A Sonnett to Pizza, lovingly entitled: "Pizza Mia."

I wrote this sonnett in a Renaissance Poetry class, and though my memory now fails me as to the details, yet I do remember something about a pizza-filled review session which I would not be able to attend. Regardless, it was evidently inspired by the throes of a passionate hunger for pizza. Enjoy!

~

PIZZA MIA.

Away with all this talk of studied verse,
For each new word reminds me of my curse:
I see the pepperoni, never mine;
And cheese, possessed of such a flavor fine—
my splendid, absent mozzarella wine—
O Pizza dear, for you alone I pine!

Some blessed day this May I may consume you
And in my darkened labyrinth entomb you.
But 'til the sun ariseth on that morn,
I rub my vacant cavity, forlorn.
This longing wills that I had ne'er been born,
But here, I think, I am, and I am torn.
If given minutes, months, or million years,
Pizza—you would quench my hungry tears.

HoBoy!

Do you have any weaknesses? Something that makes you uncomfortable or uncertain, that freezes your better self in its tracks and calls you with a siren’s song to a disappointing mediocrity? Of course you do. So do I. We all have them. It’s just a matter of figuring out what it is. Take Superman, for example. He can fly around downtown (if I may borrow Matchbox 20’s verbiage), leap over buildings in a single bound, and yada yada yada--but put him in front of a green Kryptonite stone and he’s about as strong as Sammy Sosa without his steroids. That poor sap, Superman--he has a glaring weakness, and he can’t get rid of it. Luckily for us, we are nothing like Superman. We can fix our weaknesses.

Up until very recently, hobos were one of my weaknesses. It’s true. Speaking in front of a crowd, I could handle. Complaining at a restaurant, not a problem--and sometimes even a pleasure. But dealing with a hobo? Yikes! If a hobo on the street asked me for money, my mind would freeze and I would go into deer-in-the-headlights mode (okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit, but “deer-in-the-headlights mode” is a wonderful phrase, and I had to include it). In all seriousness, though, such a situation, common as it is in urban areas, was one of uncertainty and discomfort. On one hand, we have the societal (and in some ways religious) push toward simple acts of charity, which is often represented as giving money to the poor folks in the streets. Although this is a shallow characterization (more on that later), it is nonetheless the message we often see in movies and hear in sermons. People like to think of giving monetary handouts as a righteous act.

On the other hand, there is the common sense view which many (or perhaps most) of us were raised with--people begging for handouts on the street need money for booze and/or drugs; or, at the very least, they are lazy fools who could just as easily take orders at McDonald’s as they take handouts at State and Madison (to paraphrase Michael Jordan’s provocative anecdote).

Sometimes this common sense view is confirmed in comically obvious ways--such as the case of the young man (in the prime of his life, no kidding) who trudges through traffic daily at the same intersection, year-round, with a sign that says “Please help me, God bless you.” It would seem obvious to everyone except the man himself that his daily activity is both strenuous and risky--and the honest occupation of coalminer would not only fulfill both of these criteria, but it would also yield a steady paycheck and a peaceful intersection. Yet there he is, and there he remains to this day.

But some hobos are convincing (and, no doubt, some are completely kosher). But that’s just the problem--the stakes in this game are higher than they seem. As wonderful as it is to help a man in honest need, that’s how horrible an act it is to give money to an addict. In such a case, we are actively assisting a destructive habit-- bringing the poor soul one step closer to oblivion! If that’s charity, then I missed something in Sunday school.

The point is, we cannot just give money to people. We might be doing them a huge disservice, far greater than ignoring or refusing them, in doing so. The risk of someone’s life is too great to play around with. Heartless as it sounds, there is no other way.

So here’s the question: why is it so hard to refuse? A recent situation forced me to face the issue once and for all. I was walking to the car after eating a wonderful lunch with my Mom, when a man in a heavy coat (in retrospect I should’ve known, but I didn’t take a good look at it at first) asked me if I could spare a few dollars for gas (in retrospect I should’ve known how many holes there were in that kind of story, but remember? by this time I was already in idiot mode). Hmm. I had about 4 seconds to respond…what to say? I wasn’t actually going to give him any money--most of the money in my wallet was borrowed from my Mom and was not mine to give--and regardless of that, I didn’t want to risk a theft. No question there. I wouldn't give him any money. But how to say no? I hummed and hawed for a moment, then rattled off some lame excuse about my Mom having all the money. Feeling slightly shameful (which I’m now ashamed to admit), I parted by saying “I hope you find some, though.” Then I realized that I was in the presence of an angel.
No, it wasn’t the panhandler. That’s how it usually gets shown in movies, I grant you (and Hebrews 13:2 should by no means be taken lightly), but in real life it was the exact reverse for me--the angel took the form of a blond-haired female passerby of about 35, who brazenly addressed him after my comment by saying “And I also hope you find somewhere to work, because you come here to beg every day!” I got into the car and processed what I’d just seen. First, I couldn’t believe that woman’s guts--I didn’t know they made people that confident anymore. I admired that. It was also at that moment when I realized the thinness of the hobo’s request, and the absurdity of the shame I’d felt. To have the man’s chicanery exposed with such blunt words of witness was like a blow to the head--except it felt great. My illusions were gone!

I say that that woman was an angel, because she lifted the wool of ignorance and deceit from my eyes so that I could see the truth within this one isolated situation. In seeing the truth, I realized that my shame was totally unwarranted--the man was proven to be a con-artist! Even if he had been on the level, shame would not have been a good response. I had my reasons not to give, and that should be enough for anyone--especially myself! I knew then and there that a confident response of “no” would have sufficed, and would have been the proper way to retain my dignity (which, the way I see it, I flushed down the toilet in this situation).
Most important of all, it should be realized that the only proper attitude of a panhandler ought to be one of the sincerest and humblest entreaty. Money, after all, is not easily earned in this world, and to receive it as a free gift from a stranger is not only a rare, but almost a miraculous occurrence. Shaking a cup, or halfheartedly muttering “God bless you” just doesn’t cut it for me. A panhandler ought to realize the flabbergasting fortune of his situation, notwithstanding his dire straits--he is alive, and (in most cases) possesses the opportunity to interact with the wider world (an opportunity widely sought-after in lonely nursing home rooms and hospital beds across the world). Seriously. They have no place asking someone else for a handout, so they ought to be amazed and overjoyed at the mere fact that anyone even responds to them. At presstime, such behavior has not yet been observed in any hobo. And as for me: Shame? Are you kidding me? Well, I know one thing: I wasn’t kidding when I acted like a fool in that parking lot.

I realized that day, thanks to the intervention of the “angel” (who actually happened to be a salon stylist who worked in the same complex where I’d been dining, and so was privy to the hobo’s daily occupation in the parking lot), that my weakness happened to be hobos. And unlike Superman, my weakness was dissolved with a simple and conscious act of the will (along with some more in-depth reflection…evidenced by this blog post). From now on, if I am accosted by a panhandler, I will not give them money, and will be proud of it. If I respond to them, it will be to say, quite simply, “No.” I simply will not. If I am ill-judged at the end of time for adopting this stance, I will hang my head in remorse before my Lord--and without a doubt, my shame will be justified. But I’m betting against that ending. I think a weakness has been obliterated--and that’s good enough for me!

