The Skeptic

We don't know much about Heaven. Although we can draw on Christian revelation to acknowledge some basic facts about the place—for instance, that it is eternal and supremely fulfilling, and that it involves perfect fellowship with God—our religion is rather vague when it comes to details. I'm not just talking about the color of Heaven's wallpaper, of course, but more prickly questions like who gets in and what they have to do before they get there (yes, there's a doctrine of Purgatory, which is sort of like a training room for Heaven, but what can we say about Purgatory other than that it exists?), and—perhaps most interestingly—what happens the moment we die. Where do we go? How does it feel? These are questions whose answers do not lie on earth, and about which we can only speculate while we dwell here. What follows is just such a speculation. Join me if you will as we begin our story, on a train...

A Catholic, an Evangelical, and an atheist were riding together (this is not a joke, I promise!). Upon seeing the atheist, who was wearing a shirt that said "God is not great," the Evangelical leaned over to the Catholic and said, "He will not see Heaven. He is not saved." The Catholic answered, "I do not know."

The next moment, the train crashed, and all three men died.

Suddenly they stood in a long line of people. Jesus stood in front of the line, speaking to each person for a brief moment before sending them to his left or to his right.

When the atheist came to Jesus, he was asked, "Who do you say that I am?" The atheist, visibly struck by his experience and by the Lord's loving gaze, fell prostrate and cried, "My Lord and my God!" The Lord immediately welcomed him to Paradise.

When the Catholic stepped forward, Jesus asked, "What do you want me to do for you?" The Catholic genuflected and said, "O Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner!" Jesus answered, "Your sins are forgiven," and welcomed him into Paradise.

Finally, the Evangelical came forward. Jesus asked him, "Where are you going?" After a momentary pause, the Evangelical's quiet response was, "I don't know." Instantly the Lord embraced him and led him into Paradise.

THE END.

Holy Hill

Today my family and I made our first pilgrimage—excluding our annual trek to the Thanksgiving table, of course. We visited the National Shrine of Mary, Help of Christians, situated atop lofty Holy Hill in Wisconsin. The site is considered by many to be a place of miraculous healings, and a collection of crutches, canes, and leg-braces—abandoned by the recipients of such divine help—attest to the fact. It is certainly a special place, endowed with what seems to us a more direct access to the Almighty.

Today, it was also a bustling place. Crowds flocked to Holy Hill to partake not only of its religious offerings, but also its beautiful autumn colors. For my family, a myriad of adventures contributed to the day’s fullness, and describing any one of them could conceivably take up a sizeable chunk of eternity. However, one aspect of the trip returned to my mind’s eye late in the day, and so—with sincere apologies to the arresting vistas, the dazzling Church positively charged with grace, and the mini-miracle of the vitalizing holy water—I zoom in on one moment of today’s events, which occurred rather early in the itinerary.

We were making the arduous journey up the main hill, climbing uneven wood-framed steps to ascend to the Church’s entrance for 12:30 Mass. I noticed a man on his way down whose build seemed to tell the story of a once-active individual, unfortunately shackled now by an injured leg. With his knee wrapped in some sort of brace, he struggled to limp down the stairs, attended by his wife. At the sight of him a gray cloud of pity and sadness temporarily arose in my thoughts, in spite of the sunny blue skies surrounding us. Had this pilgrim come hoping for a miracle? If so, I sadly reflected, he was now descending the mountain, heading home in the same condition he had arrived. There was no miracle here for him. I turned back to look at him after he had passed by, wished him a silent blessing, and continued on my way.

