Daily Bread

New Website

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 04:12:00 +0000

Dear readers,

Merry Christmas to you! This blog is being moved to our brand new website. To find "Daily Bread," please click here.

Advent, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 15:45:00 +0000

Following up on the previous post:

1) You may need to refer to Haggai 2: 7 in addition to 2: 8, depending on your translation.

2) "Healthily Sanguine" asks in what way we are to understand Advent as penitential, since it is so joyful. I would respond to this with an analogy. Imagine being separated from someone you love dearly for a long time, especially someone for whom your love is 'romantic'. As the separation drags out, we can often become careless about our affection for this person. We might even start noticing other people. Men 'let themselves go' a bit in these situations, for example: shave more infrequently, wear beat-up clothes and what not.

Now imagine that the person is returning. We remember how much we love this person, and so we are filled with joy in anticipation of seeing his or her face, hearing that sweet voice again. On the other hand, the expectation of his or her return focuses us on the ways in which we haven't been totally faithful to his or her memory, how we've let ourselves slide. "Repent, for the kingdom of God is at hand!" We are joyful for the coming kingdom, but realize that we need to 'clean ourselves up' a bit to be truly ready in a display of love for Christ the King at his arrival. I think, for example, of my grandmother, who took fifteen minutes in the afternoon everyday to put on makeup in anticipation of my grandfather's return from the paper mill where he worked. It is an extra effort to show appreciation for the person we love.

The many calls to readiness in Advent remind us that we often get sluggish waiting for Christ's return, and we must repent of the entanglements of life that distract us from watching. So this calls for a kind of penitential attitude toward the slippage in our lives, but with the focus very much on the joy of the promise of the kingdom.

Tomorrow, another Advent antiphon that I hope you find interesting.

Please, do send questions. I am quite happy to try and answer them as I can!

Thoughts on Advent

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 01:41:00 +0000

Advent is a beautiful time in the monastery. Several brothers have remarked to me how beautiful the season is, with its mysterious chants and various traditions. We have the advantage of not having much contact with the commercial aspect of Christmas at this time of year, and the theme of watching for the Lord's coming accords well with the activities of the monk.

This year, I have been working hard at a translation of the new Antiphonale Monasticum, the 'official' book of the Benedictine liturgy. The revision of this book called for by Vatican II is just now being completed. One volume for the office of Vigils is still in the works. The books are all in Latin, of course, and it is our house custom to use English, thus my task of translation and adaptation of the chant. It has been quite an effort, but in the end a tremendous privilege to grow in familiarity with the theology of Advent. In particular, the traditional antiphons for the divine office display a kind of 'virtuoso lectio divina' on the part of the anonymous monks who compiled and composed them over the years (most of these antiphons date back at least to the eleventh century). Lines from the Old Testament that would pass by our imaginations opened up the mysteries of God for these inspired monks. Over the next few days, I will share some examples, beginning with this one:

The second antiphon for the Fourth Sunday in Advent reads: Ecce veniet desideratus cunctis gentibus: et replebitur gloria domus Domini, alleluia. This is more or less a quotation from Haggai 2: 8, with a slight change in speaker, so that the monks can more easily place it on their own lips (originally the speaker is God). Following the RSV, the translation would read "Lo, the treasures of all nations shall come in, and the house of the Lord will be filled with glory, alleluia."

The key word here is desideratus. I can't say why this is exactly, but here the Vulgate follows more closely the Hebrew than the Septuagint Greek in rendering the Hebrew chemddah, "delight," "desire." Normally, this is understood as a prophecy of 'precious things' or 'treasure' pouring into the temple, and this is corroborated in this same verse of Haggai by references to silver and gold, which are obviously things desired and delightful for those who own them.

In the context of the Advent liturgy, with its emphasis on the world's longing to be redeemed from the slavery of sin and death, and the theme of the opening of salvation to the Gentiles, this antiphon is now referring to Jesus Christ as the One longed-for by all nations. This is not easy to capture in English in a way that both gets at this broader meaning and is faithful to the current norms of translation (the lectionary uses 'treasures'). In any case, doing lectio divina in English we would not be likely to see Haggai's prophecy as a prediction of the coming of Christ, but I'm glad that some monk did!