2 Letters to the Editor

"The wise man speaks because he has something to say. The fool speaks because he has to say something." —Plato

I was eating lunch at the University Student Center today and was graced by the presence of a silent procession of self-righteousness—a group of four students stalked through the dining area wearing poster-sized signs. These signs proclaimed the angst of various minority groups through single-sentence statements about their troubles. I tend to feel a negative gut-reaction toward these types of people; given the opportunities they're afforded at a university, you would think they could find better ways to spend their time than carrying around signs—particularly signs stating ideologies that most of their student audience already receives in class, anyway. What was most striking about these people, though—far more than the usual protest's lack of effectiveness—was their lack of a purpose. What exactly were they protesting against? I soon began formulating a letter I could write to the student paper pointing this out. It was going to go something like this:

"I encountered the epitome of self-righteous self-centeredness today at the University Center. Protesters silently walked the dining rooms, proclaiming messages that no one asked to hear, with no clear purpose. The question they evidently needed to hear was 'Why are you saying all this?' How sad it is that such people are devoting their vast capabilities as human beings toward such vain and useless endeavors; they are rebels without a cause, whose deepest allegiance is not to any cause, but the projections of their own image."

Yes. Then I thought for a few more minutes, and another mental letter formulated in my mind, this letter not addressed to the student newspaper, but to myself:

"You encountered the epitome of self-righteous self-centeredness today at the University Center. You started writing a letter about those protesters—a letter proclaiming a message that no one asked to hear, and with no clear purpose. The question you need to hear is not 'Why are you saying all this,' but 'What makes you think people care?' How sad it would be if a person like you devoted his vast capabilities as a human being toward such a vain and useless endeavor; you would be a rebel without a cause, whose deepest allegiance is not to any cause, but the projections of his own image."

I knew it was either one letter or the other. And seeing the choice of what kind of person I could be laid out before me so neatly, I promptly chose the latter letter. Thank God!

Courage to Disagree Grants Ability to See

I recently heard the argument put forth that the early Church permitted female priests, but that this changed at the Council of Nicea. A corollary premise to this theory (which is becoming more absurd and outlandish even as I restate it here) is that Scripture recounts a lack of female leadership in the Church because the writings were gathered by men who wished to preserve their own religious authority.

This view makes a fundamental logical error. It assumes that Church leadership was dominated by males who “rewrote history” in order to exclude the female leaders. But the whole point of the argument was to expose the fiction of the male-dominated Church leadership! Either the Church was dominated by males, who rewrote history, or it was not--in which case the males wouldn’t have been powerful enough to rewrite history. Think about it for a moment; if such a deception were to take place, would there not be a single shred of evidence testifying to such a fact? There is nothing; no ancient traditions, no textual testimonies, nothing.

Furthermore, are we to believe that, in this imaginary situation, not one man stood with these oppressed female priests? Such unanimity of opinion is rather striking…and rather unbelievable.

The only possible impetus for pursuing this as a hypothesis is wishful thinking. And the fact that logic, history, and common sense mount a screaming testimony against it is a rather strong justification for rejecting it as absurd.

Esse Amari Deo Est

It was a gray October day, around lunchtime. I had reached the part of my daily routine which involved walking, and so I was. My eyes scanned the faces of the people I passed, looking hopefully for a friend or acquaintance to greet or talk to. I longed for company, but found no familiarity to converse with. Then things got strange.

Suddenly, I was in a blank white room. Although I had just been walking outside, I was suddenly seated in a comfortable chair at a high table. Across the table there sat a man, somewhat familiar looking, despite a startling appearance.

He was clothed in a deep purple robe and had shoulder-length white hair, which matched the wispy curls that covered his face, in a picturesque mustache and beard. His look reminded me of old paintings of Socrates or even of God (the kind that are painted on the ceilings of old churches), but there was one notable difference: his nose was not nearly as pointy as all of those old depictions tend to show it.

The upshot of this rounded, almost knobby schnoz was that this man, whether he was God or Socrates, looked far less stern than his other characteristics would lead you to expect. He actually looked quite a bit like Santa Claus on a diet (I was pretty sure that wasn't who he was, though).

In fact, very soon after my strange transportation, I was sure that wasn't who he was. He said to me, in a voice so jolly it made Santa Claus look like Bobby Knight,

"Hello, Joe!"

Considering how sudden and odd this change of circumstances was, I actually accepted it all rather quickly. Without much of a pause, I responded:

"Hi!"

It was a happy response, given in good cheer, because there was something about this guy's demeanor, a sort of silent energy, that was contagious. And he spoke English. I quickly ruled out Socrates.

"I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here," he stated matter of factly, but with just as much light-hearted mirth as his greeting.

"Well, yeah--I certainly am," I responded, "but I'm also curious--who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, you're not the first to ask that question, but the full answer would take a little longer than you might realize, so...let's shorten it up by saying that there is one word which would point you toward who I am. Would you care to hazard a guess at what that word is?"

"God?"

"Yes! Such a wonderful boy, you are! I am God."

"It's nice to finally see You face to face!"

"Well, you're not really seeing Me face to face. If you truly saw Me face to face, things would be a little more intense than they are right now. Think of this as a vision."


"Okay." I sat expectantly, waiting for the vision to continue.

Nothing happened. God just sat there, staring at me, smiling.

I stared back, and realized that this His eyes were the most arresting thing about Him. I've heard the eye described as the "window to the soul," but I never really understood how much of a window it can be until I saw His eyes. The longer I stared, the deeper those piercing jewels became, telling stories, stories of woe leading to redemption and ending in joy, all without words, without images. It was fascinating, sort of a unified magnification of all the eyes I'd ever looked into, but with something more added, Something huge and full of energy and love. Suddenly the silence was broken by His voice:


"You never have to feel lonely, you know."


His words surprised me. The deep joy in His voice was overlaid now with a measure of concern, which may have been there the whole time, but was more noticeable now.


It took me by surprise, but I knew exactly what I wanted to say to Him. Not angrily, but with a genuine thirst for understanding, I asked:


"If I don't need to feel lonely, why have I felt that way? If You are so close, how come I never heard You speak back to me?"


"I tried. But you can't talk to someone if they aren't willing to listen.
So many times like today...you walked, thinking you were alone."

There was something in how He spoke and looked at me, something so close to every memory I had, bringing up days and feelings long past, things that even I had forgotten about--all at once, vivid as life itself, and with such understanding and compassion, but mixed with a sense of painful incompleteness, that tears welled up in my eyes. I had been hit full force with the melancholy of memory.


I found words.


"You were there the whole time. I knew it, but not like this. I didn't realize...I'm sorry."


He didn't acknowledge the apology, but responded:


"I have spoken to you all of your life. I have spoken to you through my Word. I have spoken to you through your family's love. I have spoken to you in all the times of joy. I have spoken to you in the leaves of Fall and the snows of Winter, the warm breeze of Spring and the cool rain of Summer. I have spoken to you in every moment of inspiration you've ever had. I have spoken to you by creating you. I have spoken in many ways, even many ways which you cannot yet understand, but my message has always been the same. Do you know what that message is?"

He didn't have to ask, but He did. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I responded:


"I love you." The light in the room was getting brighter with our every word. I sensed things were coming to an end.

"Yes! I love you, too! Above all, remember that! And tell everyone you meet that I love them, too!"

My vision was fading as the light expanded, brighter and brighter, into a world of True Light, and when I could see no more--my eyes shut tightly,


and I was back on the ground outside.


