Dear Readers,
After an interim of a very busy year, I decided to resume blogging; but my blog needed to be updated. So I've moved over to a new site!
I've imported this blog wholesale into my new blog, The Pantheon. Feel free to come join me over there! I've already begun posting.
Many thanks to those of you who faithfully read this blog over the last five years. Your comments, discussion, and generous encouragement motivated me to keep writing--a task I will continue to pursue over at the new location.
God bless!
Lauren
God's Spies
"And take upon's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies..."
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Sunday, June 23, 2013
The Great Flood
For the second time in less than a year, the little French
mountain town is submerged in an unexpected and dangerous deluge. Dark, muddy
waters of the Gave de Pau roar around—and almost above—the rocky little grotto
where the Blessed Virgin appeared to Bernadette Soubirous.
These latest flash floods come just after the French
government let loose a different kind of flood—the legalization of gay
marriage. The same France Our Lady chose as a special site of healing is inundated
with a torrential wave of sickening relativism regarding love and marriage. The
meaning of marriage has been desecrated, and the French must now accept a
distorted form of lust as “marriage,” must not assert that this sacred bond
only belongs between one man and one woman. The voice of reason has been
drowned out. The destructive floods drowning Lourdes are not a consequence of
the political decision; but they are an apt sign of it.
In the United States, we are facing a similar flood. This
week, the Supreme Court will decide whether to legalize gay marriage. Disney
just okayed the first gay couple in its children’s TV shows. The Boy Scouts succumbed
to cultural pressures to approve open gays in their ranks. The Pew Research
Center just released a study revealing the striking media bias in favor of gay
marriage. In short, everywhere you look, the falsehood that homosexuality is
normal and praiseworthy and should be revered as socially acceptable as
“marriage” is emblazoned across our newspapers and computer screens, proclaimed
aloud from secular pulpits and flaunted with arrogant “pride” in our streets. The
high tide of support for the gay agenda is overwhelming.
It is tempting to feel that our society will be swept away
in this deluge: that the waters pounding about our ears will push down and wipe
out our social sanity—a cultural Katrina for our country. But in the midst of this rising tide, and thinking
of the waters rising round our Lady’s feet at Lourdes in the wake of France’s
sad new decision, we ought to remember another flood—a flood strangely connected
by symbol to the one which we face now: the flood of Noah.
There is, perhaps, no little irony in the fact that the flag
chosen by those who push gay rights was once chosen by God as a promise of hope
to mankind: a rainbow. The emblem which,
for them, proclaims allegiance to a barren and self-destructive act, was once
the herald of new life and fruitfulness for the scion of humanity stepping off
the ark onto new ground. It was the promise of God that He would never flood the
whole earth again.
It once proclaimed the end of the flood; now it proclaims
its coming.
And yet, now, when the rainbow is a banner over the tide of
those forcing their redefinition of love and marriage down our throats, there
is a new and subtler significance in the symbol. Noah’s stolen rainbow cannot be fully
usurped. It remains for us, even now, a sign of hope. Even as they wave it in our faces as a
proclamation of their hellish new world, where sin calls itself love and
authentic love is labeled hate, we see it and are reminded of its original
meaning. It is still a promise. God does not and will not abandon us. There is
hope amidst the flood.
Which brings us back to Lourdes. I visited Lourdes a mere
week and a half after the murky floodwaters of last October swirled over the spot
the Blessed Virgin chose for a sacred stream. Even as I arrived, the waters
streamed from the sky in bitterly cold, torrential rains.
But that did not stop the faithful. In the freezing mountain
rain and mist, pilgrims still gathered for the evening candlelight rosary
procession outside the basilica. My glasses fogging in the cold, my jeans
soaked through from the icy puddles pooling up at the altar of the snow-white
Virgin, I was deeply moved by the incredible devotion of the many pilgrims who
had gathered to pray. The floods had passed, and the faithful prayed on.
The waters of this
cultural tide will leave wreckage and havoc in their wake. As if to remind us
of God’s promise that the waters will not overwhelm us, a rainbow shines out in
the very center of the battle, giving
us hope even from our attackers. And while the waters still roar about us, when
our prayers are lifted in hope, we ought to remember another promise, to the
man who prays to God in time of distress: “The floodwaters may reach high, but
him they shall not reach” (Psalm 32:6). Just as for the faithful at Lourdes,
these waters will pass, and our prayers will continue. The clouds will break.
The waters will subside. And God’s promise will shine in sky, untarnished—still
our symbol of hope.
Gave de Pau in Lourdes |
Monday, June 10, 2013
Blind
“Oh, no,” I thought, as I pulled into the church
parking lot in search of a Mass. “Here we go again. The 60s in all their
glory.” Against the morning sky, the irregular silhouette of the brick
building looked nothing like a church.
Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here. |
I passed through the vast lobby into the angular church:
sterile, bare, and plain. The one artistic touch was the stained glass windows,
but I’m pretty sure I had seen them before--in the nightmare I had after
reading Dante’s Inferno. Worst of all, behind the sanctuary the brown
brick wall was broken only by a large, white square. The boring stucco outline
reminded me vaguely of a parking garage. No colors, no aesthetic appeal. Just a
blank backdrop.
To be fair, what the church lacked in design, the priest
made up for in reverence. While I find it hard to feel I’m in a church when the
decor tells me I’m in a town hall or modern art museum, by the consecration the
“jaws-of-hell” stained glass windows had ceased to distract me.
But suddenly, as the priest raised the consecrated host
above his head, it disappeared. I blinked in astonishment. Against the blank
cream-white square of the sanctuary, the cream-white host was virtually
invisible. “Behold the Lamb of God,” proclaimed the priest, as I could behold
nothing but his raised hands and arms stretched up above the altar. Just
as I made an act of faith that the host was no longer bread but the Body of my
Lord and God, so too I had to make an act of faith that the host was even
there. I simply could not see it. My mind raced back to Thomas.
“Blessed are those who do not see, but believe.”
Coming out of that church, I realized: when you paint your
world one color, all distinctions and meanings disappear. As I mused upon
my invisible God and my blindness caused by the bad backdrop, it reminded me of
another kind of blindness I encounter every day. “Why can’t they see?” I have
cried in disbelief at the headlines I read this week. Radical gay-agenda
activists are ranting more and more about “marriage equality,” and daily I
discover that for many people, who man is and the purpose of sexuality have
disappeared. They have gone blind.
What to me always has been, and always will be, an obvious
and self-evident truth, is to them simply invisible. “Love is love,” they
declare--a tautology disguising their ignorance of what love means. Their
blindness is all-encompassing. Men can be women. Women can be men. Even
children are sexualized to push the gender-destroying agenda. It is truly
heartbreaking to witness their open-eyed delusion and wonder how they can be
shown the truth.
LGBT activists chose a rainbow as their emblem, but I
believe a blank, single color--like the wall of a parking garage--would be much
more appropriate. They use one and only one standard by which to measure their
actions: sexual satisfaction. Human nature, the love of God, natural order
written in our heart--none of this matters to them. All that matters is the
satisfaction of their sensual desires, even if they are self-destructive and
unnatural. Blinded by their overriding misconception of love, they cannot see
the reality of the love of God.
Soon the Supreme Court will decide whether to legalize gay
marriage in the United States, and gay rights activists are pushing hard to
erase all lines between men and women. Against the backdrop of their disordered
desires, God's design disappears and they can no longer see the truth; and they
want everyone else to see it their way, too.
But though many will keep telling me, when it comes to differences between men and women, that there is nothing there to see--just as some tell me the Eucharist is only bread--I believe that men and women are intrinsically different. I believe God made it that way. And I believe that that is not only incredibly good, but incredibly beautiful. It may be a long time before we leave behind the inheritance of the 60s, the backdrop which robbed our churches of their designed beauty and threatens to rob our marriages of their beautiful design. But I know that even if we cannot see the restoration of truth in society, the truth is still there. The Lamb of God is still raised on high, invisible though He may be, and He still shall take away the sins of our dark, blind world.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Not Waving But Drowning
--a version of my article was also published at Catholic Exchange today.
British author Stevie Smith (1902-1971) once penned a
striking poem called “Not Waving But Drowning.” The poem retells a real-life
incident in which a man swimming at a beach began to drown; when his friends on
the shore saw him gesticulating wildly, they misinterpreted his signals for
help as cheerful waving at them:
Nobody heard him, the
dead man,
But still he lay
moaning:
I was much further out
than you thought
And not waving, but
drowning.
Poor chap, he always
loved larking
. . .
It must have been too
cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was
too cold always
. . .
I was much too far out
all my life
And not waving but
drowning.
Smith’s poem hints at the unhappy truth that human
perception is flawed; that there is too often a disparity between the way we
perceive someone and the reality about them. In fact, frequently what we see of
another person’s life is not merely different from but totally opposed to the
real story.
It was exactly this grim poem about misperception that came
to my mind when I opened my Facebook page and contemplated a sickening social
ill splattered like a headline across the top of my news feed.
