Disney's 1993 version of The Three Musketeers is a family favorite. It's not exactly Citizen Kane, but where else can you find Robin, Jack Bauer, and Charlie Sheen matching wits with Pennywise?
One bit in the movie always bugged me, though. After having dispatched their enemies, Aramis is seen praying over the bodies of the slain and making the Sign of the Cross over them. D'Artagnan asks Athos, "What is he doing?" and Athos responds, "Last Rites. Aramis takes death very seriously." Not that I expect theological accuracy from a Disney movie, but there are several problems with this, and it might be a useful segue to a discussion on just what are the "Last Rites" and what they're about.
The so-called "Last Rites" are the three sacraments that are administered to those who are in danger of death (whether actually dying or in a serious medical situation). The three sacraments are Penance, Anointing of the Sick, and the Eucharist, given to cleanse the soul of sin and its effects, to prepare the recipient in case his life should end, or, if it be God's will, to heal his body and restore his life. Penance forgives sin; Anointing heals from the effect of sin and potentially restores health; and the Eucharist brings communion with God.
One common point of confusion is the tendency to conflate the Anointing of the Sick with "the Last Rites." You can receive Anointing apart from these other sacraments, and just because you're receiving Anointing does not mean you're going to die, or that the priest thinks you're going to die. Though there is some dispute over when exactly Anointing may be given (not wanting to give it either too frequently or too seldom), the Church's practice makes clear that those who are suffering from serious chronic medical conditions and those who are about to undergo a potentially risky procedure may receive the sacrament as a a means of comfort in their time of physical and spiritual trial.
So, after all that, we can see several problems in this scene from The Three Musketeers.
First problem: Aramis is not a priest, as far as I can tell. (It seems that he had had some training of that sort at one point, and I think in some of the later stories Aramis does become a cleric, but at this point, I don't believe he is.) Though any person could bring the Eucharist to someone, only a priest can dispense the sacraments of Penance and Anointing.
Second problem: Even if Aramis were a priest/soldier, he didn't appear to have brought the Oil of the Sick with him in his saddlebags, and thus he couldn't be administering the Anointing of the Sick. And since he doesn't appear to be giving the Eucharist to the dead soldier, or hearing his confession (both of which would be rather difficult for a dead man), then what he's doing can't be called "the Last Rites."
Third problem (perhaps the biggest problem of all): the enemy soldiers appear to be already dead. The sacraments are for the living, to put them into contact with God's grace that their wills may be strengthened to choose to love God. Once you're dead, your life's choice is made, and the sacraments are no longer of avail.
Or think of it this way: A living person is a union of soul and body; when that person dies, the soul is separated from the body (such that we don't even call it a body anymore, but a corpse [and yes, I know "corpse" comes from the Latin corpus meaning "body" but don't quibble with me]). So if a sacrament comes into contact with the dead body, it can have no effect on the person, because, with the soul being separated from it, then in a sense, that body is no longer that person's--nobody's home. (Yes, the soul does maintain a certain relationship to the body after death, but that's a conversation for another time.)
Point being: whatever Aramis is doing, it ain't the Last Rites. But Charlie Sheen praying is a good in itself.
Showing posts with label Eucharist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eucharist. Show all posts
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
On Comparing and Not Comparing Buddhism and Christianity
I'm taking a class on Buddhism this semester. Specifically, the class concerns the branch of Buddhism known as "Theravada," or "The Elders' View," designated thus because it claims to be that interpretation of the Buddha's teachings that was held and set out by those who were closest to him; after his passing, they gathered and chanted his teachings and agreed among themselves as to the wording of his teachings.
Now, one might read that sentence and say, "Oh, so it's sort of like what the apostles did after Jesus died and rose and ascended." Yes, there may be some similarities, but I've been trying not to make such comparisons while taking this course. Though it may sometimes aid understanding to relate some aspect of Buddhism to Christianity, I think more often it may be a hindrance. Conflating ideas in the two systems makes them lose their distinctiveness; if you translate the Buddhist term arahant (one who has become enlightened) as "saint," you drag all the connotations of that English word into the Buddhist word. Then you're no longer trying to understand Buddhism on its own terms, but instead are engaging it by mapping Christianity onto it. And then you'll go on to say how really similar all the world's religions are, how they're all true in their own way, etc. etc., when in fact you only say that because you're seeing Buddhism (and the rest of the world's religions) through Christian-colored glasses. While it's important to recognize truth wherever it exists, when we re-write other religions in Christian terminology, we're not helping that cause, only muddying the waters. We end up fulfilling the maxim of Msgr. Ronald Knox: "the study of comparative religions is the best way to become comparative religious."
That said, one tiny element of my reading struck me, and I thought a comparison would be beneficial precisely because it is true but likely to be rejected. In his book Theravada Buddhism: The View of the Elders, Asanga Tilakaratne describes the method for meditation. He says quite strongly that the one meditating "needs to find a suitable place for meditation and sit cross-legged with an erect body." Needs to? Needs to? How interesting. Many a Western person would read that and say, "The Buddhist understands the great importance of physical posture in maintaining a certain mindset. If you want to pay attention to something, have your body at attention: sit up, breathe deeply. If you slouch in your chair in class, you won't listen. You need to make your body ready for your mind to work. This makes perfect sense."