My eyes were fine. My face was dry. Nothing on the outside had changed, it seemed; but the first thing I saw was a tree whose yellow fire matched the blazing of my own heart, and so I pressed on toward my destination.

Phone Home

Have you ever felt like life just played a prank on you? The times I speak of are the nuisances of life, the times that leave us thinking, "Now why did things have to happen like that? It could just as easily have happened this way..." And we follow such thoughts with daydreams about what could have been—ordinarily the most useless type of daydream there is. Nonetheless, life plays its pranks, and sometimes through no fault of our own we find ourselves stuck in a situation we do not want, and would give much to change.

Today in my job as the church's weekend receptionist, I received a call from a wonderful woman whose calm but thoughtful manner at once caught me off-guard and brought me to my most alert senses. Perhaps you have met such people. Perhaps, bless your heart, you are one. They are the rarest of breeds, but perennially the type of person this world most needs. They speak slowly and deliberately, but their manner lacks not an ounce of confidence. They seldom stutter or stop in the middle of a sentence, for the simple reason that they are sure of what they want to say before they start saying it. And unlike the rest of the huddled masses, they are not afraid of pauses in conversation.

Such a one was this woman, whose first response to my inquiry of "Can I help you?" was "I don't know!" Such an exchange perfectly typifies this kind of person. Rather than play by the common social rules (rules which nonetheless remain useful and beneficial in most cases), this person retains a measure of perspective and sees society for the game that it is, and thus chooses when to play and when to sit out and make up their own rules. Such people are always needed by a society because they remind the rest of us that we belong to a social system, an order of sorts, yes; but that the system is not what we answer to, ultimately—that there is Something higher than the human structures we have implemented throughout history. Such people inspire us to question the system, to examine it, and perhaps to better align it with what we know is right. Yesterday's civil rights crusaders and Abolitionists, to use a popular example of the day, aligned America's practice with its inspired theory, and it all started with people asking questions (and, perhaps, responding to questions) in ways which no one had previously had the moral courage to do—taking their example, of course, from a well-known Nazorean of a prior epoch, who specialized in moral courage.

But back to the tale at hand—a wonderful woman called in who, despite being 79 years old, had the voice, demeanor, and conversational pizazz of a 25 year old. After telling me that she would call the church back later in the week (the priest she wanted to talk to was not available), she asked my my name and then began regaling me with a personal story involving St. Joseph. As is known to happen at this job, another call came ringing in on the other phoneline—just as she was reaching the conclusion of her story (as I recall, it had been a very good story, to boot). I wanted to wait on the second call and finish speaking with her first, but I had waited too long already—a moment more, and the second caller would be diverted to the answering machine, a definite no-no for an on-duty receptionist. Siezing on a momentary pause in the woman's speech, I asked her if she could hold on a moment while I answered another call. This proved a worthy decision, because the other caller was requesting Last Rites for a dying family member. It also proved a disappointing decision, because as I took care of the 2nd caller, I noticed that, after about 3 minutes of waiting, the wonderful storytelling woman had hung up or been disconnected. I hadn't been able to hear the finish of her story, or say a proper good-bye; I also didn't get her name or number, with which I might call her back.

So there I was, unable to contact her, and left with the anxiety of wondering whether she thought I had just ditched her. Why did this bother me so much? I believe it was the pinchy feeling of broken camaraderie, the tragedy of a "beautiful friendship" that never begins, the ironic nuisance of a misunderstanding which causes alienation where unity would otherwise reign easily. I had been brimming with good intentions, but the click of a phone had rendered them homeless. So life had its prank, and I was left scratching my head.

Why do such things happen? It would have been so easy for that second call to have come in just five minutes later. Five minutes! Did God not see that? Does He not see all of these things, our better alternatives to what we call reality? The only answer, of course, is that He does—He sees them more clearly than we possibly could, and clearly enough to know that they are not better. Realizing this and resting in the truth it provided, I set about guessing what I was supposed to learn from this situation.

This woman had had an effect on me, and despite the abrupt and disappointing end to our interaction, the effect remained—and it constituted the first lesson—calm down. Speak deliberately. Mean what you say. Don't be afraid of the other person as you talk to them, but look on them with compassion, the lowly, fraternal kind of compassion that only a fellow creature can know. Conversation is a connection, not a performance. It is ideas being traded, not lines being read. And all the petty templates we follow for how to interact with each other, they are all just suggestions, and it is no sin to break such guidelines. Great things have been started in that way.

Now after remembering those wonderful ideas, I naturally felt better. In fact, as is the way of things when we follow such adages as the aforementioned, I began to feel a creeping sensation that I was not alone—by which I mean, I began to notice the presenc of God, in later conversations as well as in all the beautifully silent spaces of solitude, those blessed places in which Thoreau dwelt devotedly for so many peaceful days and nights.

This feeling of a Presence at once visible and invisible, beautiful and elusive, made me realize yet again the true relationship of a Catholic to the Church. This recognition of divine Presence in a drab and empty office hallway reminded me that all of our ceremony, all of our decoration and tradition, is designed to bring about Christ's Presence in the world. We can so easily get caught up in devotion to the institution of the Church, and in doing so we turn away from that noble body's humble mission—to help keep Christ present and active in the world until He Himself returns in His full glory. Many people today attack the Church and its ideas and mission, but if we fight them back on the grounds of defending the Church, rather than the ideas and mission which give it purpose, we are idolizing a body of disciples, starting our own heresy, so to speak—a heresy of such implosive orthodoxy that it threatens to topple the Church from within. No, the true Catholic loves the Church, and fights alongside it or within it, but not for it. The Church itself doesn't even do that.

We don't know the ultimate purposes behind God's actions in this world, but we do know how we are called to respond—take the best out of each situation, and work with it until we have forged something better. We can take confidence, even amidst apparent disappointments, that God is not our enemy—He knows what He is doing, and there will be a day when we can see how everything in this human drama worked together to bring about the fulfillment and triumph of all that is truly good. Perhaps on that day, I will finally catch up with this blessed woman again, and we will have all the time we need to share stories and listen, relaxing in the abundant Presence and sweet Love of the God Who saved us.

Do You Have a Minute?

"Hey buddy—" he seemed friendly enough, so I inquiringly glanced at him as I drew near, and he continued—"Do you have a minute…to support gay marriage?"

With my short answer of "No thanks" he looked at me like I'd murdered his puppy. I walked on. What else was there to do?

As I entered the library I thought about this situation, and how absurd his position was. He and so many like him choose to define themselves by a movement, by a label, perhaps by certain behaviors. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, but if someone expresses an opinion against their movement, their label, their behaviors, it's no longer a reasoned position—it has become personal. Judging from the grave and disbelieving way that he looked at me, I have no doubt that he believed (as his movement has taught him to) that I hate him.

How could I hate such a man? My heart bleeds for him and for all those others like him who sell themselves short every day, sacrificing their individuality and their gifts for the sake of a temporal movement that is misguided and unnatural. I pray that they will have the wisdom to see the world from outside their own shallow and self-centered perspectives—a big step we all must take—and see themselves as agents of goodness in a world gone awry. How will gay marriage feed the hungry? How will it give purpose to the broken and dejected, how will it bring about peace in a world that is perennially on the brink of unprecedented destruction?