A little reflection, if performed in the right spirit, can go a long way in dispelling unwelcome gloom. And the maxim stands admirably in this case. Miracles are wonderful occurrences, but they are not guaranteed rewards for belief. Jesus himself acknowledged the hard truth that miracles do not always come when expected: “There were many lepers in Israel during the time of Elisha the prophet; yet not one of them was cleansed, but only Naaman the Syrian” (Luke 4:27). Nor are miracles litmus tests for God’s power—or His love. A faith that could be shattered by the lack of a miracle could be shattered by many other things as well—and strictly speaking, could not be called faith if it relied on the evidence a miracle would provide. But most importantly, miracles come in all shapes and sizes. Even Holy Hill’s website points out that “some healings are gradual while others are dramatic and instant.” I saw that man limping down the steps of Holy Hill at 12:15 today. I did not see him climb into his car. I did not see him eating dinner. I will not see him ten or twenty years from now. But God will, and who can imagine what He might have planned for this man? Remember, we’re talking about the Person Who invented snow. God is the source and summit of creativity.

We humans have a pesky habit of seeing life solely in terms of our extremely limited perspective. That was my failure when I faced that man and thought about his condition. The same failure might attend someone upon hearing about Holy Hill’s unfortunate defacement in 2006. It seems that, moved with the zeal that only the calendar can inspire, a couple of lost souls vandalized Holy Hill’s main Church on June 6, 2006 (aren’t they clever?) with profane graffiti. Of course this is sad news, and rightfully evokes a range of emotions on the part of believers. That said, the one emotion that it should not evoke is fear. Although it might seem natural to shudder at such demonstrations of stark and burning evil, it is actually quite unnatural to fear it. C.S. Lewis has a helpful (and rather hilarious) insight for us here: “A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.” The same could be said for the walls of a church.

What threat do a handful of anti-social youths pose to the Catholic Church? For that matter, what threat would a vast army of Satan’s followers pose? Even if Catholicism represented a tiny minority within a world of demonic enemies, it would be no less safe, no less serene, than it is right now and always has been. As Simon and Garfunkel so eloquently testified in a rather obscure song, “You can burn down my churches, but I shall be free.” We are people of God, and our hope comes not from the physical well-being of ourselves or our most treasured places and objects, but from the unshakeable, irresistible, unavoidable presence of God, Who created us, lovingly sustains us at every moment, and has promised salvation to all who believe in Him and act accordingly. The desecration (or even destruction, God forbid) of a church does not even graze the supernatural surface of the Church. That is God’s property, upon which no man or spirit may malevolently trespass.

As I said, we tend to see life from limited perspectives. Thankfully, our faith has a way of reminding us that life is so much bigger, so much better, than our fallen natures and tragic experiences lead us to believe. Christianity, though it comes to us in physical forms like Sacraments and miracles, speaks of a truth that lies beyond our world. So even if that man’s leg never heals in this life, he will still be able to meet God in prayer, receive Him in the Eucharist, and thank Him for the blessings gratuitously bestowed with each dawning day. And so can we.

May the blessings of God reach you wherever you are today, and may you happily accept them.

Sincerely,
Joezilla

Does God Disappoint Us?

A loving God would not place desires in our hearts, and dreams in our souls, if He did not also offer us opportunities to fulfill them, or offer opportunities for greater things, thereby surpassing the dreams we began with.

I have spoken to many people who worry that they will never see their dreams fulfilled. I offer in response a word of encouragement and a word of caution.

To encourage, I say that God knows your heart, and will not sneak opportunities past you. When the time comes for a choice that will decide your destiny,—and don’t kid yourself that such choices come only rarely—God will make the time to act clear, and He thus will pass control of your life into your hands…provided your eyes are open and you are ready to act boldly. And here is where the word of caution comes in.

We are not put on this earth to be made happy by God. God wants us to be happy, yes, but happiness is merely the result—not the goal—of our mission: growing closer to God, becoming holy, cultivating spirits strong and passionate, but also light and loving. And if we do not devote ourselves—at least as best as we are able—to these pursuits, all the promises necessitated by God’s loving nature are not as clearly guaranteed; this is not because He would refuse to offer opportunities for fulfillment to any of His children,—He will always offer them—but because if we are not prepared to face our destinies when they approach, we may not recognize them, or find ourselves too fearful to respond properly.

But if we are always working toward self-improvement with God’s help, then we just have to be patient, and continue to live in hope.