A woman I know in her 20s was bombarding Facebook with
pictures of herself kissing her boyfriend, bragging about how happy she is
shacking up with this year’s bedmate. How she’s so much in love. How nothing on
earth could make her happier than being the live-in girlfriend of this hottie
hunk of man—unless a cure could be found for the cramps her contraception gave
her from time to time.
My heart ached at this depressing situation, and yet this
was only one example of an
all-too-common problem: that many young people I’ve encountered appear happy and content to live on a strange level of unreality: the world of
sexual license and self-serving materialism. Some have dived so deep into this
secular worldview it seems unlikely they’ll ever resurface to sanity. Atheism,
agnosticism, and anti-religious sentiments are prevalent in my generation. Getting
drunk is a good time; sexual sins are not sins to them; hook-ups,
contraception, and gay marriage are the norm of “love”; and anyone who objects
to these things is a narrow-minded bigot.
They seem satisfied that their notions of true happiness apparently reach
no higher than owning the newest iPhone, beating the latest video game, or
achieving a romantic relationship that resembles the Twilight series.
I realized, however, that, just like the people on the shore
in Stevie Smith’s poem, my perception of this situation is not quite accurate. External
signs of happiness, “wavings” in which the obstinately-secular flaunt before
the world what they profess makes
them happy (such as the hooked-up couple whose “love” is not grounded in a
life-long commitment before God, or the college student who denies the
existence of God and seems overjoyed at purchasing a newer piece of technology
or attending the midnight premiere of the latest blockbuster)—these external
trappings of happiness and high emotions are signs not of flourishing but of
failing; of empty souls slowly drowning in a world flooded by materialism.
People who have plunged into this secular mindset aren’t really doing what will leave them
satisfied. Alcohol, drugs, and extra-marital sex can’t actually give lasting
happiness or lead to human fulfillment; they just effect a cheap imitation of
joy for a very short time. And people who seek nothing higher will ultimately
find themselves lost, unhappy, and restless, with bitter hearts and broken
lives. The material pleasures with which they surround themselves are not
happiness, but only empty replacements for the deeper joy of vocation and
virtue—and will leave the souls who embrace them still floundering for
something real to cling to.
The contracepting couple without the grace of the sacrament of Marriage to keep them going in tough times probably won’t still be together when they’re middle-aged, let alone next year. The young atheists in times of suffering will fumble for some humanitarian meaning to life that will eventually leave them cold and seeking satisfaction elsewhere. Even if at the moment they seem quite content with their situation, that’s not the whole story. We don’t see the damage they’re doing to their own hearts; hearts flailing for help because they’re not yet in the right place. The tragedy is that, unlike the poet’s dead man, they don’t seem to realize it. They’ve been much too far out all their lives; and they are not waving, but drowning.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Roman Reflections
By the grace of God, I just returned from three blessed months studying in Rome, Italy. It was an incredible experience, to say the least, and no doubt a single post could never encapsulate how amazing and life-changing this special semester was for me. I walked through St. Peter's Square everyday to go to class. I attended Mass at St. Peter's Basilica multiple times; I saw the ins and outs of every major church, many minor churches, and the cramped, vendor-filled streets in Rome, got a taste of European culture, and made some incredible memories with my friends. (It wasn't all fun and games by any means. We had a rigorous academic schedule to challenge us while we were there that sometimes felt a bit overwhelming, but ultimately made our European experience that much more amazing).
What made it so special, though, was not that we were traveling about Italy and enjoying ourselves. Not at all. What made it special was that we were there with a purpose; and that made it a pilgrimage. Our first week was spent on pilgrimage together in Assisi and Siena, and our chaplain encouraged us to keep the spirit of pilgrims the whole semester, in our studies and in all the sightseeing and new experiences.
It was a stirring challenge, directed not only to our time in Italy but to our attitude towards our whole lives on earth. How does one be a pilgrim in a three-month long "semester" without a definite final destination? What makes it a pilgrimage? Christians often speak of this life as a pilgrimage, as our journey towards heaven. But often it can feel like we're not "going" anywhere, but simply "living" day to day. What makes it a journey, if we're simply gong about our daily business of working, praying, studying, buying groceries, riding the subway? How are we pilgrims?
Hilaire Belloc once wrote eloquently of the meaning and purpose of a pilgrimage. He said: "A man that goes on a pilgrimage does best of all if he starts out . . . with the heart of a wanderer, eager for the world as it is, forgetful of maps or descriptions, but hungry for real colours and men and the seeming of things. This desire for reality and contact is a kind of humility, this pleasure in it a kind of charity."