BUT if you were to tell many a Western person that there might be a preferred posture for praying or for engaging in that supreme act of communion with God, receiving the Eucharist, i.e. on one's knees, many of the very same Western persons who had just enunciated the universal proposition that there is a link between one's physical posture and one's mental state will suddenly make an about-face, and become indignant, and declare with deep feeling, "I may approach my God however I choose. It makes no difference whether I pray kneeling or sitting or standing on my head! It's all the same! God can hear me just as well! Quit trying to impose your preferences on me, you patriarchal, fascist conformist!"
Hmm. What a stark difference. What seemed an obvious and universal truth of human existence and operation in one context is suddenly objectionable in another context. But that truth can become obfuscated in our own familiar situation by cultural baggage and associations of thought. For some people, the thought of praying or receiving the Eucharist on one's knees conjures up images of a "pre-Vatican II mindset" of alleged rigidity and harshness and every other negative term one can associate with a religion, when it ought to convey reverence and humility and devotion. All that baggage obscures their view of the simple undeniable fact that there's a link between one's physical disposition and one's mental disposition. Anyone can see it; but sometimes your so blinded to your situation at home, you have to look at the neighbor's to see things as they are.
Now, one might read that sentence and say, "Oh, so it's sort of like what the apostles did after Jesus died and rose and ascended." Yes, there may be some similarities, but I've been trying not to make such comparisons while taking this course. Though it may sometimes aid understanding to relate some aspect of Buddhism to Christianity, I think more often it may be a hindrance. Conflating ideas in the two systems makes them lose their distinctiveness; if you translate the Buddhist term arahant (one who has become enlightened) as "saint," you drag all the connotations of that English word into the Buddhist word. Then you're no longer trying to understand Buddhism on its own terms, but instead are engaging it by mapping Christianity onto it. And then you'll go on to say how really similar all the world's religions are, how they're all true in their own way, etc. etc., when in fact you only say that because you're seeing Buddhism (and the rest of the world's religions) through Christian-colored glasses. While it's important to recognize truth wherever it exists, when we re-write other religions in Christian terminology, we're not helping that cause, only muddying the waters. We end up fulfilling the maxim of Msgr. Ronald Knox: "the study of comparative religions is the best way to become comparative religious."
That said, one tiny element of my reading struck me, and I thought a comparison would be beneficial precisely because it is true but likely to be rejected. In his book Theravada Buddhism: The View of the Elders, Asanga Tilakaratne describes the method for meditation. He says quite strongly that the one meditating "needs to find a suitable place for meditation and sit cross-legged with an erect body." Needs to? Needs to? How interesting. Many a Western person would read that and say, "The Buddhist understands the great importance of physical posture in maintaining a certain mindset. If you want to pay attention to something, have your body at attention: sit up, breathe deeply. If you slouch in your chair in class, you won't listen. You need to make your body ready for your mind to work. This makes perfect sense."
BUT if you were to tell many a Western person that there might be a preferred posture for praying or for engaging in that supreme act of communion with God, receiving the Eucharist, i.e. on one's knees, many of the very same Western persons who had just enunciated the universal proposition that there is a link between one's physical posture and one's mental state will suddenly make an about-face, and become indignant, and declare with deep feeling, "I may approach my God however I choose. It makes no difference whether I pray kneeling or sitting or standing on my head! It's all the same! God can hear me just as well! Quit trying to impose your preferences on me, you patriarchal, fascist conformist!"
Hmm. What a stark difference. What seemed an obvious and universal truth of human existence and operation in one context is suddenly objectionable in another context. But that truth can become obfuscated in our own familiar situation by cultural baggage and associations of thought. For some people, the thought of praying or receiving the Eucharist on one's knees conjures up images of a "pre-Vatican II mindset" of alleged rigidity and harshness and every other negative term one can associate with a religion, when it ought to convey reverence and humility and devotion. All that baggage obscures their view of the simple undeniable fact that there's a link between one's physical disposition and one's mental disposition. Anyone can see it; but sometimes your so blinded to your situation at home, you have to look at the neighbor's to see things as they are.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Bigger on the Inside
If you ask a fan of Doctor Who to describe the Doctor's time machine, the TARDIS, in one sentence, they would very likely use the phrase that most characters in the show use upon first encountering it: "It's bigger on the inside." Externally inspected, it appears to be an ordinary British policeman's box from the 1960s; but, thanks to the technological feats of the people of the planet Gallifrey, inside it is nearly limitless in size, holding guest rooms and wardrobes and libraries and swimming pools and laboratories and, for an engine, an artificial black hole. It's representative of the show's whole charm: things aren't what they appear, they have a deeper secret to be uncovered--a silly little man with a blue box turns out to be a 1,200-year old Time Lord with the most powerful machine in the universe at his disposal. But to discover that, you have to trust him. You have to step through the door to learn that it's bigger on the inside.