Hopefully,
Joezilla

I Have A Confession To Make

“I couldn’t accept it in theory, but it made sense in practice.” This was the statement I found myself making in a conversation with one of my closest friends about the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

We’re both devout Catholics who have always gladly partaken of the Sacraments applicable to our stage in life, but we have, admittedly, also shared some reservations about Reconciliation. This didn’t stop us from participating in it, but certain problems have tended to pop up in our conversations about it. The quote printed at the top of this post reveals the epiphany I am slowly enjoying regarding the Sacrament: I am now realizing how important regular Reconciliation is to a committed Catholic life. As I feel particularly inspired tonight, I would like to address the two chief concerns that have sometimes weathered away confidence in the Sacrament.

The first is the fact that Reconciliation consists partly of confessing one’s sins to another human being—imperfect, subjective, and susceptible to sin. Confidentiality might worry some, but I can assure anyone plagued by such worries that it is a truly confidential affair. Every priest I have ever heard speak about hearing confession has testified that it is a humbling privilege, and that they can feel the Holy Spirit working through them in their ability to listen, to speak words of comfort or advice, and to assign an appropriate penance. They also value the Seal of Confession—the priestly duty to keep penitents’ sins completely confidential—as highly as anything else in their profession. In short, they take Reconciliation seriously.

But this is not the issue that bothered us. The real problem with confessing to another man, one might argue, is that the action is ultimately just that—confession to another human soul. Why the need for an intermediary? Well, simply put, Reconciliation is a Sacrament, and like any other Sacrament, its administration requires someone who has been endowed with the authority and power to do so. Just as the consecration of the Eucharist requires an ordained priest, so Reconciliation requires a priestly intermediary.

You could, if you so choose, picture the priest’s authority and power as a sort of special machine that only he possesses. If someone who doesn’t have the machine—i.e. is not ordained—attempts to perform a priestly function, said function will have no certain effect. On the other hand, our faith tells us—with the same assurance that it tells us everything else—that a priest’s Sacramental actions are real—real in the highest sense, which is the supernatural sense. If I enter the confessional with my aunt Sally and proceed to confess my deepest sins to her, she can listen and offer advice and even suggest what I might do to fix my broken relationship with God—but she cannot offer the guarantee of complete and total forgiveness, by the power of Christ and in the name of the Catholic Church, that an ordained priest could and would offer. Furthermore, there is no guarantee that she will keep it silent.

Finally, strictly speaking, the priest is not the one who is forgiving you—he is acting in persona Christi, in the person of Christ. Jesus Christ is present in every confessional booth, listening to your sins, leading you back to him, and loving you fully all the while.

This leads to the next potentially questionable aspect of Reconciliation. Simply put, Jesus died on the cross, and through his passion and death he bore the weight of all of our sins—which were forgiven through his unfathomable act of sacrifice and atonement. Why, then, do we need to go and get forgiven again? Doesn’t Jesus love us anyway?

Well, to answer the last question right away, yes—Jesus loves us no matter what. St. Paul made this clear when he asserted that “Nothing can separate us from the love of God” in his letter to the Romans. Given this, why do we say that someone might not get to Heaven if they die without having confessed their sins?

In order to answer this question, we need to briefly talk about what Hell really means in Catholic theology. Of course, volumes and volumes could be written about this subject, but in a nutshell Hell is complete and eternal separation from God, brought on by—and this is the important part—our refusal to accept His love. The only way we can get to Hell is by saying no to God and slamming the door in His amazing face. God’s will for us is clear: He wants us to be united with Him, each person remaining unique but joined with Him and with one another in an unshakeable bond of intimate love unlike anything on Earth. In order to be united with God, Who is perfect, we must first be made perfect. Jesus gave us the Sacraments to help bring us closer to this goal before we complete the job in Purgatory.