Being on a pilgrimage, as Belloc explains, means moving toward your goal with eyes open to the path around you. And when a pilgrimage is a search for God, then that search that encompasses your vision of life and your attitude toward all you encounter: you seek for God everywhere and always. That first week in Assisi, I came across a quote that helped me understand how the vision of a pilgrim could direct both my time in Rome and my time on earth; a quote from the earliest biographer of St. Francis, who wrote: "In beautiful things, Francis saw Beauty Itself."
In the beautiful things around us, we should see a glimpse of the beauty of God. That vision which seeks and sees God in all around us coincides exactly with Belloc's notion of a pilgrim--who knows how to take joy in the journey by seeking his final end in all that he encounters along the way. In every place we went this semester, we were seeking God, seeking to find him wherever we were; not only in every glorious church we entered (and there were many), but in every train station and crowded street, in the classroom and at the little Italian cafes. From the Baroque, golden glory of St. Peter's Basilica, to the sweet simplicity of St. Francis' hermitage chapel, we sought Him . . . and found Him, because we went with eyes and hearts open to His presence.
Thou has said, "Seek ye my face."
My heart says to thee,
"Thy face, LORD, do I seek."
--Psalm 27:8
St. Peter's Basilica, the Vatican |
The chapel at the mountain hermitage of St. Francis in Assisi |
Friday, August 17, 2012
Hell is Other People
Hell is other people.
A production of Sartre's Huis Clos |
At least, that’s what French existentialist and Marxist
Jean-Paul Sartre said. The line comes from his 1944 play Huis Clos (“No Exit”), in which three damned souls discover that
their eternal punishment is not fire-and-brimstone tortures such as abound in
Dante’s Inferno, but rather to be
locked in a room with the people who will most get on their nerves, to put it
mildly, for all eternity.
Sartre’s “Hell is other people” line is usually taken as his
commentary on the discomfort caused by living in community with other human
beings. The most terrible, exasperating torment, in Sartre’s eyes, is the agony
of soul caused by having to live forever alongside someone who drives you up
the wall. Their annoying habits, their pettiness or cynicism or stupidity,
their disposition and tastes that so frustratingly conflict with yours and
require, if you are to live in communion with them, some sort of accommodation
or concession of your own likes and desires—that,
says Sartre, is Hell.
But another man, an English contemporary of Sartre, had a
vastly different vision of Hell. In The
Great Divorce, a novel written in 1945, C. S. Lewis made it shockingly
clear that Hell is not being forced to live with others you hate; rather, real,
genuine, horrible Hell is to be all alone at last with nothing but your sins;
alone without any true communion with others or with God. Condemned souls, from
Lewis’ point of view, are not souls who suffer because they are forced to be around
people they don’t like; they suffer because they are utterly absorbed into
themselves, and are left in the end with no solace from their own sins.
Like Huis Clos,
Lewis’ novel dispenses with the typical depictions of hell as a place of
physical torture; yet unlike Sartre’s play, The
Great Divorce paints hell as a grey, mundane, dull town where people are
constantly restless and dissatisfied, in increasing and agitated personal and
spiritual isolation from one another even if they yet remain in some façade of
a community. To be sure, they retain a sizeable contempt for their fellow
sinners and even for the saints; the arrogant poet considers them all
intellectual inferiors, the narrow-minded cynic thinks them all fools, and the
self-satisfied apostate thinks them all unenlightened. Yet their punishment is
not to be in company with such people, but to have isolated their souls from
real and selfless relationship with an “other,” leaving them alone with their
pride, or their cynicism, or their lust, or their selfishness.
The essential point Lewis is trying to make is that, in the
end, Hell is not a punishment imposed by God upon unwilling, unfortunate souls.
It is a deliberate, individual choice, a choice a soul makes freely. As Lewis’ “guide” through other-worldly
regions explains: “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say
to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end ‘Thy will be done.’ All that are in Hell,
choose it.” He goes on to clarify that at some point, a condemned soul decided
it would rather keep a damning little sin, even if it cannot be happy with it,
rather than have that sin taken away altogether. When that happens, a soul
becomes practically swallowed up by its self-destroying sin; the soul almost
ceases to be itself, and begins to be merely the stuff of its own sins.
Often, as flawed human beings we can be easily tempted to
think our problem is other people. If
only so-and-so wasn’t such a jerk, this wouldn’t be so frustrating; my life
would get so much better if people just appreciated me. He is just so
unreasonable; she whines all the time. Dealing
with other people can be so trying an experience that we may despondently
declare that someone is “giving us Hell.”