I always thought that phrase sounded familiar. Then I remembered I'd heard it before! In two places, actually. One is in C.S. Lewis' book The Last Battle, from the Chronicles of Narnia series. The book's characters come to a walled garden, but once they enter its gates they find it's an endlessly expansive world in itself, "bigger on the inside." From the outside the boundaries of the garden could be clearly seen; but from the inside, the characters discover they can forever go "further up and further in." Lucy notes that once, in our own world, there was a cave that was bigger on the inside, too--meaning the cave in Bethlehem where Christ was born, where a little manger held a tiny babe who was the infinite God. With both the garden and the cave, you have to enter to discover it's bigger on the inside.
The other place I had encountered this phrase was in G.K. Chesterton's book The Catholic Church and Conversion. Chesterton says that the non-believer or non-Catholic will look at the Church and see an admittedly large and old human organization, but nothing more--no different from the nation of China, for example. But if you enter its doors you step into 2,000 years of tradition and belief, and a spiritual history that stretches back to the Garden of Eden; you step into the heavenly liturgy itself through the bridge of the Holy Mass; you come into the very presence of God in the Blessed Sacrament, itself an example of an apparently small thing holding an infinite reality within it. When you approach the Church and its mysteries with the eyes of faith, you are able to perceive it in all its glory and majesty and wonder. Thus, "when the convert has entered the Church, he finds that the Church is much larger inside than it is outside."
A madman with a blue box. A lion with a gated garden. A babe in a cave. A small wafer of bread. Each contains a secret: they're bigger on the inside. But to see it, you have to trust them.
I always thought that phrase sounded familiar. Then I remembered I'd heard it before! In two places, actually. One is in C.S. Lewis' book The Last Battle, from the Chronicles of Narnia series. The book's characters come to a walled garden, but once they enter its gates they find it's an endlessly expansive world in itself, "bigger on the inside." From the outside the boundaries of the garden could be clearly seen; but from the inside, the characters discover they can forever go "further up and further in." Lucy notes that once, in our own world, there was a cave that was bigger on the inside, too--meaning the cave in Bethlehem where Christ was born, where a little manger held a tiny babe who was the infinite God. With both the garden and the cave, you have to enter to discover it's bigger on the inside.
The other place I had encountered this phrase was in G.K. Chesterton's book The Catholic Church and Conversion. Chesterton says that the non-believer or non-Catholic will look at the Church and see an admittedly large and old human organization, but nothing more--no different from the nation of China, for example. But if you enter its doors you step into 2,000 years of tradition and belief, and a spiritual history that stretches back to the Garden of Eden; you step into the heavenly liturgy itself through the bridge of the Holy Mass; you come into the very presence of God in the Blessed Sacrament, itself an example of an apparently small thing holding an infinite reality within it. When you approach the Church and its mysteries with the eyes of faith, you are able to perceive it in all its glory and majesty and wonder. Thus, "when the convert has entered the Church, he finds that the Church is much larger inside than it is outside."
A madman with a blue box. A lion with a gated garden. A babe in a cave. A small wafer of bread. Each contains a secret: they're bigger on the inside. But to see it, you have to trust them.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Keep Your Hands to Yourself
As long as I'm on the subject of pet peeves, I'll swing from a linguistic one to a liturgical one: the practice of holding hands during the Pater Noster (Our Father) at Mass.
This takes several slightly different forms. Most of the time, people in the pews join hands with whomever is to their right or left. Sometimes this extends across the aisles, or from one end of a pew to the one behind them, so that the entire congregation is linked. Sometimes the priest(s), deacon, and altar servers join hands up on the altar as well.
It's a very widespread practice, but I'm not sure why. I'd say at least some of the congregation has done this in nearly every parish I've been to, yet nowhere in the rubrics of the Mass (i.e. the instructions for how Mass is to be celebrated) does it say to do this. We stand and sit and kneel at various times during Mass because the instructions say to. So why did we ever begin to do this? I'd be curious to know, but that's not my main point here. I'm going to offer a few simple arguments against this practice.
First, as I just mentioned, the rubrics of the Mass do not say, "At the Pater Noster, the congregation then joins hands." There is no prescribed action for the congregation at this point of the Mass; we're simply to pray the Lord's Prayer together. You could try to make the "it doesn't say we can't" argument, but that's a bit silly since instructions tell what to do, not what not to do. And if the instruction of the Mass doesn't say to do anything there, then it's to be understand that no extra action is to be taken.
Second, I would say it's a confusing gesture in the context of the liturgy. There are certain things that are unique to the different participants in their particular ordered roles in the Mass: the deacon calls the people to prayer, the priest prays to God on behalf of the congregation, the people respond in assent and praise and thanksgiving. One of the gestures that marks out the priest's unique role as intercessor in the Mass is the orans position, the outstretched hands that one sees at the Collect, or during the Eucharistic Prayer, or during the Pater Noster. The congregation is never instructed in the rubrics to use the orans gesture during the Mass. Using this gesture, and joining hands while doing it, is a confusion of the roles of the priest and the congregation; the congregation should not take on that which is proper to the priest, nor the priest that which is proper to the congregation.