Happy Thanksgiving

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 14:08:00 +0000

Saying 'thank you' was perhaps never easy, which is probably why the Psalmist has to order it done: "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good!" It is, nevertheless, absolutely essential to living the truth as a human being. We are all dependent creatures, very much at the mercy of accidents and evils, and there are many times in our lives that we cannot survive, much less flourish, without the help of others. Thanksgiving is a way of acknowledging dependence, not merely a social convention designed to stave off hurt feelings of those we take advantage of. For thanksgiving to be real, we must practice it regularly, and it must lead to a change of heart, to humility and ultimately, if we are Christians at least, to faith.

I am frequently asked about how to pray. Again, this is not a new puzzle for those seeking God. The disciples asked Jesus to teach them to pray as John taught his disciples. Many of the Fathers wrote long treatises on prayer. The one most influential to me is John Cassian's Conferences 9 & 10. Conference 10 is the more famous, dealing as it does with apparent states of mystical prayer. But Conference 9 offers four practical suggestions for praying based on St. Paul's First Letter to Timothy 2: 1. (This sort of exegesis often appears capricious to us moderns, but I have found this one most helpful through experience) We pray by acknolwedging our sins, second, by determining to amend our lives and make offerings to God in the future (what Cassian and Paul, following Old Testament usage, call 'vows'). Third, we ask God for what we need and intercede for others (the most common form of prayer, and what most people think of and do when they pray), and last but not least, we should thank God. I find this last recommendation most helpful. A few moments a day to recall the many blessings that God continually gives us, and to remember what he has promised us for eternity tends to dispel whatever gloomy prospects my cotidian existence portends.

A few weeks ago, I received an email with a somewhat anguished question regarding how frequently and for how long we can licitly ask God for something, before we become like whiney children. As far as I can tell, we should constantly ask God for what we feel we need or even desire, with the important proviso that we accept his answer and give thanks for the fact that He always listens and answers, and always in a way that is to our benefit, whether we can understand that benefit immediately or not. Indeed, start with thanksgiving, and you might decide that what you thought you needed isn't so important once you see what you have from God!

For His love endures forever!

Forthrightness as a condition of personal freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 15:50:00 +0000

Peace to you all who continue to check up on this blog! I am happy to resume writing, as things have somewhat returned to 'normal'. In addition to our construction, we have had to spend time assisting our Br. Augustine, who has been hospitalized for the past 18 days with a variety of ailments. He will undergo his fourth operation today as a precaution against pneumonia, but there is talk of him being strong enough to leave intensive care this weekend.

Today's reading from the Rule of Saint Benedict urges brothers to come forward when they make a mistake of some kind or otherwise commit a fault. At first glance, this chapter, as well as the entire 'disciplinary code' of the Rule, has the appearance of strictness, and perhaps strikes us as being overly authoritarian and suspicious of the possibility of monks achieving personal maturity, needing overseers and Correctors for all the details of life.

If we take it this way, I suggest that this reveals about ourselves an anthropology that is not entirely compatible with that of the Early Church, and possibly with Biblical Christianity as a whole. As I never tire of pointing out, our anthropology takes its default stance in line with modern thinkers like Rousseau, who believed that children are faultless and it is society that corrupts them. The ancient anthropology, and I believe the better one, holds that children, while morally not culpable, are in fact very much in need of socialization in order to become mature adults. Left on their own, children will not develop past self-centeredness and an infantile need to have all desires met.

What this means is that all of us need help from others to discover our faults and weaknesses. If we do not discover them, we will make decisions based on hidden agendas and undisciplined desires. Perhaps worse is the common situation where we excuse our faults and assume that others should just put up with them because "that's who we are." Of course, part of the atmosphere that allows us to confront personal faults is the sense of love and acceptance, that invites us to correction rather than threatens us. I believe that this is the atmosphere presumed by Saint Benedict to be in the monastery.

Thus the invitation to admit faults, to apologize forthrightly and seek advice for correction, is an invitation to maturity and freedom. If we excuse our faults on the premise that others should leave us alone, we more or less admit that we are in thralldom to said faults. On the other hand, frank admission of our failures manifests a desire to be free of the control of our desires and hidden agendas. When I firmly admit that losing my temper is wrong, I can begin to ask what it is about myself in certain circumstances that brings anger out of me. Then I can ask whether I want to be that sort of person and, with the help of others who love me even if conversion is slow, or even proves to be ultimately impossible in this life, I can begin to reclaim true freedom to act in accord with reason and charity, and to counteract selfishness and blind passion.