But Lewis’ insight is clear: Hell is not bearing with the
(perhaps grave) faults of other people, but living willingly in our own. In
reality, human community (“other people”) is our greatest opportunity to grow
in charity; it sanctifies us in this life, and is one of the great joys of the
next. Here on earth, living with “other people” is not our hell, but our
Purgatory: it teaches us to learn about, cope with, and grow out of our own faults
in order to function as best we can in a faulty human society. In heaven, at
last, we will be relieved of our deficiencies and our sins will be erased from
our souls, so that the “other people,” the community of saints and angels, will
not be a burden but an everlasting joy—that exchange of mutual love with each
other and with that all-important “other,” God, for all eternity.
While Sartre may have been on to something about the pain of
living in community, he missed the other side of the coin: in a certain sense,
Heaven is other people—because we cannot get there, and we cannot choose to be
there, without being other-centered, without coming to live in the selfless
communion of love with God and man.
Jean-Paul Sartre |
C.S. Lewis |
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
With Catholic Eyes
Amidst rifle shots and whooping cries in the pre-dawn
darkness, a veteran Irish-American cavalry soldier and a little girl seek shelter
from attacking Apaches in the ruins of a Catholic mission; as they hurry
through the dilapidated chapel, both pause, turn, and genuflect in the
direction of the sanctuary before racing on to their escape.
This scene, from director John Ford’s Rio Grande,
perfectly embodies the way a Catholic upbringing manifests itself in the work
of Catholic artists; whether or not they drifted from the faith later in life, their roots remained. Not
only Catholic imagery, but also notions of grace and redemption, sin and
innocence, and the importance of adhering to principles even when the world is
against you—all these elements of a Catholic mentality are often so deeply embedded
in the perspective of Catholic filmmakers that it cannot help but shine through
in their repertoire. Three of Hollywood’s
most brilliant directors—Frank Capra, John Ford, and Alfred Hitchcock—were all
raised Catholic, though they did not all exactly fit in the “practicing,
faithful Catholic” category. However, regardless of any apparent imperfection
of their personal faith lives, Catholic sensibilities were deeply entrenched in
their way of thinking and consequently in their films. Even if their faith was
somewhat battered and damaged, like the chapel in the scene from Rio Grande, and even if they moved in a
world rather hostile to Catholic principles, they almost unconsciously turned
to give it reverence, by the content, color, and characters that make up the
focus of their work.
An Italian Catholic, Frank Capra was a champion of hanging
on to beliefs and ideals when it seems least likely they will triumph. He had
an abiding Catholic confidence in man’s basic goodness, and a likewise Catholic
respect for the common man. His films celebrated the ordinary man standing up
against corruption, greed, and selfishness; he focused on the need for
self-sacrifice to bring about change in a wicked world. Mr. Smith Goes To Washington is Capra’s moving call for selfless
patriotism, in the story of a young, idealistic politician who is “crucified,”
as one character puts it, when he takes a stand against corrupt government; it
is only when the hero sticks to his ideals, even when they are a “lost cause,”
that he undergoes a political death and resurrection and comes out victorious.
The same basic concept is found in Mr.
Deeds Goes To Town. Arguably Capra’s most famous, It’s A Wonderful Life is a masterpiece of Catholic sentiment,
examining the heroic choice to live a quiet life of selfless duty even if it is
unglamorous or materially unsuccessful. You
Can’t Take It With You runs along similar lines, when Capra contrasts the
bitterness and heartbreak that results from pursuing only material pleasures
with the contentment and peace possessed by those who set their sights higher
and trust God to provide for them, like “the lilies of the field.”
It doesn’t take much analysis of John Ford’s films to
realize that his Irish-Catholic heritage was the wellspring of inspiration for
the vast majority of his work. Ford loved to draw on the characters and imagery
from Irish-American history; Irish and Catholic characters abound in his films.
His pet project was The Quiet Man,
set in a small, Catholic, tradition-steeped Irish town; essential to the plot is
the fact that the characters look to their local priest for advice and help.
But Ford’s work also overflows with subtly Catholic themes of grace and
salvation. Stagecoach, for instance—often
hailed as the definitive Western—takes a motley handful of imperfect
characters—a drunk, an outlaw, a prostitute, a gambler, and a social snob—and
charts their journey through a purgatorial experience of mutual suffering. One
lesser-known but excellent Catholic-themed work from Ford is 3 Godfathers, in which three bandits
become the unlikely godparents and self-sacrificial saviors of an infant in the
desert, in a way that parallels the story of the three Magi.
As a director, Alfred Hitchcock returned again and again to themes
of innocence and guilt; to tales of innocent men who find themselves entangled
in a world of espionage, or mistaken identity, or crime, who must reorder the
situation according to a higher standard of justice. Hitchcock also had a knack
for adding Catholic depth to his best thrillers by grounding the hero’s
adventures in a moral dilemma. Rear
Window, for instance, raises the question of whether voyeurism is ethical if
it allows one to prevent or uncover crime, when a man with too much time on his
hands begins spying on his neighbors and suspects one of murder. In Rope, the protagonist grapples with the ugliness
of intellectual pride—and how it spawns other grave sins. Hitchcock’s most
obvious return to his Catholic roots, however, was in I Confess, a chilling
examination of a (flawed) priest who keeps his vow to uphold the secret of the
confessional even when he is falsely accused of murder as a result.