Third, I would ask for the positive reason for doing this (i.e. don't just say "Why shouldn't I do this?" but tell me why you want to do it at all). The best I've heard is something to the effect of "It's a sign of our unity as a community in praying to God." OK, that's not bad, I'm all for signs of Christian unity, or common union, or communion, if you will. But think about it when this prayer takes place: we've just finished the Eucharistic Prayer, by which is effected the transformation of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Eucharist, Holy Communion. That is our sign of Christian unity. That is our sign of communion. And even better, it is an efficacious sign--by receiving it, we actually becoming united with one another, mystically and spiritually, really and truly, not merely by the contact of our hands. That sort of unity is broken as soon as we release our grip, but the unity the Eucharist effects remains in place as long as we remain in the state of grace, in the friendship of God. If we focus on joining our hands at this point in the Mass, we tend to lose sight of the great mystery before us and instead focus on ourselves as the congregation, not the God with whom we are about to commune. (This communion with God also will result in our communion with each other, but the communion with God is primary, since it brings about the latter.)
We're not instructed to do it. It uses a gesture unique to the priest in the liturgy. It tends to focus on the congregation rather than the sacrifice of the Mass. Three strikes, Hand-Holding, and you're out.
This takes several slightly different forms. Most of the time, people in the pews join hands with whomever is to their right or left. Sometimes this extends across the aisles, or from one end of a pew to the one behind them, so that the entire congregation is linked. Sometimes the priest(s), deacon, and altar servers join hands up on the altar as well.
It's a very widespread practice, but I'm not sure why. I'd say at least some of the congregation has done this in nearly every parish I've been to, yet nowhere in the rubrics of the Mass (i.e. the instructions for how Mass is to be celebrated) does it say to do this. We stand and sit and kneel at various times during Mass because the instructions say to. So why did we ever begin to do this? I'd be curious to know, but that's not my main point here. I'm going to offer a few simple arguments against this practice.
First, as I just mentioned, the rubrics of the Mass do not say, "At the Pater Noster, the congregation then joins hands." There is no prescribed action for the congregation at this point of the Mass; we're simply to pray the Lord's Prayer together. You could try to make the "it doesn't say we can't" argument, but that's a bit silly since instructions tell what to do, not what not to do. And if the instruction of the Mass doesn't say to do anything there, then it's to be understand that no extra action is to be taken.
Second, I would say it's a confusing gesture in the context of the liturgy. There are certain things that are unique to the different participants in their particular ordered roles in the Mass: the deacon calls the people to prayer, the priest prays to God on behalf of the congregation, the people respond in assent and praise and thanksgiving. One of the gestures that marks out the priest's unique role as intercessor in the Mass is the orans position, the outstretched hands that one sees at the Collect, or during the Eucharistic Prayer, or during the Pater Noster. The congregation is never instructed in the rubrics to use the orans gesture during the Mass. Using this gesture, and joining hands while doing it, is a confusion of the roles of the priest and the congregation; the congregation should not take on that which is proper to the priest, nor the priest that which is proper to the congregation.
Third, I would ask for the positive reason for doing this (i.e. don't just say "Why shouldn't I do this?" but tell me why you want to do it at all). The best I've heard is something to the effect of "It's a sign of our unity as a community in praying to God." OK, that's not bad, I'm all for signs of Christian unity, or common union, or communion, if you will. But think about it when this prayer takes place: we've just finished the Eucharistic Prayer, by which is effected the transformation of bread and wine into the Body and Blood of the Lord Jesus Christ, the Eucharist, Holy Communion. That is our sign of Christian unity. That is our sign of communion. And even better, it is an efficacious sign--by receiving it, we actually becoming united with one another, mystically and spiritually, really and truly, not merely by the contact of our hands. That sort of unity is broken as soon as we release our grip, but the unity the Eucharist effects remains in place as long as we remain in the state of grace, in the friendship of God. If we focus on joining our hands at this point in the Mass, we tend to lose sight of the great mystery before us and instead focus on ourselves as the congregation, not the God with whom we are about to commune. (This communion with God also will result in our communion with each other, but the communion with God is primary, since it brings about the latter.)
We're not instructed to do it. It uses a gesture unique to the priest in the liturgy. It tends to focus on the congregation rather than the sacrifice of the Mass. Three strikes, Hand-Holding, and you're out.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Holy Thursday
Today begins the great celebration of the Easter Triduum: Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday. All in preparation for that great feast of our redemption, Easter Sunday, when Christ rose from the dead, conquering sin and death and bringing life and salvation to the world. Let us consider the events commemorated today.
We hear of the central event of this day at every Mass. On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying: "Take this, all of you, and eat of it; this is my body, which will be given up for you." When the meal was ended, he took the cup, said the blessing, gave it to his disciples and said: "Take this, all of you, and drink from it; this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in memory of me."