Catholic Readers Society Update

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 19:08:00 +0000

I'm hoping to continute updating the blog for the Catholic Readers Society, and I invite you to visit at: www.catholicreaders.blogspot.com.

Any reading suggestions are very welcome. We normally focus on fiction or poetry that is either written from a Catholic perspective or otherwise might be useful for evangelism or apologetics. Please note the list of books that we have already read in the August post on the blog.

Music and Morality 4: The Problem of Culture

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 18 Oct 2008 16:00:00 +0000

In my first course on Gregorian chant, Fr. Gerard Farrell, OSB, spent one class on the affects of the modes. The idea is that Mode 1 (in modern parlance "Dorian," the scale that goes from D to d using only white keys on the piano) connotes joy, strength, and so forth, whereas Mode 2 (same notes, but utilizing a lower range) connotes mystery, reserve, reflection. While the distinctions are not completely universally valid, there is much to be said for them. It is not a coincidence that the antiphons for the Divine Office of Easter Sunday are almost entirely set in Mode 7, the mode said best to connote exuberance and rejoicing.

When I mentioned this once to a novice who had studied ethnomusicology, he laughed out loud. It would seem, from the perspective of this modern and very useful discipline, that these connotations are strictly the work of inculturation and bear no intrinsic value. In modern music, for example, we often distinguish 'major' and 'minor' triads and keys by linking them to feeling of happiness and melancholy. Does this not happen simply because from an early age, we sing happy songs in major keys, (Happy Birthday, Jesus Christ is Risen Today) and darker songs in minor keys (Pray for the dead... Beethoven's Fifth)? Could we condition ourselves to hear keys in different ways?

In support of this cultural relativism, it is often pointed out that what was considered a noisy racket a generation ago is mainstream today. Fifty years ago, Ed Sullivan would only broadcast Elvis from the waste up. His music sounds almost silly compared to the hard rock and heavy metal trotted out today. When Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" was premiered, the crowd rioted. Today, we hardly bat an eye at the harsh sounds demanded of 'new music' orchestras, that is, if anyone attends the concerts.

This phenomenon of novelty creating a stir is not itself new. Here is a quiz: guess the century of this quote and the style of music being condemned:

Indeed, when such practices are taken to excess, they can more rapidly stir up the urgings of the lower regions of the body than devotion in the mind.

Answer: John of Salisbury (ca. 1150 A.D.) condemning the polyphonic compositions at Notre Dame of Paris, the distant forebears of the music of Palestrina, today held up as the style closest to Gregorian chant in appropriateness for the Divine Liturgy.

In attempting to assign affect to musical practices, are we really dealing merely with a case of de gustibus non disputandem est? Must we simply learn to put up with 'other peoples' preferences' and be suspect of our own, rather than holding ours up as exemplary and risking insensitivity or even musical colonialism?

Much of what I hope to write in this series will deal with this difficult question. In fact, there are two ways of attending to this problem. The first, which is somewhat easier perhaps, is to acknowledge that communities do, in fact, inculturate their members and ought to. Communities cannot survive, and by extension individual human beings cannot survive, without common standards of behavior. In any community, there will be a tradition of music which will be used to elicit proper emotional response in certain circumstances and also music whose use will be highly circumscribed or even outright prohibited. In such a case, we can limit ourselves to studying the rules of specific cultures or communities and see how music is linked to the passions by conditioning (see the previous post), and then draw conclusions about the morality of the use of music within this particular culture or community. I intend to do some of this, but we must admit that it veers somewhat close to moral relativism or situation ethics, that any type of behavior can be justified given the right circumstances. From a more positive perspective, I intend to treat the Church as a highly specific culture in which the restrictions on music are higher than they are when we function as members of our respective cultures in the world.

However, my own conviction, one that is backed by recent scientific studies about the biological effects of music and sound on the human body, is that certain musical gestures bear intrinsic moral weight, so that there are absolute rules for music that would transcend culture. This possibility is more easily entertained if we share some assumptions regarding the ordering of the cosmos. I hope to write on this aspect of the argument next. For today, we can restrict ourselves to obvious points. Loud sounds, especially when alternated with quiet sounds, can damage the human ear and tend to provoke irritation that disposes to violence. Loud sounds are also effective for announcing the threat of violence, as is the case with many car stereos today. Long exposure to steady rhythms has been shown to alter mental states, with the tendency to provoke a lowering of normally maintained personal boundaries, both physical and emotional. And so on. It is well established that certain styles of music assist the body and mind in healing (Pythagoras believed that certain illnesses could be cured by playing the flute; modern science has confirmed the underlying idea!).

