Black Friday, Holy Friday

Chances are that your Black Friday shopping trip didn't devolve into anything like the chair throwing melée at the Dallas Texas Town East Mall (right). As far as I know, no one died this year. Maybe the media is doing its typical job of illustrating a common misconception - unruly crowds rush to get Christmas sales -- and thereby actually giving it life.  But there's something a bit dispiriting about the idea that our big box stores -- Walmart, Sears, KMart and the rest -- can't wait until the drumsticks are baggied and the liquor capped before opening their doors to the mania of Christmas shoppers. The Puritans may have been prescient in their dislike for Christmas, the holiday that brings out our collective drunken reveler and greed head more than it does our sober pietist. Meanwhile, our friends on the right of the political spectrum are wheeling out their perennial pro-Christmas poses, wailing about our society's supposed war on Christmas, while the left bewails the loss of the real meaning of Christmas. All the while, the real battle lines are being drawn in Aisle 9, where a few battered boxes of flat screen TVs are being skirmished over like scraps of meat at a dog fight. We may have been created a lower than the angels, but there's a long way to go before we hit the bottom. Every year, we strap on the lead weights to see if we can sink a little lower than the year before.

 

Occasionally, the Christmas message finds hearing over the carnage, like a synthetic Carols of the Bells over the mall sound system. Judea was a miserable place in BC whatever. The Bethlehem inns were as crowded as a $6 dollar video carousel. Like mall cops, the Temple guards were breaking up brawls at the money changing tables. Oblivious to good sense, tax collectors were skimming their usual profits. Pickpockets and cut purses roamed the lanes. Cutthroats stalked the lonely roads. The wealthy schemed to extend their holdings. The poor squabbled over a bedraggled pair of doves. The gaming tables were crammed with those with the coin to gamble.

 

It was into this filth and madness that the Son of God came to us -- still comes to us. Into our our unsilent nights, our uncalm and our unbright lives. His light is not the glitter of neon off tinsel and plastic, but a light of peace. Of seeing through and beyond the foolishness of our petty bargains and shallow bargain basement victories. Of embracing the pain that seeks its solace in deals. Of soothing the sorrow that searches for its quenching in battles over video game consoles. Of pointing to a joy that comes not from shunning the stinking mess of our distractions but from loving it into something worthy of the divine gaze that wishes it to be worthy of the name attached to the frayed name tag dangling from a frazzled thread.

 

Child of God.

William and the Savage

There's no better truth-teller than a furious former Catholic. That fact was on full review on Bill Maher's recent show with gay author and sexpert Dan Savage. Dan, for those who aren't familiar with him, wrote the column "Savage Love" since 1991. It is a column full of VERY frank how-to advice for those who, let's say, desire to explore the full range of human sexuality, albeit safely. He is also behind the "It Gets Better" campaign which attempted to slow the suicide rate of gay teens.

So, Dan was on "Real Time with Bill Maher," commenting on the recent exorcism performed by  Springfield, Illinois Bishop Thomas John Paprocki after that state's decision to allow same-sex marriage. The bishop, certain that the devil was in the legislative details (or just angling for a church promotion) decided that driving Satan out of Illinois was the appropriate way to handle the "crisis."

As GayStarNews relates Dan's appearance:

During an appearance on HBO's Real Time With Bill Maher last week, he was asked to comment on a Catholic bishop who opposes marriage equality in Hawaii alleging children with same sex parents were at a greater risk of suicide. 'That’s total bullsh*t,' Savage told Maher. 'He’s confusing children with gay parents with children who are raped by Catholic priests. Sorry, I am just done being lectured about children and their safety by Catholic-f*cking bishops, priests, cardinals.'

Tough (and rough) language! Predictably, The Catholic League's Bill Donohue, self-style scourge of anti-Catholicism, erupted:

The board of directors at Time Warner cannot distance themselves from Bill Maher any longer. On Friday night, Maher teed up Dan Savage, another anti-Catholic bigot. What happened was particularly vicious.

We are sending to every member of Time Warner’s board of directors a copy of 54 anti-Catholic statements made by Bill Maher on TV [click here to read the report]. Friday’s show concluded the season. The time has come to close this show once and for all.

Poor Bully (excuse, me Billy) D. He can't tell the difference between anti-Catholicism and a moral disgust at the action of Catholic prelates -- those who protected child molesters and are now distracting from that abysmal record with calls to prevent loving gay couples to marry.

The sad thing is not that some people are mad at the Church, but that we need to rely on those who have left the Church to provide it with prophetic calls to morality. In my more radical moments, I would love for men like Maher and Savage to be bishops, overseeing the modern moral landscape and calling us to conversion. For now, I ask only that our ordained bishops take a message from our comedy shows, which have become one of the few dependable sources of perspective, conscience and well-aimed moral outrage.