Do you have a minute? Say a prayer for such people today, if you can. But be sure also to pray for those in need of food, water, and shelter, and those in need of God's Love. That ought to cover all of us.

The Entry Where I Spoil Matchstick Men (I’m serious)

I am currently experiencing one of those splendid and rarefied spans of moments of complete confidence and sheer inspiration. If I may borrow one of J.K. Rowling’s best ideas without glorifying her too much, I have just drunk a bottle of Felix Felicis. I see the path of life drawn out before me; and though the route is as unclear as ever, I do possess the two real essentials to a successful journey; the first is a goal, which I have had for years, thanks to the Catholic religion I was born into and have embraced as the Truth. The second essential, bestowed upon me yet again by divine inspiration, is the more elusive, as it involves more than just a willful leap of faith and devotion. The second is the modus operandi, the method of working—which, God bless it, comes out from behind the clouds of uncertainty every now and then to shine its light upon us.

I just finished watching the movie Matchstick Men. It tells a tale of loss, illusion, and redemption, and reminds us that if we keep our noses clean (morally as well as legally), we never have to worry about much. It tells us the tale of an expert of deception who has nonetheless kept a portion of his soiled soul spotless, a man who receives a life-shattering dose of his own medicine when he is taken in by several who do not share his scrappy scruples, and thus have a slight edge in the crafty craft of con-artistry. In the end, Roy’s decency is what destroys him, or at least what he assumed was “him.” What we find out, in the crucial moments at his ex-wife’s door, when the depth of the deception finally hits home, is that—although his life lies in a shambles, with almost no money, no worldly credentials, and no real family—he is just fine. Indeed, as Roy himself iterates with a fledgling but hopeful confidence, “everything’s all right.” Out of the ashes of the two-bit Phoenix that was Roy’s former life as a con-man, we see the real Roy rise up; the Roy who forced himself to rationalize his spoils as “given, not taken,” the Roy who “never used violence,” the Roy who reached out to the nice checkout lady at the supermarket, like a withered plant inclining toward cracks of light through closed rafters. That is what carried Roy through to the end of his sinful life, and that, we finally see, is what carries him into the bright future. In the epilogue scene at the carpet store where Roy has built a clean livelihood, his brief meeting and parting with his “daughter” shows us that he has overcome any ill will which he might have held against his looters. We see a man who is free to fly because, in the words of G.K. Chesterton, like the angels he “can take himself lightly.” Matchstick Men reminds us that nice guys do not finish last—they may wind up in last place, but they always have time to work out of the hole and regain the good they were made for.

I suppose this movie just reminded me to be confident. After watching it, I realize I am ready to begin the next schoolyear. I feel like I can do exactly what I’m supposed to do. I’m excited to face opportunities to stand up for what I believe in, to proudly be the person God wants me to be; to be open to new possibilities, but also open to the mere continuation of old realities.

“To be content with where I am,
Getting where I need to be,
And moving past the past where I have failed.”

I am excited to exercise the grace which God has blessed me with this summer, to let the spiritual discoveries of these months germinate and flower into strong trees of good work and wholesome habits in my sojourns with the wider world. I am looking forward to the future months so intensely, and that is why my highest hopes are fulfilled by actually being plopped right here, in this moment, several weeks before all those busy days begin. One might say it is the final exam of summer school. Conventional wisdom, and Catholic theology, say that the way we finish the journey is the strongest indication of how we conducted it. Finishing strong is the only true reflection of a strong performance.

Did I learn anything this summer? Ha! How could I not have? I acted like an idiot enough (and felt bad about it) to learn quite a bit about compassion, authenticity, and honesty. At the same time, I also worked hard to build myself up, and thus learned the blessing and strength of good habits (and the easy poison of bad ones). I felt the push of a noble purpose and a steamrolling confidence drawn solely from the divine team I’m playing for.

I guess what I am trying to say is that these final weeks are the final test of this current crop of moments, and a sort of runway into the year. If I run this final stretch well, I will be ready to run the whole year. If I stumble, I may not get back up until next June. Spiritually speaking, that’s a long time down, way longer than I can afford.

So here I leave you, as always, at a crossroads; my decisions in the next few weeks will decide my ultimate destiny, of that I am sure. But then again, is that ever not the case?

Signing off with love and prayers for you,
Joezilla

Random Thoughts

In the tradition of the great Thomas Sowell (see Townhall.com), I present a rather diminuitive collection of "Random Thoughts." Enjoy!
1. We are not "being ourselves" when we are at our best. Is that surprising? I had always believed and professed that the best thing a person can do is to find out who they are, and then "be themself." But it's not quite the best way of being. We should not spend our energy trying to "be ourselves." Anyone can do that.
We are wise instead to devote our soul's vast energies toward being the one God wants us to be--then we are accountable, accountable to someone outside our own selves, and then we can fulfill our purpose as human beings. And that is to glorify God through prayer and right action.

2. One of the most compelling practical inspirations for being the best you can be in every moment is the unconscious vigilance of the young, who are still works in progress. Another inspiration is the reluctant vigilance of the many experienced but still unfinished characters who walk this earth. Inspire.

3. Our attitude toward the world (and strangers) should be, in the words of G.K. Chesterton, "humble enough to wonder [at], and haughty enough to defy." Personal experience will bear this out. Try it.

4. The success of a person's endeavors rests largely on their ability to act well under pressure. These are times of trial, and they require firm and predetermined control of mind and body. In other words, they require the preparation of a life of virtue.

5. "Certainly the most sagacious creeds may suggest that we should pursue God into deeper and deeper rings of the labyrinth of our own ego. But only we of Christendom have said that we should hunt God like an eagle upon the mountains; and we have killed all monsters in the chase" (G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy). Are you looking in or striking out in search? What monsters do you have to kill before you find Him?

6. "We are one choice from together." --tobyMac, City On Our Knees

Citizen Mundane

This is not a case of The Emperor’s New Clothes. What I mean to say is that Citizen Kane is a good movie--artistically speaking, a great movie. To anyone with a strong knowledge of the history and craft of filmmaking, perhaps it could understandably be the greatest movie ever made or released. But to an Average Joe like me (and you, if I may assume that someone reads this), it is not a masterpiece. It left me feeling unresolved, questioning, curious. These are not bad feelings to have after a movie (and I have reason to believe they are exactly the feelings Orson Welles wished to evoke in audiences), but they are not the feelings left in the wake of the best movies. The best movies leave viewers feeling inspired--they show examples of heroism, exciting and empowering. Citizen Kane does not show us heroism. It shows us snippets of the life story of a very warped, very rich man--a man warped by his riches. We see glimpses of people who knew the man, but we don’t see much to admire.
The film’s strongest proponents, no doubt, would point to its open-endedness as one of its great assets. What is the significance of this or that object, they might ask. Anyone can guess at the million meanings of every scene, every line, every camera angle; the film's enduring strength, then, lies in the amount of thought it provokes. Indeed, Citizen Kane is a puzzle, if I may borrow a symbol from the movie itself, a puzzle purposely left unfinished. Discussions could abound after a group viewing, and many would sound like high-school literature class, with various expositions on the meaning of a chair or the symbolism of someone's hat. Such celluloid enigmas can lead to entertaining and worthwhile late-night discussions in the living room. Lack of resolution, then, is not Kane's chief weakness, and actually lends it much of its luster. Its true problem is the decided lack of a compelling message. For the sake of those who have not seen Citizen Kane, I will not state this message here (assuming, of course, that some constituent of this blog’s questionably-existent audience has not seen it). This omission is not a problem, though, because the final lines and scenes of the film broadcast the message quite loud and clear.