Jesus had told the crowds, "Unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life within you." Many wondered what this could mean -- "How could this man give us his flesh and blood to drink?"-- and as he insisted further, "Unless you gnaw on my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life within you," many turned away. The Gospels tell us it was at this moment that Judas decided to betray Jesus. He could not accept his teaching on this matter. Peter, on the other hand, though he may not have understood at the time, did not leave, did not turn away. When Jesus asked if he, too, would go, Peter responded: "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." That of which Jesus speaks is that which brings eternal life.
Just what is Jesus talking about? How can he give us his flesh and blood to eat and drink? He reveals the answer to us here, tonight, at the Last Supper. The Jews, in following the covenant of Moses, had offered animals in sacrifice to God in reparation for their sins. Now, Jesus would be offered as the definitive sacrifice, the one perfect, eternal sacrifice which would pay the debt for all humanity's sins for all time. He is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Here's the key: when the Jews offered their sacrificial lambs in reparation for their sins, they would then eat the lamb that had been sacrificed. They would partake of that which had been offered to God so that they were sharing the sacrifice with God; in this, they renewed friendship with God. Just so, as Jesus was to be the Lamb sacrificed for our sins in this new and eternal covenant, in order to fulfill that which was foreshadowed and prefigured in the sacrifices of the old covenant, we had to partake in that which was being offered: we had to eat of the flesh of Jesus. And Jesus shows us how.
This bread and wine had been used as part of the Passover ritual, in which the Jews remembered that night when the angel of death smote the first-born of Egypt; but the Jews were saved by the blood of the lambs spread upon their door posts. Jesus takes these signs and brings them into the new covenant: he is the Bread of Life, his is the blood of the Lamb which saves, which fills the cup of salvation. These signs are brought together into one: the bread is the flesh of the Lamb, the Body of Christ; the blood is the blood of the Lamb, the Blood of Christ. By eating his flesh and drinking his blood, we renew our participation in the New Covenant; we renew our friendship with God by sharing in the sacrifice offered him.
And that sacrifice which is offered is God himself! God, in the person of the Divine Word Incarnate, the Second Person of the Trinity, was made man, and truly suffered, truly died, and truly rose. In Jesus Christ is both the sacrifice offered and the God who receives it. Christ is both man who is redeemed and God the redeemer. By our sins we owed God an infinite debt we could not pay; by God's justice the debt had to be paid. Only God could pay an infinite debt; but it was man who owed the debt. Thus God took flesh and became man, able to render payment on behalf of humanity, able to render infinite payment as God.
By that flesh we are saved. In eating that flesh and drinking that blood, we participate in that covenant and receive the very life of God. And it is truly the flesh and blood of Christ that we receive, for if it were not, we would not receive God. But how can God make bread and wine become his own body and blood? It seems so incredible. I ask: is it any more incredible than God becoming man? How could one believe one but doubt the other as "just too much to swallow" (no pun intended)? Just as in Jesus that which appears to be man is really God, in the Eucharist that which appears to be bread and wine is really God.
Today we remember the gift of that great sacrament by which we would perpetually remember Christ's sacrifice and re-present it to God in reparation for our sins. Tomorrow we remember the sacrifice represented by this sacrament. Today let us ask pardon for our sins, and give thanks for the sacrament of our salvation.
We hear of the central event of this day at every Mass. On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to his disciples, saying: "Take this, all of you, and eat of it; this is my body, which will be given up for you." When the meal was ended, he took the cup, said the blessing, gave it to his disciples and said: "Take this, all of you, and drink from it; this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in memory of me."
Jesus had told the crowds, "Unless you eat my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life within you." Many wondered what this could mean -- "How could this man give us his flesh and blood to drink?"-- and as he insisted further, "Unless you gnaw on my flesh and drink my blood, you have no life within you," many turned away. The Gospels tell us it was at this moment that Judas decided to betray Jesus. He could not accept his teaching on this matter. Peter, on the other hand, though he may not have understood at the time, did not leave, did not turn away. When Jesus asked if he, too, would go, Peter responded: "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." That of which Jesus speaks is that which brings eternal life.
Just what is Jesus talking about? How can he give us his flesh and blood to eat and drink? He reveals the answer to us here, tonight, at the Last Supper. The Jews, in following the covenant of Moses, had offered animals in sacrifice to God in reparation for their sins. Now, Jesus would be offered as the definitive sacrifice, the one perfect, eternal sacrifice which would pay the debt for all humanity's sins for all time. He is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Here's the key: when the Jews offered their sacrificial lambs in reparation for their sins, they would then eat the lamb that had been sacrificed. They would partake of that which had been offered to God so that they were sharing the sacrifice with God; in this, they renewed friendship with God. Just so, as Jesus was to be the Lamb sacrificed for our sins in this new and eternal covenant, in order to fulfill that which was foreshadowed and prefigured in the sacrifices of the old covenant, we had to partake in that which was being offered: we had to eat of the flesh of Jesus. And Jesus shows us how.
