Let's Not Fight, Let's Argue

Anyone who knows me knows that I love a good debate, a healthy discussion, a friendly intellectual exchange. I thoroughly enjoy exchanging views with others, especially when we disagree. During my time in seminary, I was told by my rector, "You can be very direct with people, almost challenging; but eventually people learn that you aren't attacking them--it's just the way you interact" (or something to that effect). No sense in beating around the bush, right, as long as you're respectful?

During my novitiate year, my classmates and I served once a week as volunteer chaplains at a local hospital, and at the end of the day we would have discussion sessions with our supervisor to talk about general issues related to being a chaplain. One day we were talking about conflict and dealing with difficult patients, and I said, "I think I'd be most uncomfortable being in a room with two people who are fighting with each other." One of my classmates said, "I find that surprising; you love a good argument."

Here I find a perfect example of a distinction which seems to be getting lost in our present-day discourse of tweets and posts and status updates, not to mention the more traditional modes of editorials and essays: there is a difference between an argument and a fight.

I like argument. To argue is to set out a connected series of propositions leading to a conclusion, and to engage the propositions and conclusion set out by another on the same topic, with each party analyzing the soundness of the other's argumentation: the definition of terms, the relation between the premises, and the relation between the premises and the conclusion. Each person implicitly agrees that these are the standards to be used, like two men in a duel who have agreed fight for first blood and not attempt any serious wounds, low blows, or dirty tricks.

If we were going to have an argument about, say, whether the death penalty should be abolished in this country, then we would discuss the relevant factors: the purpose of such a punishment, the nature of justice, whether the act is intrinsically evil or potentially moral depending on the circumstances, the question of necessity, and so on. That could be an enlightening and fruitful discussion.

I don't like fights. To fight is to leave the field of rational discourse where the weapons and the rules are agreed upon and honored, and descend to the level of a no-holds-barred broo-ha-ha. In a fight we have dropped our reason as a hockey player drops his gloves: at this point, we have exited the game with its rules and restrictions, and stepped into a moment where the only objective is to impose your will upon the other party, by whatever means necessary. You might knee him in the gut, or pull his jersey over his head, or grab his hair--whatever you need to do to get him down and get him out of your way.

So, if we were going to have a fight about whether the death penalty should be abolished, we wouldn't discuss the purpose of punishments or the nature of justice; instead, we'd call each other names like "bleeding heart" or "blood-lusting savage," and we'd accuse of each other of bad motives with terrible outcomes, like endangering our children or perpetuating the cycle of violence. We would seethe and boil and doubt each other's humanity, and in the end we would consider ourselves victorious if we had shouted the loudest or made the most scathing remark.

Just go to any message board or discussion forum or comments page on the Internet. It doesn't matter if we're talking about abortion or redefining marriage or whether Jack White is actually a good guitar player: within five posts, people are calling each other vile names, and comparing each other to dead dictators, and using language that would embarrass a longshoreman.

This is stupid. This is counter-productive. This doesn't get us anywhere. No, it does get us somewhere: it gets us farther apart than when we started. When we fight, we ignore what's really relevant to the situation. We put ourselves and our feelings first, and not the truth. Let's not do this anymore. Let's not fight. Can't we just argue?

"No One Can Baptize Himself": Pope Benedict on Faith and the Sacraments

I have been slowly making my way through the catecheses of Pope Benedict XVI on St. Paul, published in book form by Ignatius Press. As you might expect from such a formidable mind and holy soul, these texts are filled with many powerful and beautiful and enlightening passages. Here I've chosen a few to share with you on the connection between faith and the sacraments. First, on faith itself.

"Faith is not a product of our thought or our reflection; it is something new that we cannot invent but only receive as a gift, as a new thing produced by God."

You don't sit down and squint your eyes and furrow your brow and attempt to arrange your neurons in the correct pattern to produce faith. Faith, as in the theological virtue of faith by which we believe in God and trust what He has revealed to us, and in His Church and Her teachings, is something placed before you for your acceptance or rejection, for your cooperation or denial. It is not a product of inner effort, but a present given by God.