The Joy of the Gospel: Francis's JFK moment?

Today's release of Pope Francis's apostolic letter, Evangelii Gaudium, or the Joy of the Gospel, has many people in a tizzy. In a good way. Some of excerpts from the letter have all the hallmarks of a pope setting a course against many of our world's (and the Church's) most noxious nostrums:

From the official Vatican news network:

To “recover the original freshness of the Gospel”, as he puts it, through a thorough renewal of the Church’s structures and vision. Including what he calls “a conversion of the papacy” to make it better able to serve the mission of evangelization in the modern world. The Church, he says, should not be afraid to re-examine “customs not directly connected to the heart of the Gospel” even if they may have deep historical roots.

In strikingly direct and personal language, the Pope appeals to all Christians to bring about a “revolution of tenderness” by opening their hearts each day to God’s unfailing love and forgiveness. The great danger in today’s consumer society, he says, is “the desolation and anguish” that comes from a “covetous heart, the feverish pursuit of frivolous pleasures, and a blunted conscience.” Whenever our interior life becomes caught up in its own interests , he warns, “there is no longer room for others, no place for the poor.”As we open our hearts, the Pope goes on, so the doors of our churches must always be open and the sacraments available to all. The Eucharist, he says pointedly, “is not a prize for the perfect, but a powerful medicine and nourishment for the weak” And he repeats his ideal of a Church that is “bruised, hurting and dirty because it has been out on the streets” rather than a Church that is caught up in a slavish preoccupation with liturgy and doctrine, procedure and prestige. “God save us,” he exclaims, “from a worldly Church with superficial spiritual and pastoral trappings!” Urging a greater role for the laity, the Pope warns of “excessive clericalism” and calls for “a more incisive female presence in the Church”, especially “where important decisions are made.”

Even taken out of context, these quotes are startling. The pope, in stark and clear language, slams trickle-down economic theory, that hoary justification for continuing to enrich the already wealthy. Just as Christmas shopping mania is about to infest the land, he challenges consumer culture, with its self-indulgence and ignoring of the poor. He flings open the doors of the churches and of the sacraments -- a long overdue corrective to the sanctioned practice of withholding Christ from those who need him the most. He signals a desire to re-examine old customs that are not rooted in the gospel -- the celibate priesthood maybe? And he seems interested in finding a larger role for women in the church's decision-making offices.

For a progressive like myself, this letter is an extraordinary declaration of Pope Francis's radical departure from recent popes, who have turned their back on the world as through it has nothing to teach them. It also is a shift away from the self-congratulatory pose of many conservative Catholics who seems happy to hunker down within a church that is small, colder and "purer."

But before we go screaming joyfully into the streets, its good to be cautious. Francis's statements are open to interpretation.  And, he has thrown a few bones to the conservatives. For all the talk about women having more decision-making power, the pope is not opening the Church to a female priesthood. Neither is he backing away for the church's absolute ban on abortion. Indeed, when taking off the rosy glasses of progressive hopefulness, it's hard to understand how the pope's letter will affect local parishes. One could even take each of his points and interpret it to mean that nothing will change. For instance, without a change to canon law, will divorced and remarried Catholics be able to receive sacraments? Will the Eucharist be open to non-Catholics? Or will we still have to endure priests making inhospitable announcements at weddings and funerals that only Catholics may receive? And with an all-male and female-unfriendly priesthood still in charge, will "Father" really cede significant leadership authority to women?

Still, the pope has signaled that the gospel is meant to be a joyful experience-- truly good news -- and not an experience that continues to alienate the faithful while irritating non-Catholics. It's been so long since I, for one, have considered the Gospel to be joyful, that for all its shortcomings and ambiguities, Francis has lit a fire of fulfilled hope in this crank of a Catholic.

And for that, we should be glad.

Gruesome Beauty -- book review of "Heavenly Bodies: Cult Treasures and Spectacular Saints from the Catacombs"

There's a good chance that your average Catholic might have run into relics --the stray skull, vertebrae or finger bones of some long-dead saint. But complete human skeletons? And dressed up in gold and silver thread, precious gems, bejeweled armor and sumptuous robes?  And displayed in public for all to see?

Not so much.

In what might be a spectacle worthy of a horror movie, many of these relics, on display in churches throughout southern Germany, are documented by Paul Koudounaris in his extraordinary book, "Heavenly Bodies: Cult Treasures and Spectacular Saints from the Catacombs ." With dozens of full-page, beautifully-composed photographs as well as accessible, well-researched prose, Koudounaris tells the story of the Katakombenheiligen or Catacomb Saints . These were the supposed skeletons of Christians martyrs spirited out of Rome's catacombs from the 1600s to the 1800s, and destined to replace precious relics destroyed during the Reformation. Whether the bones could be proven to be martyrs or even Christians mattered little; the fact that they were Roman was enough to merit a trip beyond the Alps. After their "translation," or travel from Rome, they were cleaned, assembled, dressed, bejeweled, posed and displayed in churches in the German speaking world. Since in many cases the bones came without provenance, they were often named by their new owners -- either after a popular patron of a local monastery, for some virtue (St. Fortunatus, St. Clemens) or their lack of a name (St. Incognito). These town patrons were regularly removed from their niches and paraded through town for veneration, a few even in modern times.