That said, it becomes clear that Reconciliation is not the act of God listening, evaluating our penitence, and reluctantly saying, “Okay, I’ve changed my mind. I forgive you!” No—God doesn’t change. He’s perfect and He’s outside of time. No change there. Reconciliation is in fact about us, and how we change in the presence of God and His amazing love. This is not to say that a supernatural sort of transaction has not taken place, of course. On the contrary, God actually does wipe our slate clean when we are absolved. Our sins are forgiven, as the priest tells us after we are absolved. But God’s will has not changed, only our relationship with Him, and our ability to relate to Him once again. The disunion is mended. We are no longer standing in our own way, tripping ourselves as we try to walk toward God.

Jesus’ suffering and death did pay for all our sins. The New Testament testifies to this truth as much as it testifies to any other. However, like the debris accumulated in an air filter, sin has had an effect on us, and we need the Sacrament of Reconciliation to be wiped clean. It’s not about having God erase the checkmarks by your name on the heavenly report card; on the contrary, it’s about God making you ready to come closer to Him again. When we have consciously committed a sin we cannot get as close to God, because sin is separation from God. We cannot choose closeness and separation and expect to achieve either one. If we try, our spiritual life becomes superficial, dishonest, and dull. And under those conditions, we’re shooting ourselves in the foot before we start walking.

I like to call it Reconciliation. This is a more complete name for the Sacrament than “confession,” which forgets to include the whole absolution part—which is, needless to say, kind of important! Yes, I’m finally coming around on Reconciliation. I hope that this post will help you do the same, dear readers.

Authentically,
Joezilla

Here Comes Trouble...?

Why are troublemakers held in such high esteem? Not everyone does this, of course, but there is an unmistakable regard already conferred upon troublemakers by middle school which continues on up through all levels of education. Why is the kid who talks back to the teacher given special esteem by so many of his peers? Why is the football player who wields the towel-whip in the locker room worshipped by girls and deferred to by guys? Why does the hung-over frat boy, unshowered and uncombed, command any following at all—much less the rapt attention of the long-haired sorority-sisters in the back rows of Econ class?

These are not the frustrated ventings of a repressed social underling, I assure you. I thankfully was taught early in life that the best way to strike out against absurd social precedents (like the one in question) is to act as if they don't exist. Conflict will arise, of course—and that's when things get really exciting.

No, this reflection is merely based on a fundamental contradiction I sense in the idea of considering troublemakers "cool." When something is cool, we want to be a part of it. It is attractive. It appeals to us. Normally, for something to be appealing, there must be a high degree of mastery in some skill or art. Virtuosos are cool. If we see Yo-Yo Ma perform a demanding technical piece on the cello or John Mayer nail a mind-boggling guitar solo, we say "Cool!" Likewise, savvy people are cool. Think of the coolest person you know. Chances are they're good with words, in a down-to-earth sort of way. They know how to interact well. They understand the rules, and they work well within them.

Are you starting to see the contradiction? We usually respect and admire people who are good at things, who understand how to work within the rules of some discipline (be it music, juggling, conversation, or anything else) in order to produce something extraordinary.

But for troublemakers, it is the exact opposite situation. People who get in trouble don't understand the rules. They aren't savvy. They fail to recognize limits. It is no surprise that, when I consider the most audacious troublemakers of my own generation and experience, the ones who bucked authority even beyond the traditional precedents (and were esteemed by peers all the more for it), four of them are no longer alive. Troublemakers don't respect limits because they don't understand them. As opposed to the heightened sensitivities of the masters, troublemakers display a marked lack of a certain kind of sense. Tragically, this can be the death of them.

Of course, there are exceptions to this. In the face of an evil authority or an unjust rule, trouble must be made, and confidently—regardless of the outcome. Jesus of Nazareth was crucified on the grounds that he was a troublemaker, but he displayed a sensitivity the likes of which the world has not seen since. If telling people to honor God, stop sinning, and love one another is trouble, then count me in—and I'll bring the spitballs.

But that is a completely different situation. The modern bad boys are neither calling others to live better lives nor sacrificing themselves for ultimate causes. They're merely coasting through life—ignoring standards and risking their own necks in the process. Why does anyone pay any attention to them? More importantly for us, what can we do to combat this sorry tendency?