The point is, this message is the culmination of the film, the main idea which all of Welles’ technical and artistic effort has strained (quite successfully) to convey. Unfortunately, the message is nothing extraordinary. It’s the sort of conclusion that one might arrive at after fifteen minutes of quiet contemplation on a summer evening. More than anything else, it is an observation, and a prosaic one at that. It’s as if someone were to pour a mountain of money into an extensive advertising campaign in order to broadcast to the world the slogan “When I stub my toe, sometimes the nail gets broken.” Few would deny it. It would not set off philosophical debates about the nature of podiatric injuries and pain perception. But many would (I hope) wonder a simple question: Why not say something deeper?
Citizen Kane is for cinema what Charlie Parker is for jazz music--justly-admired for technical mastery, somewhat lacking in a worthwhile message, and nearly-worshipped by aficionados, a reverence which has seeped into the culture at large.

Best Western (not a movie review!)

El Dorado is one of the best westerns there is. I like westerns. I like them because they teach me about life and how to live it. Here is how they do it.

First off, westerns tell stories of good and evil. They are complex tales of a simple conflict—just like life on this planet. No western is ever simple. In fact, the best ones place their heroes in unthinkably harrowing physical and moral dilemmas, often pitting survival against a principle. If you were sheriff of a fledgling western town, the one everyone looked to for protection, would you risk your life to fight a gang of outlaws for the sake of the town? What if your family’s lives were at stake? What if you could pay the outlaws money to go on to the next town? Would you do it? Here is what is great about westerns—they not only show us conflict between good and evil, but they show us what heroes do when placed in those conflicts. They show us the true courage, the selfless sort of bravery that risks life and limb to protect men and morals alike. This is a state of mind that is sorely missing in today’s society, and I sometimes fear we are losing our ability to even recognize it when we see it.

That is one reason westerns are great—they show us great evil vanquished by determined heroes in emotionally-charged settings. They call us to be heroes.
Secondly, westerns often demonstrate another often neglected value, that of common sense. How does John Wayne know that there are gunmen hiding outside the saloon? It’s not that unrealistic; he has experienced similar situations and observed carefully, and he has the presence of mind to apply those lessons to his current situation. If only we could be as on the ball as John Wayne’s characters are! How great we would be, how effective our lives would become, if we would only remind ourselves more often of the great truth—if we don’t act on what we learn, the knowledge does us no good at all.

John Wayne’s seemingly invincible characters preserve their lives by yet another valid real-world conviction—it is entirely okay, and sometimes praiseworthy, to not trust someone at all. Some people cannot be trusted; to trust such no-accounts, particularly with one’s or another’s life, contradicts Christ’s command in Matthew 7: "Do not give what is holy to dogs, or throw your pearls before swine, lest they trample them underfoot, and turn and tear you to pieces.”
To continue this digressive focus on John Wayne, his characters are never ashamed of themselves. This unconquerable confidence may be aided by the Duke’s imposing 6’4½” stature, but ladies and gents of all shapes and sizes have something to learn from him. The size of the dog in the fight, as they say, is not nearly as important as the size of the fight in the dog. Such a maxim ought to remind us that Wayne’s stature was largely (no pun intended) irrelevant to his imposing presence. After all, a 7 foot weenie will not make as big a splash as a 5 foot dynamo. The frame of the physical puppet which we command is only as good as the artist pulling the strings.

But back to the matter at hand, Wayne never feels shame. Why is this? Well, I see two reasons. First, he is confident, in the most admirable and exemplary way—he knows what’s right, and he stands for it, unwaveringly. Secondly, he does all the right things. In short, he has the right to be confident!
On to our final point—westerns, like life, find their biggest turning points in split-second decisions and acts of quick thinking. In any good western, the hero will eventually be called upon to make a huge decision in mere seconds, perhaps one solitary second. How can someone make the right choice when put on the spot? For someone who fails such a fast-paced test, could we not give them the benefit of the doubt, could we not assume that they would take the right action, if only given more time to think? Whether or not we could be so generous matters not at this moment—what matters is that life rarely offers us such drawn-out dilemmas!

Decisions of destiny are made on the spot, under pressure. In order to make them well, we need to train ourselves to have presence of mind, just like John Wayne and all the other good cowboys do. Theodore Roosevelt, that great spirit who once lived a true cowboy’s life in the real West, when it was actually Wild, wisely said that “In any moment of decision the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.” Presence of mind and right thinking under pressure are key to a good life. Westerns cannot teach us this—the practice courts of everyday life are far better suited to this than any feature film—but they can inspire us to practice in everyday life. And perhaps, with regular inspiration and even more regular practice, we will join the ranks of those great spirits who, in Roosevelt’s words, can “quell the storm and ride the thunder.”

Surprise, Surprise

What makes a surprise surprising? The reason a surprise is surprising is because it means that something happened which we were not thinking about before it happened. In other words, surprises are surprising because they are unexpected.

This may seem an obvious observation (in the 90s it might have elicited a “Duh!” or even the more aggressive “No-Duh!” response), but it carries with it some significant implications about our daily lives.

How many times a day are we surprised? I mean real, absolute surprises, the kind that throw off your concentration or, in some cases, make you jump. How many times a day do they come? Once? Twice? Maybe, on a particularly action-packed day, five or ten times, tops?

I know what you’re thinking. “Get to the point, you raving lunatic! I only happened upon this blog by chance, and your time is up! Stimulate my mind and/or spirit, or I’m clicking the ‘Back’ button and getting out of here!”

Well, fear not, for here is the crux of the matter. We are surprised when something happens which was not previously in our mind, when something unexpected happens. We further concluded that approximately .1% of daily happenings are surprises. That means that 99.9% of daily happenings are things that we were thinking about prior to their occurrence!

So the point is this: think carefully. Thought is a life-changing power. Depending on how it is used, it will make or break you. Use it wisely, and life will be a joy.

For further reading (and there are few more edifying books than these), please consult As A Man Thinketh by James Allen, and The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale. Either book will be enough to begin a monumental period of change and improvement in your life. I guarantee it.

If you think about disaster, you will get it. Brood about death and you hasten your demise. Think positively and masterfully, with confidence and faith, and life becomes more secure, more fraught with action, richer in achievement and experience. (Edward Rickenbacker)

"Thinking on these things,"
Joezilla

An excerpt from G.K. Chesterton’s Tales of The Long Bow

“All our battles began as jokes and they will end as jokes,” said Owen Hood, staring at the smoke of his cigar as it threaded its way towards the sky in grey and silver arabesque. “They will linger only as faintly laughable legends, if they linger at all; they may pass an idle hour or fill an empty page; and even the man who tells them will not take them seriously. It will all end in smoke like the smoke I am looking at; in eddying and topsy-turvy patterns hovering for a moment in the air. And I wonder how many, who may smile or yawn over them, will realize that where there was smoke there was fire.”

P.S.: Read “The Improbable Success of Mr. Owen Hood” from this book. As a standalone story, it is wonderful.

Bright Lights

I once saw a girl who had a brilliant light shining around her, which followed her wherever she went. I was fascinated and attracted by this light, so I started to follow her.

