eyed Cyclopean giants) let itself become obsessed with “single issues” and thus apt to apply simplistic solutions to complex problems. Yet, whatever the winds that have assailed it, Christ has somehow always appeared out of the night walking on the waters to set us once again on course toward home.

It’s true that in these Gospels of January we hear tell of the first apostles responding immediately to the call of Christ – not hesitating for a moment. We hear they abandoned their nets, the many ties that entangled them, and followed him. But there are other episodes in the Gospels where, when Jesus summons people to follow him, they drag their feet, think of ingenious excuses to delay their response. In other words they are slow about it. And insofar as that also could be said about the Church as a whole down through history, it makes me think of another (and not entirely negative) metaphor applicable to the Church, namely: the turtle!

John Steinbeck must have studied a turtle quite thoroughly to come up with his wonderful description of one crossing a road in The Grapes of Wrath. The scene is a concrete highway in Oklahoma; a summer day. “And over the grass at the roadside a land turtle crawled, turning aside for nothing, dragging his high-domed shell over the grass. His hind legs and yellow-nailed feet threshed slowly through the grass, not really walking, but boosting and dragging his shell along.” Steinbeck notes how “his fierce, humorous eyes . . . stared straight ahead.” The turtle then came upon a steep embankment, which he investigated with head held high and then clawed and pushed his way up. Then came a new obstacle: the four-inch high shoulder of the road itself. Laboriously the turtle shoved itself up against this barrier until its shell stood at an angle whence its front legs could not touch the ground. But its hind legs kept pushing and pushing until the shell was high enough to plop over flat on the roadbed.

Now all seemed easy as, with all its legs working, the creature waggled from side to side - until one car just missed it, causing the turtle to withdraw its head, legs and tail tightly within its shell. But no sooner did it venture forth again than a truck grazed it, spinning it like a coin right off the road, where it landed on its back - all its feet waving in the air, “reaching for something to pull it over.” Somehow it righted itself and continued on until Tom Joad found it and wrapped it in his coat as a gift for his little brother. But in the end the turtle worked its way out of the coat, hid for a while within its shell to avoid the pestering of a cat, and was last seen walking “southwest as it had been from the first.”

The Church! Considered a slow moving phenomenon by many, but obstinately aimed at a destination of which this world seems so ignorant, carrying a heavy shell of tradition within which it retreats occasionally when under pressure but whence it emerges again under its compulsion to keep advancing toward its rendezvous with the Source of its being. The Church! Running into roadblocks, tossed about by the violence of controversy - but driven by the Holy Spirit to waggle on, bearing ever so awkwardly the burden of the Gospel. The Church! Namely, you and me, ridiculously slow to catch on yet likely to cross the finish line before Bugs Bunny - by sheer tenacity if not by speed.