"Moreover, faith does not come from reading but from listening. It is not only something interior but also a relationship with Someone. It implies an encounter with the proclamation; it implies the existence of the Other, whom it proclaims, and creates communion."

Again Pope Benedict emphasizes that faith is not something we stir up in ourselves through our own activity or reflection, but comes to us from the outside from someone, or as he puts it, Someone, other than ourselves. We are confronted with it, with the opportunity for a relationship with the Other, the one who is wholly Other, God; and through God, with the community of those who have likewise encountered God and have acceptance his invitation to relationship.

"No one can baptize himself, he needs the other.... Only by another can we be made Christians, and this 'other' who makes us Christians, who gives us the gift of faith, is in the first instance the community of believers, the Church." 

Here Pope Benedict brings out the role of the community of bringing people to faith, to that relationship with God. The Church preaches God's word of redemption, and those who hear it and believe are brought into the Church to join in that communion with God and His People. We are made Christians by other Christians--not by reading the Bible in a room by ourselves and saying a private prayer, but by publicly entering into the gathering of believers and being given the Baptism of Christ by those who have themselves died and risen with Him in that sacrament. Yet, lest we fall into ecclesiolatry (worship of the Church) and put too much emphasis on the Church and its part in salvation, Pope Benedict reminds us of the Church's own source.

"Christ alone can constitute the Church. Christ is the true giver of the sacraments."

The Church brings us the sacraments, but it is Christ's Church, and Christ's sacraments. He, both the Spotless Lamb and the Eternal High Priest, consecrates His people in His Precious Blood and bestows upon them the gift of life in His sacraments. May God increase our faith and grant that we gain his sacramental grace frequently.

There's Believing, And There's Believing

"I'm not really religious, but I do believe in God."

I've heard this sort of thing from many people, but I'm not entirely sure what it means; or rather, I'm not sure what it means for them.

When someone says, "I'm not religious," they are saying that they do not hold themselves bound by any particular set of dogmas, ritual obligations, or ethical principles that are rooted in any kind of divine revelation. (I think that's a fair way to put it.) They wouldn't consider themselves Catholic or Methodist or Non-Denominational* or Buddhist or Muslim or Sikh or Hindu or anything else one could capitalize.

*(Yes, I know, "non-denominational" Christians are not exactly an organized group, but they have so multiplied and seem to share so many traits, they really have become an identifiable subset of Christianity.)

So, these folks do not believe in any set of religious beliefs or specific divine revelation. Yet they will then profess that they "believe in God." What does this mean? If this belief in God does not include any belief in anything God may have revealed about Himself, what is left for this "belief in God"? Only the barest minimum.

When people say "I believe in God" in this way, what they mean is: "I assent to the intellectual proposition that 'God exists.'"

This, to my mind, prompts all sorts of questions: who or what is this God whose existence you affirm? How did you come to know God? What do you know about God? Have you met God in some way? Or is God not a "meet-able" thing? That is: when you say "God," what are you referring to? I don't know how far simply affirming God's existence can get you in addressing these questions.

When Christians say "I believe in God" (as Catholics do every Sunday when they pray the Creed), they mean much more than "I assent to the proposition that God exists." They mean something more akin to what is meant when a wife says to her husband: "I believe in you." She isn't just saying, "I affirm that you exist." She is saying: "I trust you. I have confidence in you. I know you and I know what you're about and I know what you can do, and I know that you will do what needs to be done." There's believing, and there's believing.

I sometimes get the impression that some people have the impression that God sits upon his heavenly throne with a huge ledger in his hand, ticking off boxes for each one of us to see if we meet the bare minimum requirements to not merit being cast into the fiery pit of eternal despair, and that the barest of minimums is "Acknowledge my existence," as if God were the geeky kid at school who would let you come swim in his pool if you only would say hi to him. But God wants more from us than a passing greeting in the hallway, and God wants to give more to us than an afternoon pool party, and we need more for our fulfillment than sunshine and chlorinated water.