Today, advocates of health food, non-smoking bars and green consciences are only too happy to make it moral obligation to restrict what is put into our bodies. Why is it considered controversial to suggest moral restrictions on what we allow into our ears?

Back to the Country

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 15:06:00 +0000

I write you from the Abbey of St. Walburga, Virgina Dale, Colorado, where I am spending just over a week filling in for their regular chaplain. It is also a welcome break for me from the stresses of building and otherwise trying to cooperate with grace to build (metaphorically now) a monastery in the city. Aside from resting, I have been reading Belloc's Richelieu, Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus and Letters Written in Good Faith, a fantastic collection of correspondence between the Praemonstratensian founders of St. Norbert Abbey (three miles from my childhood home in Green Bay, Wisc) and their founding abbey in Berne, Holland. The letters of this first volume span 1893-1904 and are mostly composed by the future Abbot Pennings, who, among other impressive works, founded my high school. The three founders are pictured here: Fr. Bernard Pennings, Br. Servatius Heesakkers, and Fr. Lambert Broens, O.Praem.

I also have been taking the opportunity to hike the beautiful property of the monastic community. I can't say enough how important it is, at least for me, to remember that there is a huge sky above us, that there are animals besides house pets, starlings and squirrels (I've encountered a pig, cows, llamas, chickens, and a variety of birds; I've not yet come across a bobcat, mountain lion or any deer), and to be far away from the constant noise and bustle of the city, much as I love the city. There is, in the desperate hurly-burly of urban striving, something unavoidably secular and anxiety-prone. The modern city is a monument to human genius, no mean thing, mind you, but nature is a sacrament of God's mysterious majesty.

Peace to you all!

News from the cloister

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 15:33:00 +0000

I haven't been writing much of late, in large part because we suffered extensive water damage to our church basement and cloister back on August 4, when the city's pumping stations gave out. Over the past two weeks, we have begun the reconstruction, which has involved moving all of our business offices and classrooms. It's been a huge effort. I am very grateful to God, though, because this was all work that needed to be done, but without the insurance, we would not have been able to do this so soon.

I hope to send you more real blog material before too long. For now, enjoy some pictures of the damage and clean-up!

The first picture shows the demolition of a door and frame in the cloister. If you peer through the door, you can see the bottom of the refrigerator that was responsible for this door mangling. That is correct: the water picked up the frig and rammed it through the door! The pciture to its right shows what is left of the kitchen in the church basement.

I'm having trouble formatting these pictures, so I will upload more with a new post some when I have the time...

Peace to you in Christ!

Music and Morality 3: the Passions

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 12:43:00 +0000

I have asserted that music is related to morality by way of the passions, and so some reflection on the nature of the passions and their relation to the moral life is in order.

According to Fr. Jordan Aumann, O.P., "The passions are movements or energies we can use for good or for evil, but in themselves they are neither good nor evil. When placed at the service of the good, the passions can be of incalculable assistance, even to the point that one could say that it is morally impossible for a soul to arrive at great sanctity without possessing a great energy or passion directed to God. But when placed at the service of evil, the passions are converted into a destructive force that is truly terrifying ." [Spiritual Theology, p. 184]

The passions are related to what we more normally call 'emotion', which is perhaps the better and more neutral term, derived as it is from the idea of motion or change, in distinction from the word 'passion' which connotes something unwillingly undergone. In monastic tradition, the word 'passion' usually has this darker connotation, and the goal of the spiritual life for the earliest monastic theorists was in fact 'apatheia', the condition of no longer having to suffer the passions, but instead having control over them by reason. Th term apatheia is still used in Orthodox moral theology.