After a little while, she turned around, looked me in the eye, and said “Why are you following me?”

“Well,” I answered, “you see, there’s this beautifully bright light that’s always shining on you, and I just want to get a better look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“Really? Then I guess you never realized that you have the same kind of light shining on you.”

I looked down at myself hesitantly, and realized that she was right. I thanked her and turned around. What I saw then surprised me even more.

A crowd of people stood behind me, evidently having followed me around for much of the day. They were all staring at the light, the light that I now knew had been shining down on me all my life. What was odd, though, was that they all had the same kind of light on them—they just didn’t seem to know it.

So I walked toward them and began telling each one of them that the light was shining on them, too. And it was as I did this that I realized I had discovered my life’s purpose.

Pity Party

Have you ever felt so intensely sorry for someone that you felt like you would burst with pity? Some people’s problems and predicaments, or even just their very selves, can be so sorrowful, so sorely in need of compassion and help, yet it seems that there is nothing you can do to help them.

As it turns out, there is something you can do. If you are a Christian, you can pray for them. In prayer we take all our thoughts and deeds, our very identities, before God to lay them all at His feet. And it is no different with emotions. Emotions are powerful trademarks of the human family, and I cannot help but believe that such intense phenomena are not only heard by God, but understood and acted upon in some way.

Jesus knew this feeling better than any of us ever have. Mark tells us in his wonderful Gospel that Jesus’ heart “was moved with pity” for a large crowd, “for they were like sheep without a shepherd” (6:34). This happened to be the very same crowd for which he later multiplied the loaves and fishes. As God made human, Jesus understood pity more than we even do, as He looked out on the poor lost sheep he had created, sheep who bungle their purpose and squander their delicate but powerful lives. They needed the nourishment of Spirit and Body, and this is what He came to give them.

There’s a lesson here for those of us caught in the throes of true pity—call on the power of God to help those whom you pity. There is no greater power than God’s, and prayer is our access to Him. When we surrender such concerns to Him Who once gazed upon our ancestors with a blazing and infinite pity, we may realize yet again how much He cares for everyone, and will take care of us all in time.

“Cast your worries upon Him because He cares for you.”
+1 Peter 5:7+

The Big Race

Once there was a big race.

Three men lined up next to each other on the crowded starting line, excited to begin running.

At the gunshot that signaled the start, the three were off, as fast as bullets. They quickly distanced themselves from the rest of the contestants, as they were among the fastest runners present.

The first man couldn’t help but start thinking while he pounded his way alongside his fellows.
“I saw a girl running back there who looked absolutely beautiful,” he thought. “Perhaps I’m running this race to meet her. I’m not one to fool around with destiny—I’d better slow down so she can catch up.”

This he did, and he met the girl after just a few short minutes of deceleration and detection. She was a slow runner, but he was willing to limit his speed in order to keep pace with her. They had a pleasant conversation through the rest of the race, and when they finished it out they took a handy 12th place.

The second man, too, had seen an enticingly attractive lass at the start of the race. Hoping to meet her in the same manner as the first man, he began to slow down in order to reach the crowd of other runners and search for her. To his surprise, this action was unnecessary, because the very girl he’d spied at the onset of the race then came surging ahead of the pack, soon catching up to the second man, who had already begun slowing down.

It is a pity that he had done this, because the pleasant conversation that ensued could just as easily have been carried out at the vanguard of the race—for these two people happened to be the fastest and ablest runners of all. Neither knew this of the other, though, so they finished together in a mediocre 10th place.

The third man, alone at the front of the pack, didn’t think very much during the race, or at least tried not to. Although an imperfect runner, he knew the secret to success in running, which is also the secret to success in anything else—focus solely on the goal, pouring heart and soul into its achievement. He executed this principle to the best of his ability.

His concentration, too, was flawed and fallible. He fell prey to distraction in the form of a familiar or intriguing face, a memorable piece of scenery, or a peculiar sensation.

But for this, too, he had concocted a counteraction: he had resolved beforehand to remind himself of his goal every time he saw a tree—and this was no rare occurrence, considering that he lived in a temperate inland climate!

So it was that our “little engine that could” puffed his way at the front of the pack, muttering to himself near-constant reminders of his goal, when he spied an odd sight in the road ahead of him, something he had not seen for the entirety of the race—namely, another runner.

This runner happened to be a girl, and happened to be a beautiful girl, at that. Although physically appealing, her beauty lay more deeply in her presence than any particular physical attribute. The mere idea of her, as a romantic might put it, was what attracted this man the most—the mere idea that there was another so focused and driven as to reach his position…and, he suddenly realized, to swiftly overtake him!

With a startled determination, the man redoubled his efforts and surged forward—not to catch up with the girl, but to reach the finish line as quickly and skillfully as possible, devoting all his craft and energy toward that goal. He soon overtook her.

His feminine challenger seemed not disheartened, but somehow inspired by the man’s energetic surge ahead, and thus there began an epic whirlwind of back-and-forth, action against action, as each racer would pull ahead, be superseded by the other, and then regain the lead once more. It was in the middle of this cycle that the finish line was crossed.

The results were indisputable; both racers had crossed the line at the exact same instant. They had tied for first place. Afterward, the two enjoyed a victory celebration of ice cream and milkshakes, which would subsequently be recognized as the first of many dates leading up to a long and happy marriage.

* * *

One might be tempted, like that first man, to say that those two had run the race in order to meet one another. They themselves would testify, however, until the day they died (within the same hour of one another, as it happened), that they each ran that race solely to finish it, and not just to finish it, but to finish it in the best way they knew they were capable of.

Footed Flowers

Now I know why I’ve been told that things flower—
in joy is their beauty,
their strength is their duty—
All goodness united to show forth God’s power.

Beings of harmony shine like a flower—
the splendor they carry
remains secondary—
Rejuvenation foundations this tower.

Monuments these, like all things here, sour;
But You Who transform us,
Please water and warm us,
And nurture the radiance of Your every flower.

The Record of Rhyme

Cleaning out your backpack at the end of the schoolyear is like excavating relics at an archaeological dig. Here we encounter the record of a year past, artifacts that clue us into a way of life now extinct, lost forever to the sands of time. Here we see the notes that remind us that, yes, we were just as human then as we are now. And here we discover fragments of that really cool pen that got destroyed by the crushing weight of textbooks.

But what I unearthed today was actually quite a find, at least for me: fragments of poetry that were written at various points throughout the year. I reproduce them here, merely so that I don’t have to preserve a bunch of wrinkled scraps of paper. Enjoy!

Meditations on a Fake Spring Day
How humble is a tree?
It sits making shade,
not asking what time it might
come to our aid.
…
How patient is a tree?
Not worried to find
a tree like itself,
whose colors can bind,
and jointly in vistas
show glory from God—
How patient is a tree?
More patient than me.
…
Lord, grant me the wisdom
implanted of old,
in the vein of each leaf,
the bark’s every fold.

Why we dream
Dreams will make on weak—
Salvation’s earned through life, not mind—
But if I know not what I seek,
How can I truly find?

7 Sacraments (still a work in progress)
I.
Guided by a Hand unknown,
Water made a path from strife;
Always caring for Your own,
Now you lead us to Your Life.
II.
Food made from the fruit of Cain,
Humble, now exalted, saves:
Feed us Love no man can feign,
Making heroes out of knaves.
III.
Catalogues of human vices
Plague our souls in human state;
Your Self-emptied sacrifices
Prove no sin can be too great.

