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?

Christmas, The Bishop's Wife, and True Service

Hello there, and Merrrrrrry Christmas!

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In case you were wondering, dear reader (if, in fact, there is any dear reader out there to be wondering), the seemingly unintelligible jumble of symbols above is my patented new Santa Smiley (all rights reserved, of course!). If you're puzzled by this moniker, look at it sideways and everything will make sense. Ho-ho-ho!

Today I just watched the wonderful Christmas film The Bishop's Wife, starring Cary Grant, David Niven, and Loretta Young. It's a wonderful movie that could be best characterized with a single word: charm. The actors are charmingly entertaining—funny when they're supposed to be funny, touching when they're supposed to be touching, and at all times quite convincing in the clever little plot the movie relates.

It is a great film from a great era of film-making, but this is not what puts it over the top. On the contrary, the greatest charm of this movie comes in its superb and enlivening message.

I firmly contend that the best entertainment is the kind that makes us want to be better people. The best book is the book that, upon its finishing, causes the reader to throw it to the ground, jump up in a fit of ecstasy, and embark on some great adventure that will somehow better the world. The best song is that which grants its listeners a supernatural sort of energy upon hearing it or even thinking of it, the kind of song that galvanizes the dazed denizens of the doldrums (we've all been there) and renders them ready for righteous battle on some unknown front in the war of their own life. And the best movie is the kind that gives us a larger view of life—one that, by means of its broadness and great perspective, provides us with creative new solutions to old problems...as well as the hope and inspiration to carry out such ambitious endeavors.

The Bishop's Wife is just such a movie. Its headlining actor, Cary Grant, plays the role of the angel Dudley (what a great name for an angel!) with a paradoxical mix of vivacity and restraint—two typically contrasting traits effectively united by a peaceful air of sheer goodness—showing us a character who has an overwhelmingly positive effect on everyone he encounters. We can't help but be won over by Dudley as we see him in action, spreading faith and honesty with every word he utters and every move he makes. And there's a part of each one of us that longs to be like him—to be connected to God with such a firm bond as to walk each day with supreme confidence as we do good work.

Of course, there is more to this movie than merely an inspiring character (which is easily enough to carry a movie on its own—see Jimmy Stewart's Harvey if you need some convincing). The greatest message of the movie arrives in its final scene, as David Niven's Bishop Henry delivers one of the most poignant, effective, and spot-on Christmas messages Hollywood has ever produced. Here it is, in its entirety:

Tonight I want to tell you the story of an empty stocking.

Once upon a midnight clear, there was a child's cry, a blazing star hung over a stable, and wise men came with birthday gifts. We haven't forgotten that night down the centuries. We celebrate it with stars on Christmas trees, with the sound of bells, and with gifts.

But especially with gifts. You give me a book, I give you a tie. Aunt Martha has always wanted an orange squeezer and Uncle Henry can do with a new pipe. We forget nobody, adult or child. All the stockings are filled—all, that is, except one. And we have even forgotten to hang it up. The stocking for the Child born in a manger. It's His birthday we're celebrating. Don't let us ever forget that.

Let us ask ourselves what He would wish for most. And then, let each put in his share: loving kindness, warm hearts, and a stretched-out hand of tolerance. All the shining gifts that make peace on earth.

What we see here is a call to action, in the greatest of spirits. It is a call to service, but not the kind of service we typically think of. The sermon does not explicitly tell us to go to Africa and feed the starving children (although many do, and render the world a great gift in doing so). It does not exhort us to go and build homes for disaster victims (although many do, and can joyfully make an irreplaceable difference in the life of a fellow human being in doing so). It does not command us to spend our every moment engaged in feeding the hungy at soup kitchens (although many do, and help provide a chance at success to countless souls in doing so). No, the sermon does not call us to anything that the world would call "great." It calls us to a different kind of service, a more fundamental one that can begin anywhere and continue into eternity—and, if put into practice, will change the world in a truer way than any work of human hands ever could.

This type of service begins in the heart, and consists of one simple step: Conduct yourself with love. Love for God, love for other people, and love for yourself. Mother Teresa summed it up quite well when she told us to Do small things with great love. If we conduct ourselves with love, then we will always produce good fruit in the world. Love the people you have contact with. Have faith that God made them and put them in your life for you to love them, as He Himself loves them. Love the places you frequent, the vehicle that transports you, the work that sustains your life. Love your church and your God, and don't ever forget to love yourself. If you find yourself looking in the mirror and finding that there isn't much to love, do two things:

1. Realize that as a creation of God, you are fundamentally worthy of love, no matter how bad a person you have been. St. Paul wasn't lying when he said that Nothing can separate us from the love of God. You deserve to be loved by yourself, because you are already loved by God—no matter what! Right the wrongs and move forward in confidence.