St. Augustine contributes to the later Latin moral theology, especially that of Aquinas, with his reflections (perhaps overly grim at times) on concupiscence.* This is the state in which we find ourselves because of the transgression of Adam: we are not normally able to govern our passions to direct them toward the good; rather, our passions are often out of control and even go so far as to warp our rational abilities. A person who cannot control his eating is colloquially said to 'think with his stomach', for example. We lighten the punishment for 'crimes of passion' and distinguish them from crimes committed 'in cold blood', that is, with deliberation. Of course, I would add to that the deliberation of a cold blooded murderer is usually one in which the passions have been allowed to distort the murderers mind to such an extent that he believes that murder is a good. Often this happens by the suppression of our consciences when we want something that we know it is not licit to have or when someone stands in the way of our passions' desire. "Com-passion" would require us to consider the pain we cause our victims and their families, to empathize with the sufferings of others--a good use of emotion, but instead it is possible for us to suppress this natural movement.

This last point is important: we do have some control over our passions. It is possible to discipline them, so as to eat proper amounts, to make proper use of our sexual energies, to use the energy of anger in order to oppose evil even when such opposition is costly, to feel sorrow with the sorrowing, and so on. Because of the reality of concupiscence, the disordered present state of our passions, many people today draw the conclusion that we have no control over our emotions: "That's just how I feel!" Habitually giving in to the passions strengthens their hold on us (we call the eventual stranglehold 'vice'); but the opposite is just as true. The more we discipline our bodies' energies, the less the passions overrule us. By consistently choosing the good, we develop the virtues.

One place we have a great deal of choice is in the music to which we listen. Aside from unpleasant experiences in grocery stores and restaurants, we normally have freedom to decide what type of music we hear, at what volume, and so on. So if we are willing to admit a connection between music and emotion, then we can help ourselves out, as it were, by choosing to listen to music that strengthens in us appropriate feelings, and we can avoid music that tends to stir up inappropriate feelings. (I use the words 'appropriate' and 'inappropriate' advisedly, for reasons that I will develop in the next post.) I have already noted that it is a good for soldiers to hear music that gives them courage and a sense of camaraderie. If a whole society is listening to this sort of music, however, we might suspect them of being overly bellicose.

I also suggested that much of the popular music of the past 150 years or so tends to generate melancholy feelings, a non-directional sadness of the sort that St. Paul warns against [see 2 Cor 7: 9-11]. Much current popular music can be quite violent. It should be noted that the phenomenon is not to lead immediately to a dismissal of this music. Perhaps if we understood better the cultural context of what the performers and listeners to sad or violent music are responding to, we can find a way to redirect the passions appropriately. For example, as a friend of mine commenting on these posts suggested, gangster rap or contemporary hip hop is in fact often angry at not only perceived injustices in society, but real ones. That the anger is afterward perhaps misdirected is an obvious social bane, but simply banning violent music will not therefore make us moral people.

Finally, I would add that the passions are often pre-rational indicators of real-life situations. Most of us have intuitions that tell us when something is wrong before we can identify any tangible danger. Our initial responses to certain types of persons: attraction, repulsion, warmth, disinterest, are indications of the objective state of our souls and characters. We must use our reason and conscience to train our feelings to respond lovingly and patiently to all types of people, and the presence of distrust or antipathy can help us to locate the places where we need to grow. Music can actually help us then in addressing the imbalances of our emotions, used moderately and wisely.

Next: why discernment is necessary in the government of passions and how music is connected to this project.

* The Catechism of the Catholic Church has this to say about concupiscence: "Christian theology has given [concupiscence] a particular meaning: the movement of the sensitive appetite contrary to the operation of the human reason....Concupiscence stems from the disobedience of the first sin. It unsettles man's moral faculties and, without being in itself an offense, inclines man to commit sins.

Love is having to say you're sorry over and over

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Wed, 17 Sep 2008 13:17:00 +0000

[adapted from this morning's homily on 1 Corinthians 12: 31--13: 13]

St. Paul suffers from overexposure in this section of his letter to the Corinthians. We have all heard this countless times at weddings, and in that context, it is easy to pass over the call to conversion that Paul sets forth. So let us ask ourselves if we are living according to what we profess.

Are we patient because loving? All too often, in fact, we make an idol out of efficiency and speed, and find ways to exclude or shame the slow. Are we not quick to fault others for unkindness toward ourselves, without asking whether we are truly kind? Do we rejoice in the gifts of others or use them as occasions for jealousy? I will confess to being pompous and quick-tempered, and surely there is no lack of rudeness in our world. Not only do many of us brood over injuries, manyof us are frequently on the lookout for further grievances to pad our sense of victimization.

That we fall short of our ideal is not news, and certainly not reason for despair. In fact, it is why we gather daily at the Lord's altar to commemorate His deliverance from our captivity to hate and indifference. May we imitate our Lord's example of love through the grace that He has promised us.