To be a Catholic means that the Catholic view of reality shapes
all we do, including the art we produce. The confidence in the existence and
importance of invisible things like moral principles, the fundamental goodness
of life, and man’s need for grace and redemption—these things deep in the spiritual
heritage of cinematic masters like Ford, Capra, or Hitchcock, are unmistakably
reflected in their artwork. Even if they were—like most of us—not perfect
Catholics, the themes and focus of their films prove they are the fruit of a
fundamentally Catholic perspective. They saw with Catholic eyes.
Friday, July 13, 2012
#YOLO
“It was a crazy night but . . . y’know. YOLO.”
UrbanDictionary.com defines “YOLO” as an acronym for “You
Only Live Once,” and says it is “mainly used to defend doing something ranging
from mild to extreme stupidity.” The new term recently rose into popular
parlance after its use in a rapper’s song, and went viral across the cyber
sphere as a Twitter craze; #YOLO has become a buzzword for crazy, irresponsible
behavior. Got drunk last night at the party? Well, YOLO. Got a tattoo? Did some
dangerous stunt? Tried meth? Spent $1,000 on shoes? Oh, y’know, you only live once. Carpe Diem. Eat, drink, and be merry,
for tomorrow we die. YOLO.
When I first heard this phrase, and the way it is commonly used, it brought to my mind the day, not long ago, when I attended the funeral of a young man named Andre. I had never met him, but I had been following his story for several years. He was only 16.
In the middle of 8th grade, Andre was
unexpectedly diagnosed with leukemia. This summer, after several years of
intensive chemo and painful complications, Andre’s earthly body failed him, and
he passed away.
His funeral was deeply moving, and at the same time, it had
a note of joy; because in spite of all the suffering—the unimaginable suffering
of his illness, and the deep sorrow of his family—Andre lived life to the
fullest. His family testifies that he was a miracle of moral strength and
incomparable faith. He never stopped hoping that he would be healed; he
continued his studies, took up new hobbies, was thankful for the blessings he
had. He kept on each day doing as he ought to have done. Friends and family
spoke of his beautiful smile, his determination, his love.
As I said before, I never knew Andre personally. But as I
sat there listening to the testimony of his faith, marveling at his amazing
trust in God's plan for him, it struck me that, while perhaps other may have
experienced more than he did, this
young man did more with his
less-than-seventeen years than many people do with seventy.
He didn’t get to go to college. He never even had the normal
“high school experience.” He was confined to a hospital bed for much of the
last two years of his life. But he had only one life to live, and he made it a
life worth living, by putting his all into everything he did, his love for his
family, and whatever trial or task God put before him.
Many would say that Andre had a low “quality of life,” and
would pity him because his sufferings prevented him from doing many things. Such people take “quality of life” as a sort
of measure of how much a person is
able to enjoy or experience; which is why people say that someone without money
for luxuries, or someone who is wheel-chair bound, has a not-so-wonderful
quality of life. That particular view of life is what drives YOLO-ists. You
only live once. You only have one shot at getting as high as you can, doing
daringly stupid activities, experiencing different
things in this life to the fullest, they say.
But do people with that attitude comprehend what it really means
to say “You Only Live Once?” On my
deathbed, would I be glad if I had done those sorts of things? “Gee, I’m awful happy
I won that drinking contest. And my life would have been so much less awesome
if I hadn’t gone bungee jumping, or partied it up that one spring break.”
Wouldn’t I rather ask myself, “Did I spend my days well?
Will my friends and family have been blessed to know me? Have I given my all
for what I believed in? Have I loved others as much as I can, given of myself
to help them as much as I can? How has my love borne fruit in my life and in
the lives of others?”
Because in the end, it isn’t what wild experiences you had
that matters; ultimately, what will matter is how you lived through each ordinary day, whether you lived a worthy
life, glorifying God in all you did and pursuing Him with all your might. Yes,
it can be hard; it will probably mean less cheap thrills and more living for things that really matter in an ordinary life of work and prayer--maybe even bearing terrible crosses, as Andre did--all for the sake of a far more lasting joy. It will take time, and effort, and giving your all to
love to the fullest for God. But, y’know . . . you’ve got one chance. Just do
it. YOLO.