2. If there are flaws in your character that seem unlovable, change them! Resolve to change them, out of love for Him Who created you, out of love for those who must deal with your flaws, and out of love for you, who deserve to enjoy a higher, more successful existence. Choose to be dynamic.

"Conduct yourself with love." Of course, this is not a new message. Certainly it appears countless times in the New Testament. But seeing a movie like The Bishop's Wife is a great modern wrapping of this timeless message, a message that seems all too forgotten in the world.

This Christmas, and all the time, I commit myself to doing this kind of service as much as my fractured human awareness permits me—and I hope that you will do the same, dear reader.

I would like to invite you to join me in renewing a little Yuletide tradition that I previously kept in my personal journal, but sadly neglected to continue last year. The tradition, which I'm glad to have you aboard for, is that of writing and reading a prayer at Christmastime. Regardless of whether or not you are "a praying man," to quote George Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life (it's a wonderful movie), I invite you to read through this. If you believe in God, then you know that praying this will do good things for the world. If you don't believe, then what's the harm in saying a few words? It would mean a lot to me. Here, let's begin:

Dear Father in Heaven,

On behalf of humanity, thanks for the awesome Christmas present! You came to us as a man, entering this world by the same way that all of us enter, coming as a baby. In the beautiful birth of that baby, You were and are the greatest Christmas present of all. Help us to realize that. Help us to listen deeply to the carols that tell of your birth, and grant us insight into what your coming really means for all of us and for our salvation.

We pray that you will not let us forget the small changes of mind and heart and hand that can make the world's difference for the person next to us—the smiles on our lips, the warmth in our tone of voice, and the fire of love in our hearts. May Your spirit ignite and rekindle that fire in our hearts, and may we be open to this nourishing flow that connects our human hearts with Your sacred heart.

And may we never forget the sacrifices of those who make us happy at Christmas and throughout the year—sacrifices that imitate the ultimate sacrifice you made for us up on Calvary hill. That was the final act of the life that began on the first Christmas night. Let us not forget that, either.

But most of all let us not forget that the life that began on that first Christmas still continues to this day—and the jolliest Christmas spirit is merely a reflection of that original Gift, the Gift Who changed the world. Let our faith in You nurture a servant's heart in all of us, that we may serve the world each in our own way, and help our fellow humans to have a Merry Christmas and the Happiest of New Years!

We ask all of this in Your name, Jesus.

AMEN.

Merry Christmas, and here's to the best New Year yet!

With Christmas Love,

Joezilla

Open Happiness

Has your joy ever been stifled by someone else's pain? Have you ever been tempted (or pressured by another) to be less happy than you feel because of the sadness in someone else's life?

Recently I was enjoying a pleasant, snowy December morning working at the church office when I learned of the death of a young parishioner's mother. A college-age person like me, he was far too young, it seemed, to have to deal with the death of a parent.

Before receiving this news, my thoughs had been focused on preparing for a church Christmas concert I was performing in. It had the potential to be a great concert, and I wanted to make my contributions as wholehearted and satisfying as possible. But how, I now wondered, could I think about and enjoy something so frivolous and carefree as a concert while someone else was going through a tragic period of suffering?

My ruminations continued, pushing the issue even further—at any given moment, I realized, millions of people around the world (and right outside my door) are enduring unspeakable pain, suffering, and tragedy. How can someone who is not experiencing such hurt possibly be happy (and try to make others happy) when his very happiness might increase their pain?

Well, read the previous sentence once more. Since when does one person's happiness increase another's pain? The only situation in which this could occur would be if the unhappy person became jealous of the happy one. This is a personal decision on the part of the unhappy person, and has nothing to do with the happy person.

There is no obligation to decrease your spirit because of another's pain.

When the bluebird of happiness chooses to perch on our shoulder, we are given a gift, and it is our mission to use the dynamic energy of happiness to help those around us.

If you are happy, your positive mood will often affect those around you in a discernibly good way—they will be warmed and uplifted by your presence. In fact, you may make more of a difference than you think. Your happiness could actually help prevent an unspeakable sort of tragedy in someone else's life, merely because of the effect you had on them. It has been said that a smile can stop a suicide. I believe those stories when I hear them. You truly never know whose life you might help change.

If someone reacts negatively to your happiness—if they lash out at you, mock you, or by any other method make you feel inferior or wrong for being happy—take heart. You have done nothing but reach out to them. Instead of letting their reaction get you down, you should resolve to stay in a mindset of peacefulness and thanks. And pray for the person as soon as you part ways.

Happily,
Joezilla

P.S.: "It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air." ~W.T. Ellis