Pope Benedict on Saint Benedict

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 13 Sep 2008 21:19:00 +0000

This address of the Holy Father is worth the time to read it. Enjoy!

h/t to Dave B

Was Shakespeare a Catholic?

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 15:33:00 +0000

This question is receiving a lot of attention these days, generating several articles in First Things, and a new book by Jospeh Pearce (he says, predictably, 'yes'). Since I am a devout Catholic and a lover of Shakespeare, I feel like I should be concerned about this, but my dog's not in this fight--and not only because I am a monk.

Beginning with Shakespeare himself: the usual arguments put forward on either side engage in more of the frustrating and highly speculative/inventive 'biographical writing' on Shakespeare, the kind of speculation that gives rise to reasonable doubt on the authorship question. I mean, we know virtually the dates of Ben Jonson's numerous 'conversions'. Yet when it comes to Shakespeare, we have to conjure up theories from his father's alleged alliances and political activities in Stratford--!Stratford!--years before it would matter. We comb the plays for clues about Shakespeare's beliefs on the one hand, and then, when they might suggest authors other than William, we say that they don't matter, and that he had a terrific imagination and read a lot. Etc, etc.

But even less compelling is the idea that regarding Shakespeare as a Catholic will force us to re-read the plays, which is Pearce's claim. Personally, I think that this does a disservice to what faith accomplishes in a person's life, and perpetuates a kind of tit-for-tat spat with the Church of England (we've got more important people on our side!) and a kind of ghetto mentality (we Catholics are really just as cultured as you!). I hardly doubt that a man of culture like Shakespeare, someone as steeped in English history, could avoid having some affinity for the Catholic past, even while perhaps harboring sympathies for the contemporary agitations against Rome.

Some questions perhaps will highlight the problem as I see it more clearly. I mentioned Jonson, whom I also love. Are his poems different when he is writing as an Anglican or as a Catholic? Do his subtle political leanings deftly swerve when he returns to Mass?

Joseph Biden and Nancy Pelosi are Catholics. Do their writings betray this (minus the obvious ones, in which they say things like, "I am Catholic, but I believe in the right to choose...")? Four hundred years from now, would a scholar, with only their writings and their baptismal certificates, be able to tell you confidently if they were or not? If you read Denise Levertov's poems, can you tell which are written before her conversion to Catholicism and which after? How? How about Fr Neuhaus' writings? Did Evelyn Waugh need to convert to Catholicism to have written "Brideshead Revisited" (I'm not sure)? Would we interpret the book differently had he not converted and written the same book? There are plenty of people who feel a real affinity for Catholicism and for various reasons do not enter into full communion. Chesterton entered rather late, after writing all kinds of books that Catholics revere as written by 'one of our own'. C.S. Lewis wrote similar books, yet could often be quite hostile toward Rome, and as far as I know, never dreamed of 'poping'.

This is not to say that a person's beliefs make no difference. Surely the fact that Tolkien was a Catholic helps in understanding how his writings work. But the differences between Anglicanism and Catholicism in the lifetime of Shakespeare were often of the most rarified sort. What's more, Shakespeare's plays were usually set in a past in which the Reformation had not yet occurred. Simple historical accuracy might easily be interpreted by eager Catholics as evidence of his crypto-Catholic status.

Those are some thoughts of a less-than-scholarly Shakespeare enthusiast. I will return next to music and morality, topics more up my alley.

Music and Morality, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 16:54:00 +0000

When speaking of the moral life, we focus on actions. The science of morality comprises learning to choose actions that are in accord with human flourishing and training ourselves to accomplish them.

This is another reason that we are often reluctant to make judgments about the goodness of music. When we speak of artifacts rather than actions, it is not always valid to draw ontological conclusions about their moral implications. Is a knife a good thing? For cutting your vegetables yes, for stabbing someone, no. We often can only make moral statements regarding the use of human artifacts.