Koudounaris brings alive a time when gruesome displays of the dead were an aid to faith. Whether you believe in the power of relics or not, the work done to them was startling. There's nothing like seeing a skull, with jewels placed in its eye sockets, staring back at you. Koudounaris also traces the history of the Catacomb Saints into the modern era, starting in the 1800s, when such displays were increasingly deemed tasteless, even to Catholics sensibilities. Indeed, many of the Catacomb Saints now languish behind discrete covers, or in dusty backrooms under broken furniture and other liturgical detritus.

I found the text of "Heavenly Bodies" stark, honest and unsparing but never dismissive. And that even tone helped me to inhabit the mind of those who once found such treasures to be -- not off-putting and tasteless -- but a moving testament to faith in the resurrection.

For more of Paul Koudounaris' images of  catacomb saints, check this link:

http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2013/10/the-beauty-of-death-catacomb-saints-photographed-by-paul-koudounaris

Growing up on the death of a president

I was in second grade on November 22, 1963, one in a pod of 30 young French Catholics at Manchester’s St. Georges School, being taught by a young nun who had recently traded her dark, heavy robes and sunrise-shaped headpiece for a modish knee-length black skirt and a light black veil. Over in Rome, Vatican II was breaking up the heavy clouds of a gloomy Catholicism, and we were feeling it even in the dark halls of our century-old grammar school.

 We were so young, so sheltered from harsh reality. TV cowboys died in bloodless battles, smooth-shaven and clutching their laundered shirt fronts as they fell noiselessly onto clean sands. Songs and movies were free of foul language. News shows were sanitized to ensure that nothing would spoil the family dinner, eaten from TV trays.

 When a sister came streaking into our classroom around 12:45pm on that day, though we didn't realize it, our cozy and predictable world had already come to an end. Sticking her veiled head into the class, she yelled, "The president has been shot!" before streaking off to announce the news to other classrooms. Our young teacher, Sister Judy, bade us all to get on our knees. Together, we prayed  Hail Marys--a good, short prayer accessible to 7-years-olds and, with its plea to the Virgin to "pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death,"  apt.  Not long after 1pm, the same nun stuck her head through the door again. This time, her message was stark and short. "The president is dead." Sister Judy had us take our seats again, intercessory prayer for the president's life now being useless.

 I don’t I remember much else from that awful weekend, when my dad said he cried like a baby. The interviews with the alleged gunman, his own shocking murder on live TV, the new widow kissing her husband's coffin, the cortege through Washington's stunned and silent streets, a little boy's playful salute, the drums, the burial. My memories, too, are buried -- not beneath Arlington soil, but under layers of later reading and viewing: full-color Life magazine spreads of the president's head exploding in an orange halo, the Warren Report's gruesome testimony and illustrations, and 50 years of watching a black Lincoln convertible, flags fluttering in the warm Texas breeze, gliding again and again into the killing zone.

 Not long after the assassination, Treasure Chest, the magazine for Catholic kids, published a comic book telling of JFK's death, including Jackie's "No, No, No!" as she cradled her husband's wounded body (to we Catholics, a 20th-century Pieta), the doctors at Parkland Hospital trying to save the president’s life, and the last rites of the Catholic Church being administered (we all fervently hoped) just in time before the president died.

 Kennedy's death, for us in 1963, was more than the tragic loss of a young, handsome and inspiring leader. It marked the beginning of tortuous lifelong journey with many "firsts." Of the twisted mentality that drives small men to murder the great. Of the damage that bullets wreak on bone and flesh. Of guards who cannot protect and of police who are unwise. Of autopsy pictures. Of conspiracies theories. Of knowing that for some, tragedy means profit.

 The wounds of November 22, 1963 went deep. For many, JFK's death meant the loss of innocence, dreams and optimism. Where mistrust of leaders and government was once the purview of a few on the fringe, it exploded into the mainstream with the Vietnam generation, settled in during Watergate, and has now metastasized into a million cable channels, blogs and news sites.

 John Kennedy was perhaps the last American president who could challenge the country to do great things--a country naïve enough to answer his summons. The bullets that cut him down 50 years ago seem to have dragged our own dreams into the grave with him.