We were made for communion with God, loving friendship, a participation in God's own life through his gift of grace--to be "partakers in the divine nature" (2 Peter 1:4). This participation is brought about through our union with Jesus Christ, the only Son of God, through whom we become adopted sons of God. In Baptism we die and rise with Him; through Confirmation we are sealed with His Spirit; through the Eucharist we are fed with his Body and Blood and filled with his grace as the sap of the vine fills the branches. That's what we aim for. Not just nod of the head to an acquaintance, but the embrace of a lover.

Finding the New Hidden in the Old

I had been contemplating writing that "Reflections on Married Life" post, but then our lives were surprised and blessed beyond words with the most joyous news of a baby on the way! I can hardly believe it! And I can barely comprehend it. I'll need time for further reflection on both points. So, in the mean time, check out this fantastic tidbit I heard from Fr. Mitch Pacwa on the radio today....

As St. Augustine said, the grace of God is hidden in the Old Testament and revealed in the New Testament. We find one such example in Genesis 3. Adam and Eve have just eaten the forbidden fruit. God asks Adam why he has done this, and Adam, setting a poor precedent for many future men, blames his wife. (He blames God, too--"the woman whom you put here with me"--as in, "I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't brought her along!) God then turns to Eve, who blames the serpent for tricking her--the very first instance of the "devil made me do it" defense. God then turns to the serpent. Here's the interesting part, prophetic in a way you might not catch.

God curses the serpent to crawl on its belly and eat dirt. Then God says, "I will put enmity between you and the woman, between your offspring and hers." That's the NAB translation, the one we use at Mass. But the Hebrew and Greek words there which are translated "offspring" are better translated as "seed." The Greek word for seed is "spermatos," or σπέρματος, if we want to have fun with it. This is the word usually used for what a man provides in the process of procreation. It is the only place in Scripture which speaks of the seed/σπέρματος of a woman, so it's unlikely to be some special turn of phrase that has a non-procreational meaning. What does this term "the seed of a woman" refer to?

The key is in what this seed of the woman will do. "He will strike at [the serpent's] head, and [the serpent] will strike at his heel." The serpent is Satan, as the Church has traditionally interpreted this text. Who strikes at Satan's head? Who defeats Satan? The one who was born from a woman, without the cooperation of a man; the one who can be said to be the "seed of a woman." It is Christ. Christ is the offspring of Mary, who is the New Eve (as St. Irenaeus calls her). Here, moments after the Fall of humanity into sin, God announces His plan of salvation, and hints at how it will happen. In Christ's Incarnation, we see that plan begin to come to fruition. That's the best bit of foreshadowing I've ever read.

Praying to the Saints: Why Wouldn't You?

(My apologies for my silence over the last several weeks, but as excuses go I think I have a good one: I got married! Last Saturday, I took the hand of my beloved and pledged my lifelong love and fidelity to her before God and His Church, and the ensuing days have been the happiest of my life. The preceding days were filled with errands and shopping trips and picking things up and dropping things off and, oh yeah, moving into a new apartment. So, I was a wee bit occupied, and I appreciate your understanding.

I ought to write a post on the joys and wonders of married life, but I feel that would be better left to a time a bit farther in the future, when I've gone far enough down the road to be able to describe it... you know, like a week or two.

Instead, as a brief warm-up exercise to get myself back into the swing of blogging things, I offer this thought.)

I cannot understand why many Christians cannot understand why Catholics pray to the saints. I do not see their objection, or why they find the practice so objectionable.

Let me amend that: I can understand their difficulties if they equate prayer with worship, so that the phrase "praying to the saints" is no different from the phrase "worshiping the saints"; this I can understand as objectionable, because God alone is to be worshiped.