On the other hand, some artifacts imply the presence of injustice and so will not be needed in the Kingdom of God. The fact that in the eschaton we shall pound our swords into plowshares suggests that swords, even as implements of justice, are inherently more problematic than plowshares. By its nature and the purpose of behind its creation, the sword implies warfare, which is a tremendous evil. Though swords can be used for good in a just war, something of the violence of war inheres in a sword. Many Americans today instinctinvely feel this way about guns, hoping that eliminating guns will eliminate the violence that a gun implies and facilitates. Others, perhaps more traditionally, understand that until the Parousia, guns are a necessary tool for the implementation of justice (and more specifically that the Second Amendment asserts that it is primarily the citizens' task--as opposed to a professional government class's task--to ensure justice). Many vocal proponents of gun control consider the gun evil, but it is still merely an artifact and not an action.

We should also admit that there are certain human artifacts that require evil behavior is order to be made. Manipulative advertising strategies and pornography would fall into this category. So artifacts do retain some moral status because they are the product of human action and decision.

Music is unusual as a human artifact in that it must be reproduced in order to exist. There is a sense in which Beethoven's Seventh only exists when it is being performed or at least heard. Like theater, it must be brought into existence by the deliberate actions of the performers and sponsors.

What is more, music, more than any other art, directly impacts the passions, which exert powerful impulses toward certain actions and away from others. Plato was perhaps the first philosopher to expound on this point. Certain musical modes (or scales), he claimed, arouse bellicose passions, and these were good for warriors. Other types of modes were more sensual, and these inclined the hearers toward an unhealthy relaxation--bad for the warrior or guardian class. His arguments are notoriously difficult to follow, since we don't have much evidence of what these modes sounded like (more proof that music depends on performance for existence--these songs don't exist any more).

The Classical composers, most notably C.P.E Bach, Haydn and Mozart, consciously aimed at musical moderation in order to model the restraint of the passions and build up the good character of citizens as understood by the Enlightenment mindset. In the Romantic reaction, composers such as Schumann, Wagner and Chopin aimed more consciously at arousing stronger passions, believing that artificial restraint was actually less enobling. It is perhaps worth noting that the Classical composers were paid by the nobility and ruling class, whereas the Romantics began a move toward more popular patronage (eventually leading to academic funding, which has produced, in my opinion, the worst type of 'serious' music). In any case, the link between music and the passions, and therefore with morality, persisted in common parlance well into the twentieth century. Though widely pooh-poohed in academia today, the average listeners among quite naturally feel the link when we examine our response to different kinds of music (the fact that these can be culturally conditioned within limits will be examined in the next post). When Bobby McFerrin sang "Don't Worry, Be Happy," he used 1) a major mode, usually associated with brighter feelings; 2) a gentle reggae beat; 3) a strophic form, implying simplicity, lack of strain or effort. It would have been absurd or ironic had he used a minor key, a military beat with dissonant trumpets and intellectually demanding counterpoint in this song.

Now that I mention it, it sounds like fun trying to compose a song with those parameters...

Once we enter into the realm of the passions, we are much nearer to moral reflection. Passions must be properly governed in order for us to make good moral choices. Anger must be restrained, confidence and joy cultivated, sadness resisted, etc. Deliberately arousing baser passions makes moral choice exceedingly difficult. Music designed and performed in order to arouse baser passions thus inhabits something akin to the moral area of, say, pornography or much advertising today (which almost always uses music to help).

Music and Morality, 1

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 20:44:00 +0000

We all innately sense that some music is good for us and some is not; yet few of us are willing to go so far as to say that there may be some music inherently immoral. In fact, few of us are willing to specify certain types of music or even pieces of music as good or evil.

There is some justification for this, even if social pressures push our reluctance to issue judgments in tricky areas to extremes. This is surely a tricky area: often times music that sounds bad is simply unfamiliar, and cultural gestures that smack of the obscene in one context are quite acceptable in another. When we read that many Church Fathers, for example, favored outlawing the flute from Church liturgies, some of us scratch our heads and wonder if they have gone too far. Certainly we would not be inclined to take such a prohibition seriously in today's Catholic Church; then again, in many Eastern expressions of Christianity no instruments are allowed.

I hope to discuss some of the connections between music and morality with the purpose of exploring whether the Church's tradition upholding Gregorian chant as the exemplar of sacred music is rationally justifiable or simply upheld because of pious associations that chant possesses for the pious. A group of priests has urged me to write a mongraph on this question, and I've completed enough research at this point to offer some reflections, hopefully without giving away the contents of the proposed book.