Monday, July 2, 2012
You Can't Take It With You
“You know, Grandpa says most people
nowadays are run by fear. Fear of what they eat, fear of what they drink, fear
of their jobs, their future, fear of their health. They're scared to save
money, and they're scared to spend it. .
. . People who commercialize on fear—you know, they scare you to death so they
can sell you something you don't need.”
These words, spoken by dauntless stenographer Alice in director Frank
Capra’s 1938 film You Can’t Take It With You, could easily be a snapshot of
modern society. The standards set today for a contemporary man, or a
contemporary family, drive people to chase certain goals: having a certain kind
of car, or a smartphone, or a perfect figure. Consumers dread falling short of
the commercial ideal—even if they already possess all that is necessary for a
happy life. Yet, they would do well to heed Alice’s inherited wisdom, because, in the
face of modern materialism, Capra’s light-hearted You Can’t Take It With You rather boldly aims to redefine personal
success and failure. A soul whose sights are set on material success, the film
points out, ultimately loses its joy in living.
The story revolves—rather uniquely—not around the two young lovers,
Alice and wealthy banker’s son Tony Kirby, but around the heads of their two
families and the contrast between their personal philosophies. On the one hand
is Anthony P. Kirby, successful businessman disconnected from his wife and
son. On the other is Grandpa Vanderhoff,
a father-figure whose zest for life is the heart of his family.
As the story begins, Tony’s single-minded, business mogul father is
about to close a major deal, while, one room away, Tony is wooing pretty
secretary Alice. When Tony’s mother tells his father about it, Kirby puts the
matter aside as unimportant. The real center of his day, the reason he gets up
in the morning and goes to work, is not his family, but his business. Grandpa Vanderhoff’s day, by contrast, is
marked by acts of simple wonder at and delight in life: sharing a bag of popcorn,
taking a walk in the park, sliding down a banister. He takes a genuine interest
in the people he meets. Beginning a conversation with a clerk, he learns the
clerk hates his job but has a special talent for toy-making, and invites the
man home to dinner—and home to stay. “The same One [takes care of us],” Grandpa
explains to him, “that takes care of the lilies of the field, except that we
toil a little, spin a little, have a barrel of fun.”
Though his notions may seem foolishly idealistic, he simply has his
priorities straight: if pursuing material success destroys a man’s happiness
and love for life, it’s not worth doing. Unconventionally, each person in
Grandpa’s household chooses whatever enables them to best fulfill their role as
members of a family, joyfully—not whatever brings them the most success. Their
lives are by no means idyllic; as Vanderhoff says, they “toil a little, and
spin a little.” The family cannot scrape
together one hundred dollars when asked to do so; there are even hints there
have been harder times in the past. Yet, although the family lives
hand-to-mouth; they are content doing so. They are happy, because they are not
afraid of material failure; they concern themselves with a more important kind
of success. What exactly that success is—and what exactly failure is—only
becomes clear when Tony’s upper-crust parents come into direct conflict with
the Alice’s
colorful family.
Everyone in Tony’s life pursues material goals and consequently lives in
perpetual fear. Tony’s father is afraid of failure at any step as a
businessman. Tony’s mother is afraid that her son’s middle-class love interest
will take a feather out of her social cap. And their associate Ramsey is the tragic
portrait of a man so consumed by material business fears that it eventually
quite literally kills him. Tony himself ultimately admits to Alice that fear of failure keeps him from
pursuing what he really wants in life instead of simply conforming to the
social expectations. “It takes courage,” he says, “You know everybody’s afraid
to live.”
Such fears so deteriorate the relationships in his father’s life that
eventually his father must face the bitter truth about himself: he is, as
Grandpa Vanderhoff points out in a very rare outburst of righteous anger, a failure.
When Kirby vehemently rejects Alice’s
family and their whole class as scum, Vanderhoff loses his temper for the first
time in 30 years:
“You're an idiot, Mr. Kirby,” he cries, “What makes you think you're
such a superior human being? Your money? If you do, you're a dull-witted fool .
. . And a poor one at that. You're poorer than any of these people you call
scum, because I'll guarantee at least they've got some friends. . . . You'll
wind up your miserable existence without anything you can call friend. You may
be a high mogul to yourself, but to me you're a failure - failure as a man,
failure as a human being, even a failure as a father.”