This bread and wine had been used as part of the Passover ritual, in which the Jews remembered that night when the angel of death smote the first-born of Egypt; but the Jews were saved by the blood of the lambs spread upon their door posts. Jesus takes these signs and brings them into the new covenant: he is the Bread of Life, his is the blood of the Lamb which saves, which fills the cup of salvation. These signs are brought together into one: the bread is the flesh of the Lamb, the Body of Christ; the blood is the blood of the Lamb, the Blood of Christ. By eating his flesh and drinking his blood, we renew our participation in the New Covenant; we renew our friendship with God by sharing in the sacrifice offered him.
And that sacrifice which is offered is God himself! God, in the person of the Divine Word Incarnate, the Second Person of the Trinity, was made man, and truly suffered, truly died, and truly rose. In Jesus Christ is both the sacrifice offered and the God who receives it. Christ is both man who is redeemed and God the redeemer. By our sins we owed God an infinite debt we could not pay; by God's justice the debt had to be paid. Only God could pay an infinite debt; but it was man who owed the debt. Thus God took flesh and became man, able to render payment on behalf of humanity, able to render infinite payment as God.
By that flesh we are saved. In eating that flesh and drinking that blood, we participate in that covenant and receive the very life of God. And it is truly the flesh and blood of Christ that we receive, for if it were not, we would not receive God. But how can God make bread and wine become his own body and blood? It seems so incredible. I ask: is it any more incredible than God becoming man? How could one believe one but doubt the other as "just too much to swallow" (no pun intended)? Just as in Jesus that which appears to be man is really God, in the Eucharist that which appears to be bread and wine is really God.
Today we remember the gift of that great sacrament by which we would perpetually remember Christ's sacrifice and re-present it to God in reparation for our sins. Tomorrow we remember the sacrifice represented by this sacrament. Today let us ask pardon for our sins, and give thanks for the sacrament of our salvation.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Addendum: On Transubstantiation
Thank you to my two colleagues who have reminded me that I am but a probie in the philosophical guild, and as such still don't understand everything perfectly. I moved too quickly in my explanation and made a mistake at the end.
I said that transubstantiation was an example of substantial change. This is not quite correct.
Matter is what individuates particular things: while my dog and your dog may both have the form of "dog," they are not the same dog because those two forms do not stand in (i.e. are not instantiated in) the same primary matter. The form and the matter together make up the substance. In any substantial change, the form (that is, that which makes the thing to be what it is) of the new substance is educed from the matter (that is, possibility of being) of the old substance. This is what allows us to say that there is some sort of continuity of being when things change, that things don't just pop into existence out of nowhere. In my attempts to explain act-potency, form-matter, and substance-accident, my examples involved just such instances of a new substance coming into being.
But because in the mystery of transubstantiation we have, not a new substance coming into being, but rather one substance becoming another, already existing substance or exisiting thing, the change does not occur in the same way, and thus cannot properly be called "substantial change." In the Mass, the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ; they become Jesus. It's not that Jesus springs into being where He didn't exist before; but rather Jesus, already existing, now becomes present such that where the bread and wine once existed, He now exists--you can point to the species (appearances) and say, "That's Jesus."
The whole substance of the bread and wine becomes the whole substance of Christ: body, blood, soul, and divinity. And as we defined "substance" as "form plus matter," in order for the substance of the bread and wine to become the substance of Christ, that which was bread and wine must take on not only the form of Christ, but also the matter of Christ.
At best, we could say that transubstantiation is a very special and unique sort of substantial change that works very differently from any other instance.
Again, I reiterate that these philosophical explanations can be helpful in pointing us toward what happens in the mysteries of the faith, but they can never come close to exhausting them or wholly explaining them. Which is why it's so easy to get them wrong. :)
I said that transubstantiation was an example of substantial change. This is not quite correct.
Matter is what individuates particular things: while my dog and your dog may both have the form of "dog," they are not the same dog because those two forms do not stand in (i.e. are not instantiated in) the same primary matter. The form and the matter together make up the substance. In any substantial change, the form (that is, that which makes the thing to be what it is) of the new substance is educed from the matter (that is, possibility of being) of the old substance. This is what allows us to say that there is some sort of continuity of being when things change, that things don't just pop into existence out of nowhere. In my attempts to explain act-potency, form-matter, and substance-accident, my examples involved just such instances of a new substance coming into being.
But because in the mystery of transubstantiation we have, not a new substance coming into being, but rather one substance becoming another, already existing substance or exisiting thing, the change does not occur in the same way, and thus cannot properly be called "substantial change." In the Mass, the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ; they become Jesus. It's not that Jesus springs into being where He didn't exist before; but rather Jesus, already existing, now becomes present such that where the bread and wine once existed, He now exists--you can point to the species (appearances) and say, "That's Jesus."
The whole substance of the bread and wine becomes the whole substance of Christ: body, blood, soul, and divinity. And as we defined "substance" as "form plus matter," in order for the substance of the bread and wine to become the substance of Christ, that which was bread and wine must take on not only the form of Christ, but also the matter of Christ.
At best, we could say that transubstantiation is a very special and unique sort of substantial change that works very differently from any other instance.