Sky High

Shaun Groves has a wonderful song, "After the Music Fades," in which he declares, "I want to see from Your side of the sky." This line is a beautiful reminder for us to wake up and get moving. It gets right to the heart of perspective, and of everything we need to be.

It's tragically easy to get distracted in this life by the most insignificant things. Most of us spend the majority of our lives wrapped up in our own concerns, absorbed in the futile yet frequent ritual of worrying. And what do we worry about, typically? World hunger? Terrorism? The moral degeneration of western media? No—unless I'm a raving exception (and although I likely am raving, I don't believe I'm an exception), we're wasting our time thinking about unimportant, temporal things. I don't know about you, but I'm busy thinking about that paper I have to write, or that person that I want to meet for lunch, or any other of the many things I have to remember to do with the guy at the place. The point is, we're digging ourselves early graves, and here's the kicker—we don't have to be!

I remember being struck by a song in church earlier this year—unfortunately, the strike didn't really stick—that said "All around you, lives are broken, and Christ has no hands but yours!" I remember how surprised I was to hear such a seemingly pessimistic statement uttered in a church hymn. But on second glance, perhaps it is merely realistic. How many people do you know who are truly happy? I don't just mean they have what they want; I'm talking about true, consistent happiness, the kind of happiness that has transcended emotion and has become character, a scrappy, spirited happiness that is never down for long, and rarely gets down in the first place. How many like that are in your life? Maybe two or three? What does that say about the majority of people? In the midst of all the abundance of a country as prosperous as America, almost everyone you know is at least somewhat unhappy. That's tragic, and yet it's understandable. They're not unhappy for no reason. Their lives are broken. Life is so often filled with suffering. We don't talk about it much, because it's easier and less painful to keep it inside. But tragedy strikes in so many ways, every day. Happiness is a constant battle, and it is all too easy, and almost even understandable, to stop fighting for it, to extinguish the gleam of hope that glimmers in the eye of every hopeful soul.

And that's why those of us who have not been utterly ravaged by tragedy, as well as those who have been ravaged but have gotten up to fight on, must once again clarify our purpose and redouble our efforts. Lives are broken, and we need to fix them.

I know for a fact that I fell off the wagon this year. I lost perspective, and after getting so wrapped up in temporal ambitions and day-to-day goals, I found that, when perspective once again lit up the labyrinthine path of life, I had nearly forgotten this all-important mission, to repair the brokenness of the world through presence of mind, love of God, and love of neighbor. I know that I could have spared myself much unneeded and fruitless concern if I had only been mindful enough to remember that I'm not here to make friends, or to meet girls, or to eat my favorite foods. Although all of those things have their place at life's banquet table, the ultimate purpose for us here is to help one another meet God before it's all over, so that we don’t come to the end of this show and realize we never even talked to the Director.

That's why perspective is so important—it brings us back to the starting point, one might say the Origin, from which, for which, and through which we accomplish all good ends. My flash of enlightened perspective (for which I am still thanking God) was caused and is summed up by this excerpt from another church hymn, a versed adaptation of Isaiah 61:1 (which is also referenced in Luke 4:18):

The Spirit of the Lord is now upon me
To heal the broken heart and set the captives free
To open prison doors and make the blind to see
The Spirit of the Lord is now on me…

This, then, is our mission statement, for all those who truly believe. As Chris Rice says, "Go light your world!" It's up to you to make all things new. Remember to nurture that hopeful starlight that shines in your eyes, and one day it will once again meet its heavenly Source.

God Bless!

Joezilla

Battle Plans

I set out here to gain the world
And pleasure that it brings,
And I became a boyish man,
Doing boyish things.

I longed for lofty destiny,
Ambitions fit for kings,
And I was humbled as a fool,
Forced to ponder things.

I swore to Heaven then and there
I'd strive to earn my wings,
To sing with joy the song within
That true to this day rings.

I sent my forces out to fight,
Endured ensuing stings,
And then discovered how it felt
To live for higher things.

I strove for vict'ry not for Man,
But God, for Whom Man sings,
And I became a little boy,
Doing manly things.

Lost Confidence In Yourself?

It's when you sequester yourself from the people and things that tempt you to compromise your identity and principles that you are reminded of who you really are, what you really believe, and how your best self would act in any situation--thus in doing this, you become ready to face the world again.

If you ever feel unsure of your motivations, get away from the things that make you unsure. Then, when you have recovered your sanity, you are ready to go back into the world--but now you can trust in your own inner compass, and not second-guess your motivations for doing the right thing.

God bless!
Joezilla

Certain Glitters

“Aim at Heaven and you will get Earth thrown in. Aim at Earth and you get neither.”
—C.S. Lewis

The patient Father
Of this dust,
You’ve told the Truth
Since times of old;
And still I need
Your help to trust,
And lay down tin
In search of Gold.

Man Versus Nature

Human beings are hard to please. There's just no satisfying us. Even when we finally find some measure of satisfaction, it seems that we grow tired of it and start searching for new and novel ways of meeting our needs (actually, in most cases, our wants). This sad statute not only applies to physical and emotional desires, but spiritual aspirations, as well; try as we might, we can rarely maintain a good outlook on life if we resort to the same means all the time.

This is rather dismaying news, particularly for those of us enlisted in the War on Unhappiness. New meaning is brought to our struggle as we realize that every day promises another battle to maintain a right view of things. As the Newsboys sing in their song "Rescue,"

Caught in a spell that's overcast
You gain perspective, it doesn't last
All of the time in this life
Can't loose the ties that blind you
They're new every day, old as the Fall…
And I was born in the mess of it all…

As the Newsboys so eloquently point out in referencing the Fall, this seemingly eternal unsatisfaction might be a part of Original Sin. We are too self-centered to realize the blessings of the present moment, and so we choose to focus on what's missing. This doesn't seem like how humans were originally meant to operate, and it certainly doesn't become any warrior who charges against the camps of Unhappiness. Thus, we must reach a concrete conclusion about how we are to proceed: if we want to beat Unhappiness, we have to develop an attitude that counteracts our nature. This attitude has to be one of simplicity, perspective, and gratitude. Notice that some of our steadfast allies have returned—Perspective, which alerts us to the larger world we're a part of, and Gratitude, which sets us down the right path, away from selfishness, anger, and evil. Now Simplicity joins our ranks, as the medium through which we can experience life. The more complex our experience becomes, the more energy we expend in living. Weighed down by expectations and obligations, we are forced to respond to life, rather than live it creatively (in The Seven Habits, Stephen Covey calls this "Living Proactively"). The more baggage we carry around, the less energy we have to be happy. And being happy takes work. "Happiness," as Aristotle wisely observed in my high school agenda, "is a state of activity." G.K. Chesterton puts it even more profoundly in The Man Who Was Thursday:

Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength in levity.

But where are we to find a guide for such an unnatural and difficult attitude? How can we possibly fight nature? Well, human nature can and must be fought at times, and this is one of them. Willpower is part of the answer. But the rest of the answer lies in a startling revelation—we can't do it alone. That's right. If we try to cultivate this attitude by solely our own efforts, we will fail after a short period of time. We need something more. Actually, we need Someone more.