But it is not the case that prayer is an act of worship, or it is not necessarily so. It would depend on the content of the prayer. If I prayed, "O Divine Joseph, you are all-powerful and all-knowing, you are worthy of all honor and glory and praise," yeah, that would be worship, and that would be wrong, for such things can only be truly said of God. I get that.

That isn't what happens when Catholics pray to the saints, though. Such prayer is not filled with such worship language. Look at the text of any established or approved prayer to a saint. It's not worshiping. It's asking, just as if I were to say, "Prithee, open the door." (Prithee = I pray thee) To pray to a saint is to ask for their intercession before God for a particular petition.

Why do Protestants find this repugnant? They ask other Christians to pray for them all the time. What's the difference between my asking my friend to pray for me and my asking St. Irenaeus to pray for me?

The standard objection I hear is, "The saints you pray to are dead. If you try to invoke them, that's like necromancy or conjuring spirits, and that's forbidden by the Old Testament."

Hogwash.

First off, the saints ain't dead. Not totally. Their souls are separated from their bodies, yes, but their souls, which include their intellects and their wills, are still, well, awake, and active in the presence of God. The saints are those who have died in Christ, in the friendship of God. Anyone in the friendship of God, in the state of grace, is part of Christ's Body, be it a saint in heaven or a pilgrim on earth. We're all part of Christ's Body; His Sacred Heart pumps a flow of grace throughout his whole Body, connecting every part. We are not divided from the saints!

Also, the Book of Revelation tells us that the saints in heaven are praying for the Church on earth, and that they carry to God the prayers of the Church (Revelation 5:8). If they're carrying our prayers, wouldn't it make sense that our prayers be directed to them first? "To: God, c/o: St. Athanasius."

Any good Christian cares for his fellow Christians and prays for their good, and desires to know what they need so that they can pray for it. Why would that stop after death? Don't prevent the saints from praying for us. You make them into bad Christians!

Over on Catholic Stand...

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This Tremendous Lover

I've been reading a book given to me by my fiancee, a beautiful work of sound teaching and deep spirituality: This Tremendous Lover by Dom Eugene Boylan, OCR. Dom Boylan was an Irish monk of the Trappist order, and in 1946 he published this book, which would be held to be a masterpiece.

I've been working through it slowly, as one savors a flavorful steak or sips a sweet wine, and have found many a thought-provoking, challenging, or uplifting point or passage; my copy is filled with underlining and starred sections and marginal notes. I thought I'd share a few of my favorites with you, to give you a taste so that you might want to order this spiritual delicacy yourselves.

Mercy is the attitude of goodness confronted with misery. (22)

The love of our hearts is something unique, something no one else can give Him. True, He could create other hearts to love Him, but once He has created us and given us free will, the love of our particular heart is something unique and in a way irreplaceable. (70-71)

It must be remembered that although the spiritual life is a life of love, it is not a life of sentiment. On the contrary, love is based on knowledge give by faith and reason. In a word, devotion is founded on dogma. (112) 

In prayer, it is the movements of the heart that matter. Words are good insofar as they help the movements of the heart. But words for the sake of words, or repetition for the mere sake of repetition, should be avoided. There is no need to keep talking all the time. (131) 

If we remember that the most fruitful life of any human being was that lived by our Lady, and that her life was essentially ordinary, obscure, and laborious, we shall, perhaps, find a new value in the ordinary things in the day's round when done for God. (195)

The whole trouble is that--literally--we do not know what is good for us; and what makes the trouble still worse is that we think we do. (200)

Our own notions of perfection are often full of error. We imagine holiness as the perfecting of our own life; whereas, in fact, it is the perfecting of the life of Christ within us. We imagine that the really important part of a life of holiness is the good works we perform and the fruit we produce; whereas the thing that primarily matters is the love, the supernatural love, with which they are performed. (260)

I'm fast approaching the chapter on the married life. My fiancee has read passages from this chapter to me before, which merely whet my appetite. And since we're getting married in 17 days, it seems appropriate!