Again, I reiterate that these philosophical explanations can be helpful in pointing us toward what happens in the mysteries of the faith, but they can never come close to exhausting them or wholly explaining them. Which is why it's so easy to get them wrong. :)
Monday, March 4, 2013
Aristotle's Three Pair
In poker, if you're holding three pair, there's a pretty good chance you're cheating. When it comes to Aristotle's philosophy, if you can get a hold of these three pairs, you'll go a long way toward understanding his system. And since Thomistic theology uses Aristotle's philosophy as a baseline, and since a lot of Catholic theology today still relies on the Angelic Doctor, it might be of use to be familiar with these terms.
From the time that the first inhabitant of Greece or its Mediterranean colonies began thinking about something other than his sheep herd and olive groves, philosophers have been racking their brains trying to philosophically account for the phenomenon of change. How is it that something that didn't exist before could exist now? And how can things undergo some alteration but remain the same thing? How is it that I'm still me even when I get my hair cut or my appendix removed? And how is it that when a fire burns a log, the log ceases to be log-ish and becomes ash? Why is it that in some cases of change, things continue to be, while in others, one thing goes out of existence and another arrives? What the heck is going on here!?
Philosophers tried different answers. Some took the view that what we see is an illusion. Parmenides said that all that is, is, and all that is not, is not, and anything that seems to be to the contrary is a mistaken perception on our part; for Parmenides, there is no change, only existing things. Heraclitus, on the other hand, took the exact opposite approach: there are no existing things, only change. The universe is in a constant state of flux, such that nothing can be said to endure; you can't step in the same river twice. (His student Cratylus corrected him: you can't even step in the same river once. Cratylus followed this to its logical conclusion, that all things, including all words, are meaningless, and he never spoke again, only moving his little finger to communicate with his friends.) Others tried to say that things kind of change, but not really, because everything is really made of the same stuff, just more or less condensed; for Thales, it was water; for Anaximenes, it was air, and so on. None of these answers proved satisfactory.
Then along came Aristotle, who made a very reasonable argument: we all can see as clear as day that it is the case both that things really exist and that they really change. There's no point in trying to talk your way around those facts; you're better served to explain them. He went on: if a thing changes, it must have within it the capacity to be that new thing. Aristotle called this potency. And if a thing really exists, it must have something within it that makes it to be what it is. Aristotle called this actuality, or act. Here's our first pair. Everything that exists has both the potential to be something else, and the particular determination that makes it what it is.
Closely related to this is the second pair. Every existing thing is basically a relation between the possibility-of-being, called matter, and the determining actuality, or form. Yes, these two pair are very similar conceptually, for good reason. Form is a type of act, and matter is a type of potency. Now, let's get a few things straight here:
1) When we hear "matter," we think "atoms, molecules, protons, neutrons, electrons, etc.," i.e. stuff. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. Yes, I just intentionally repeated myself, for the purpose of driving the point home. For Aristotle, matter is simply possibility-of-being, potential, potency. It's not stuff.
2) Form and matter never exist independently of each other. You while never find matter in the Aristotelian sense just floating around, waiting to be informed; nor will you find forms drifting like ghosts, seeking some matter to inhabit. The two never exist without the other. They only ever exist in some already existing substance.
And that introduces our third pair. Form and matter combine to make an existing thing, called a substance. The substance is that which "stands under" (substantia) all appearances as the real entity. This existing thing also has many qualities which are not essentially connected to the thing, but are only attached (accidens) to it by happenstance, and are thus called accidents.
Consider a piece of wood. It's substantially a piece of wood; that's what it is. It's accidentally green, or rough, or pine-fresh. If it were to sit out in the sun and turn white, it would still be wood; if it were smoothed off by an obsessive-compulsive beaver, it would still be wood; if it were sprayed by an ill-tempered skunk, it would still be wood. All of those would be accidental changes. The substance would lose the accidental form (that is, that by which the thing has that attribute) of greenness or roughness or freshness and take on the form of whiteness or smoothness or stinkiness.
Consider the same piece of wood, currently having the substantial form of "wood" and also having within it the potency to become ash; now it's burned by the fire; the fire thus educes from the matter (that is, the possibility of being something else) the form of ashes. The wood has undergone a substantial change. It is no longer the thing it once was. The wood's potency to become ash has now been put into act; a new form has arisen from the matter; the substance, along with its many accidents, has changed.
Aristotle accounts for all of the earlier questions we had about change while not violating our common perceptions.
OK, let's tie this all together by using another example we're all familiar with: bread and wine sit on the altar at Mass. By the ministry of the priest, through whom Christ works, the potency of the bread and wine to be something else is brought into actuality; the possibility-of-being (matter) receives a new form; the bread and wine lose the substantial form of "bread" and "wine" and gain this new substantial form of "Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ." The accidents remain the same--it is still soft and white and small and round--but remember we established above that the substance is separate from the accidents; one can change without the other being changed. Now, usually, in our experience, we see accidents changing and substances not changing, but philosophically, there's no reason a substance couldn't change without the accidents changing. This explanation for what happens at Mass by no means exhausts the mystery of the Eucharist, but the Church has said that it is a fitting way to describe the reality that what was bread and wine is bread and wine no longer, but rather it is Jesus Christ.