Here is the beauty of Christianity, and the wisdom of Christ. Why did Jesus institute the Eucharist, and why are we told to receive it every week? Because we need it! Our frail natures cannot get by on their own. They need the nurturing hand of God to lead them back on course, the quiet confidence of Jesus to grant honesty and strength to their character, and the invigorating presence of the Spirit to spur them toward the selfless practice of cheerful compassion.

The Newsboys song we referenced earlier goes on to say this:

Then You rescued me, rescued me
Lord, with a touch of Your hand
Another captive freed again
Who else in Heaven could do this but You?
You rescued me, rescued me
Lord, with a love out of mind
Oh, You know I love it when
Everyday I am rescued again!

In short: what humanity lacks, God supplies. And so, victory in our current endeavor seems so much easier, so much more possible, than it did before. One might say we can even taste it, and one would be right, for that is exactly what we do every week at the altar.

An Amateur's Allegory

Imagine for a moment that you have never seen a day. You’ve seen many nights, and have grown up and lived your life under that starred navy, but you’ve never been blinded by light—there just isn’t that much to go around. You were raised to stay in well-lit areas, and to look to light as a guide. Roads and neighborhood paths are lit by lamps, as are the rooms of a house. The light is what keeps you from falling over everything, including yourself.

What kind of life might be lived in these circumstances? You can probably imagine the consequences of avoiding the light: bruises, broken bones, perhaps even a premature death. It is hard, though, to understand the purpose of following the light. In this strange scenario we have imagined, in which the sun has somehow hidden itself from the eyes of man, one wonders: why follow the light at all? We’re doomed to a life of darkness no matter what, so why not throw caution to the wind, and go where we wish, doing what we want, come what may?

Well, allow us to add one more detail to this scenario which answers all of our questions. Suppose that it is possible, if one follows the light throughout the whole dark passage of life, to reach daylight. Can you imagine what it might feel like, after a lifetime of fumbling through the darkest nights in pursuit of faintest lights, to turn the corner one day and see the billowing shades of purple on the horizon? Can you imagine the glory of that first sunrise, as the real source and model of our light rises to a crowning height in the heavens? Here is a reality that you could never have guessed at, but have reached by placing trust in what was told to you: follow the lights! Here, you would realize as you covered your eyes with an eternal sort of satisfaction, is what every one of those lights in my life pointed to. This is that greater reality which I knew, since gazing upon the lights of my youth, existed somewhere, invisible yet present. Even when the lights of the night burned dim and threatened to fade away, I know now that He was watching, He was there, and even then He was guiding me to Him, to here, to now, to this perfect place, beyond anything I could have fathomed.

Indeed, one can find glimmers of truth in the simplest aspects of creation. Remember to follow those lights in your life.

Forcing Our Views

Listening to the "Throne Room/End Credits" music from the original Star Wars movie today reminded me of a truth which sounds suspiciously reminiscent of G.K. Chesterton. It is likely that I have copied this idea nearly verbatim from one of his writings. It is certain that I first learned the idea from his writings. However, it is also certain that I firmly believe in the idea myself. And since Chesterton no longer actively writes any new material on Earth (it's rather difficult, I hear tell, to write from the next world), someone must propagate this tried-and-true worldview, which, in all fairness, predates good old G.K.C. as well.

The idea is simply this: it is when man thinks he is seeing things rightly that he is actually seeing them wrongly. It is when one feels level-headed and realistic that one is actually being shallow and dull. It is when one lands back on Earth that one has set off on a flight of fancy.

What I'm trying to say is that there is so much more to life than we typically imagine. We tend to see our lives in terms of routines: I get up in the morning, I have breakfast, I go to work, I come home, I eat dinner, I go to sleep. And again. And again. It is disturbingly easy to fall into a mindset that essentially sets perseverance and appreciation as its highest goals: "If I can make it through this day without snapping at anyone, and perhaps even enjoying my routine a little, then I'll have been successful."

To view life in terms of a single day's accomplishment is a tragic waste of the potential of human life. Life is a story, an epic, an adventure. It has a narrative arc; characters enter the story, and leave, and sometimes return. We are imprisoned and escape, we fall in love, we pledge allegiance to great causes and fight to uphold them, we make tremendous sacrifices, and yes, eventually, we die, off to bigger and better things than anyone here could well imagine.

We have such short attention spans that it is hard to lastingly commit to this worldview. But the art of life lies in attaining difficult goods, in implementing behaviors that don't stick easily, but pay huge dividends when they do stick. So if you need a change in perspective, listen to the "Throne Room" song from Star Wars IV. Close your eyes, and let the music transport you to a galaxy far, far away. And when you open your eyes, realize that you live in such a galaxy yourself.

May the Force be with you!
Joezilla

Sighting the Blind

What sort of sinner is more dangerous to society? He who sins knowingly, understanding the evil of his act, or he who sins and assumes his action is not sinful? Certainly it is the latter, because the former reflects an unchangeable fact about man—namely, that he always has and will continue to voluntarily do evil sometimes. The latter, on the other hand, is always more hazardous to a good society, because as the generations advance, certain attitudes can take hold and become dominant within a society. If an attitude takes hold which is permissive toward some sinful behavior, this sin will gradually become more widespread, until it is seen as reprehensible by only a small and ineffectual minority.

Such seems to be the present course of our society with regards to sexuality.

"Back in the day," premarital sex was, as they say, taboo. Single mothers were frowned upon by the societal eye, because their circumstances trumpeted an irresponsible and irrevocable choice. Now, it is true that choices are merely notches in the timeline of life, and the choice of one day can be regretted on the next. It is the present intentions and attitudes that count, not past ones. Thus, ostracism is not a just societal response to single motherhood. HOWEVER…we must not throw out the baby with the bathwater (please forgive my use of a metaphor that is quite confusing in this context). The ostracism, though wrong, came from a perfectly righteous and upright attitude, ingrained deeply in society's fabric: Premarital sex was simply unacceptable.

Over the course of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, this tectonic plate has all but disappeared from the crust of contemporary society (if I may switch to a completely different metaphor for society). Although premarital sex is not necessarily encouraged by media at large (although in certain public school sex-ed curricula, it certainly is), it is most definitely not discouraged like it used to be. While the act of premarital sex used to be prohibited on moral grounds (i.e. "The decision is just plain wrong"), with STDs seen as the unfortunate consequence of the sin, modern society instead focuses on STDs as the primary evil of premarital sex. As usual, society has sacrificed the eternal, spiritual concern in favor of the temporal and physical one.

Thus, the ideal of protection has replaced the ideal of chastity. St. Augustine says that a man can order his life wisely by adhering to three principles: subordinating the inferior to the superior, joining like to like, and giving everything its due. Modern society has failed on the first count. Rather than focus on the effect premarital sex has on the institution of marriage and the individual soul, we choose to focus on the lesser concern of physical well-being. And built without a foundation, the building will crumble. Our generation must get to work on transforming society's vision of sexuality, restoring to it the respect and discretion it rightly once had.

I would wager that those who misuse sex have no concept of what it really is, what they are really doing when they make that choice. And here we return to the opening sentiments: those who have no knowledge of their sin are far more dangerous to society than those who knowingly do evil. There will always be sinners; there always have been. But sinners are self-aware, and can repent. A sighted man can open his eyes any time he chooses. A blind man, on the other hand, can only rely on the guidance of those around him.

Hopefully,

Joezilla