 But if this anniversary of John Kennedy’s death is to have meaning, let it be that a man’s life not be measured by his ability to destroy another’s, but by his ability to inspire, to build and to know that “here on earth God's work must truly be our own.” After 50 years, it is time again to reject the dark call of cynicism, apathy and suspicion, to take up the torch that John Kennedy lit for us, and to carry it forward into a future that is bright with optimism, hope and progress.

Francis and the leper -- redux

Without a doubt, the papacy is a grand stage, the pope its lead actor, and every action of the pope is theater. Some popes, like John Paul II, excel at using their time in the  limelight to push forward their agendas. Some, like poor, hapless Benedict XVI, never get their lines right or their cues down.

But Pope Francis might just outshine them all. He has become extraordinary to many, not because of the brilliance of his words or the sweep of his movements, but by the evident largeness of his heart and depth of his soul. Recently, while touring St. Peter's square in an open car, he saw a man in the crowd whose face was severely disfigured by tumors and growths. This sort of disfigurement is rare in our age of advanced medicine. And it is all the more repellent because it is so far from our daily experience.

But Francis stepped out of his  car, embraced the man, kissed his forehead, and prayed with him. He saw Christ in a man whom disease had turned ugly. He singled him out for affection and a display of grace. And he taught the world a lesson in compassion and Christian love.

For too long, Christianity has fought on the muddy ground of the culture wars. By allying itself so directly with partisan politics, the Church has alienated many and stunted the spiritual growth of the rest. But the gospel is not a partisan weapon, to be used to destroy one's political enemies. The gospel is a tool meant to deliver compassion. The gospel rewards those who show compassion, and thereby teaches it to those who merely watch.

The culture wars, in which a person's stance on a single issue (like abortion) can define their sense of self-righteousness, pale by comparison with the actions of the gospel's servants. To fight in the Wars of Culture makes one hard, unyielding, unforgiving and distant from people's lived reality. To fight for the gospel makes one vulnerable, involved at an intimate level with the lives of people, tolerant and loving.

Thank you, Pope Francis, for showing us again the way out of coldhearted irrelevance, and into the warm and life-giving  embrace of the Son.

After the summit

I was musing on the lives of two of the earlier visionaries of the Blessed Virgin -- Melanie and Maximin, the two cowherds to whom Our Lady appeared in La Salette in 1846.

The two kids (she was close to 15 and he was 11) had a close encounter of the divine kind after a nap on an alpine hillside. Waking, they freaked out because the cows they were tending were nowhere to be found. They encountered a brilliant light, in which sat a beautiful lady, weeping. She spoke of spoiled wheat and potato blights and a populace that had turned away from her Son.

In 20 minutes, the whole event was over, and the boy and girl led the cows down to the town where they reported their encounter.

What captured the attention of my heart, though, was the aftermath of the heavenly visit. Maximin and Melanie became superstars of a sort, but their celebrity cut both ways. Sure, they were considered especially blessed. But they were just as destitute, dirty, unlettered and ignorant after the visit as before. But now, they were also the targets of every unscrupulous political or religious group with an axe to grind.

Maximim seems to have held fast to his original story. Not that it made helped him any. Trying to trade on his famous name, he agreed to help a liquor distributor use him in its advertising. I can just image -- "Drink Eau de Maximin! Heaven help me, it's delicious!" The venture flopped. Maximin died before he was 40, never able to use the apparition to his earthly advantage. His last speech, given on the 25th anniversary of the event, ended with him recounting the experience, ending wistfully with, "And then she was gone. And she left without us. And she left us without us."

But it was Melanie, in a sense, who got the worst of it, ending up making bedfellows with apocalyptic groups that were keen on trading on the secret that the Virgin had entrusted to her. Some of the "prophecies" attributed to her came not from the Virgin's lips, but from a woman who was manipulated by others (and perhaps by her own sense of self-importance) to make more of the message than was transmitted in 1846.

Believe it or not, the perils of their post-apparition lives made me love the visionaries all the more. They were not stained-glass saints, but fallible human beings entrusted with a dangerous heavenly message. They (literally) had had their summit experience. And they fouled it up. They were ensnared by weird currents of power politics and religiosity which, being unsophisticated, they failed to navigate.They came very close to subverting the message entrusted to them. Yet, in spite of everything, they held onto their original experience. Maximin and Melanie both stuck to their stories until the end.

They are a lot like us, sans the lit-from-within Weeping Lady. We have heard a message -- be it from a gospel story, a parental warning or an inner calling. We try to live out the message in our own ways -- sometimes running from it, and sometimes implementing it in ways that seem acceptable within our cultural context but that betray our actual calling. We struggle to right ourselves, to overcome our narrowness and to enlarge our souls.

We often fail, even to the end of our lifetimes. But in our feeble attempts, perhaps, comes our salvation.

Maximin and Melianie, pray for us, the seeking Church. Place our feet on their right path as we seek to bring heaven's light to our shifting lives.