See, I told you philosophy comes in handy.
From the time that the first inhabitant of Greece or its Mediterranean colonies began thinking about something other than his sheep herd and olive groves, philosophers have been racking their brains trying to philosophically account for the phenomenon of change. How is it that something that didn't exist before could exist now? And how can things undergo some alteration but remain the same thing? How is it that I'm still me even when I get my hair cut or my appendix removed? And how is it that when a fire burns a log, the log ceases to be log-ish and becomes ash? Why is it that in some cases of change, things continue to be, while in others, one thing goes out of existence and another arrives? What the heck is going on here!?
Philosophers tried different answers. Some took the view that what we see is an illusion. Parmenides said that all that is, is, and all that is not, is not, and anything that seems to be to the contrary is a mistaken perception on our part; for Parmenides, there is no change, only existing things. Heraclitus, on the other hand, took the exact opposite approach: there are no existing things, only change. The universe is in a constant state of flux, such that nothing can be said to endure; you can't step in the same river twice. (His student Cratylus corrected him: you can't even step in the same river once. Cratylus followed this to its logical conclusion, that all things, including all words, are meaningless, and he never spoke again, only moving his little finger to communicate with his friends.) Others tried to say that things kind of change, but not really, because everything is really made of the same stuff, just more or less condensed; for Thales, it was water; for Anaximenes, it was air, and so on. None of these answers proved satisfactory.
Then along came Aristotle, who made a very reasonable argument: we all can see as clear as day that it is the case both that things really exist and that they really change. There's no point in trying to talk your way around those facts; you're better served to explain them. He went on: if a thing changes, it must have within it the capacity to be that new thing. Aristotle called this potency. And if a thing really exists, it must have something within it that makes it to be what it is. Aristotle called this actuality, or act. Here's our first pair. Everything that exists has both the potential to be something else, and the particular determination that makes it what it is.
Closely related to this is the second pair. Every existing thing is basically a relation between the possibility-of-being, called matter, and the determining actuality, or form. Yes, these two pair are very similar conceptually, for good reason. Form is a type of act, and matter is a type of potency. Now, let's get a few things straight here:
1) When we hear "matter," we think "atoms, molecules, protons, neutrons, electrons, etc.," i.e. stuff. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. When Aristotle uses the term matter, he's not talking about stuff in this sense. Yes, I just intentionally repeated myself, for the purpose of driving the point home. For Aristotle, matter is simply possibility-of-being, potential, potency. It's not stuff.
2) Form and matter never exist independently of each other. You while never find matter in the Aristotelian sense just floating around, waiting to be informed; nor will you find forms drifting like ghosts, seeking some matter to inhabit. The two never exist without the other. They only ever exist in some already existing substance.
And that introduces our third pair. Form and matter combine to make an existing thing, called a substance. The substance is that which "stands under" (substantia) all appearances as the real entity. This existing thing also has many qualities which are not essentially connected to the thing, but are only attached (accidens) to it by happenstance, and are thus called accidents.
Consider a piece of wood. It's substantially a piece of wood; that's what it is. It's accidentally green, or rough, or pine-fresh. If it were to sit out in the sun and turn white, it would still be wood; if it were smoothed off by an obsessive-compulsive beaver, it would still be wood; if it were sprayed by an ill-tempered skunk, it would still be wood. All of those would be accidental changes. The substance would lose the accidental form (that is, that by which the thing has that attribute) of greenness or roughness or freshness and take on the form of whiteness or smoothness or stinkiness.
Consider the same piece of wood, currently having the substantial form of "wood" and also having within it the potency to become ash; now it's burned by the fire; the fire thus educes from the matter (that is, the possibility of being something else) the form of ashes. The wood has undergone a substantial change. It is no longer the thing it once was. The wood's potency to become ash has now been put into act; a new form has arisen from the matter; the substance, along with its many accidents, has changed.
Aristotle accounts for all of the earlier questions we had about change while not violating our common perceptions.
OK, let's tie this all together by using another example we're all familiar with: bread and wine sit on the altar at Mass. By the ministry of the priest, through whom Christ works, the potency of the bread and wine to be something else is brought into actuality; the possibility-of-being (matter) receives a new form; the bread and wine lose the substantial form of "bread" and "wine" and gain this new substantial form of "Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Jesus Christ." The accidents remain the same--it is still soft and white and small and round--but remember we established above that the substance is separate from the accidents; one can change without the other being changed. Now, usually, in our experience, we see accidents changing and substances not changing, but philosophically, there's no reason a substance couldn't change without the accidents changing. This explanation for what happens at Mass by no means exhausts the mystery of the Eucharist, but the Church has said that it is a fitting way to describe the reality that what was bread and wine is bread and wine no longer, but rather it is Jesus Christ.
See, I told you philosophy comes in handy.
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