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.