In Grandpa Vanderhoff’s eyes, you can’t take it with you. Fears and
undue concerns for material success are ultimately irrelevant, as he sees it,
because material success cannot last. Capra’s film explores how success in the
world’s eyes may mean failure in reality; and failure in the world’s eyes may
mean success at what is most important. It
presents a striking perspective on the fear instilled in the soul by
materialism—particularly relevant in an increasingly materialistic society, as
it undermines the commercial messages which pervade modern life. As Capra
carefully makes clear, those who trust in God, like the lilies of the field,
need not be anxious about material things, what they are to eat or what they
are to wear—for the most successful businessman in all his material splendor
was not arrayed in joy as one of these.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
A Thing Worth Doing Badly
Stepping into a strange church for Sunday Mass is invariably
an adventure that evokes no little amount of trepidation; it is extremely difficult
to know what to expect. So, two weeks ago, as a visitor in a strange town, I
found myself wondering rather nervously what kind of Mass I had walked into.
Would there be a borderline heretical homily? Sketchy changes to the words of
the Mass? Liturgical dancers?
At first it seemed like it would be middle-of-the-road: a
quiet Midwestern parish with a school attached. The interior had obviously been
built or redone in the 60’s, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, and it looked
like the Mass would be conducted fairly well.
Until the music started.
From the opening hymn to the recessional, the entire Mass was
accompanied by a lone soprano pounding bravely away on an electric organ,
backed up by a heavy-handed snare drum. The hymns were all from the ‘70s and ‘80s:
something about peace, and celebrating, and justice, and we are one people, and
harmony—all punctuated by loud raps on the drum. “Let us build the city of God (BOOM-chh-BOOM) may
our tears be turned into dancing (BOOM BOOM).” I gritted my teeth, closed my
eyes, and strained all my attention to focus on the readings, the homily (which
was decent), and the holy sacrifice of the Mass—all to no avail. When the final
“Thanks be to God” was muttered—full of genuine gratitude, on my part, that it was
over—and the congregation crowded quickly out of their pews and into the
parking lot, I staggered out into the sunshine feeling as though I’d just been
subjected to the very dregs of liturgical artistry.
Now, come to think of it, I have heard some genuinely
dreadful liturgical music in my time, both lyrically painful (“Lord of the
Dance,” anyone?) and musically inappropriate (saxophone jazz at the Easter
Vigil), but this Mass marked a particularly depressing milestone in my
experience. It wasn’t just the inane lyrics; it wasn’t just the Disney-esque, vague
‘70s melody; it was the fact that, in addition to already being bad music, it was done so badly.
I wondered why this fact was what had made the music so
distracting and frustrating to me, and I remembered that “A thing worth doing,”
as G.K. Chesterton once said, “is worth doing badly.” This essentially means
that if something is worth doing, then it is still worth doing even if we’re
not very good at doing it. Take, for instance, my kitchen garden. It’s not
acres of rich, abundantly fruitful lands that yield bucket-loads of harvest;
it’s a little square of Southern clay with a few scraggly vegetables vines and
a berry bush or two. But growing a garden, planting seeds and reaping the fruit
of your own labor, is a thing worth doing,
so it’s worth doing even if one is not wildly successful at it. Learning how to paint is something worth
doing—even if the artist isn’t a Rembrandt or Michelangelo. Writing is likewise
something worth doing, even if it’s done rather badly—which is my excuse, anyway.
But, on the other hand, I think it would be safe to propose
a corollary to Chesterton’s principle: if a thing worth doing is worth doing
badly, then a thing not worth doing
is not worth doing badly. It’s not
worth it to fight a war over a mile of territory; it is doubly idiotic to wage
such a war badly. It’s not worth
doing to plant a tree in the middle of the desert where it does not belong; it
would be even less of a worthy task to badly botch the job of planting the
tree.
I would not have minded the mind-numbingly-mediocre music at
Mass half so much, I think, had it been good
music done badly. If the most a parish could get was a cantor singing “Holy,
Holy, Holy” a capella, then very
well: singing “Holy, Holy, Holy,” is a thing worth doing. If all that the music
ministry has to offer, however, is bad
music done badly, then it would be
better to have no music at all. Insipid liturgical hymns from the ‘60s onward
are not worth doing, nor is a snare drum snapping an electric organ into meter.
Why, then, must we have these things at all? Would not a reverent silence be
far more conducive to prayer, to raising the mind and heart to God?
Such, at least, were my thoughts as the last pounding
strains of “Here In This Place” faded away and I exited the Mass that Sunday,
hoping desperately that somehow the Church will see a renewal of beautiful
liturgical music—done well—in my lifetime. It will mean something of a
revolution: throwing out the banal hymnals and the drums; putting more time and
greater effort into seeking out good musicians, and cultivating the taste of
younger generations to appreciate more traditional hymns. Meanwhile, I am
resolved to stoke the fires of that revolution, by making it clear that the bad
music done poorly has to go: give me good music at Mass (even done badly) or
give me death—I mean, silence.
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