I would like to begin by saying again clearly that a 'liberal' critique of musical absolutists has merit, analogous to the legitimate concerns raised by 'situation ethics'. Both the liberal critique and situation ethics, however, push the idea that actions must be judged relative to circumstances to an embrace of a thorough-going relativism that is equally false and more pernicious. I mentioned yesterday that the action of hitting someone on the head cannot be said to be absolutely wrong; it must be located in a context with a motive. Hitting a drowning man on the head to save his life is justifiable. Hitting the same man on the head in order to kill him is evil.

There are actions that must always be considered wrong, and this is why God instructs us by the Law. But adherence to the letter kills; we must press on the the Spirit that illuminates the life-giving Lawgiver. The Spirit allows us to discern in the tricky cases. Tough cases make for bad law, but a good understanding of good law makes for clearer judgment in tough cases.

The goodness of a piece of music depends a great deal on what the composer meant to accomplish, and whether he or she is a skilled composer and so able to accomplish what he or she intends. It depends in the same way on the performers and listeners or sponsors of a performance. Finally, and perhaps most crucially, it depends on whether the use for which it was intended is the use it gets. Thus, "The Hokey Pokey" is a legitimate wedding reception song (though had I married, I would not have permitted its use at the reception), but is not an appropriate song to be played at the wedding itself. Similarly, Gregorian chant is splendid for the worship of God, but it can also be performed at a sports bar. Not only would this profane the chant, but it would be a disservice to the patrons of said bar.

So if we posit that there is a type of music most appropriate for the Divine Liturgy, this does not imply that all other music for less exalted purposes is evil. I suspect that this is some of the fear that people have talking about music and morality. We might have to give up Pat Boone or Survivor or Mariah Carey if we follow moral logic to extremes. On the other hand, some challenge to our musical tastes should always be welcomed. I personally believe that listening to lots of rock or jazz (of a certain type) makes one melancholy. I feel the same about some Wagner, and the Second Viennese School. While I lack any expertise in this particular area, I have a difficult time persuading myself that Gangster Rap in large doses could produce anything but violence.

From time to time I will add to these thoughts. I welcome any questions--this is topic normally close to our hearts, and so tends to raise many questions!

Save me, O Lord...but then again...

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Thu, 04 Sep 2008 14:32:00 +0000

This morning I write to you via Google Chrome--how does it look?

In Ethics 101, there is a common example for legitimate 'harm' to be done for a greater good (this is distinct from, but related to, the question whether the ends always justify the means). You've surely heard the scenario: you are rescuing a drowning person whose struggles make it impossible to hold on to him. So you bop him on the head to knock him out; now his body is relatively light and you have some chance of saving him.

We had a lively discussion at community recreation on Sunday about the permissibility of corporal punishment. All the monks here are old enough to have been on the receiving end of this transaction when we were children. No one expressed any hard feeling toward their parents as a result, even though we admitted that the parents were not necessarily perfectly just.

These connections came up as I pondered a recurrent theme that I encounter in spiritual direction. We all say that we want a good life, to know God, to experience salvation. But when offered salvation, there is a part of us who is like the panicky swimmer. Instead of letting go and letting the life guard carry us into shore, we want to save ourselves. Perhaps in this regard I am at an advantage because I know that I am a terrible swimmer. I've actually had to be rescued a couple of times in my life (I used to make the excuse that I was too lean to float, but age and sedentary habits have deprived of that rationalization). To extend the analogy back into the spiritual life, this would represent the unpopular virtue of humility.

Many, perhaps most of us only learn humility and give up our preference for saving ourselves when under the severest duress. "When He slew them, then they would seek Him/return and seek Him in earnest," reads the memorable summation in Psalm 78. This is a risky way to go about it, though; it is always possible that under the pressure of sufffering we will follow the advice of Job's wife to curse God and die. I offer this reflection merely to say that when we encounter tough situations: job stress, relationship stress, health issues, family members in trouble, you name it, often our first impulse is to try and fix everything ourselves. When we fail, then unfairly we blame the failure on God. It would be more rational to turn to God first thing, admit our inability to fix the world (apologies to Live Aid), call to mind the various jams that He has dispatched of, the death of the Messiah being the worst of them, producing the greatest triumph. Trials are simply unavoidable in life; no one is singled out for them or excused from them. When they come, they actually present an opportunity to deepen our faith, grow in humility and eventually love of God, whose promises are proven to be trustworthy.

And while we're at it, why not start even when the trials aren't there by thanking God for sparing us for now, admitting that the good things in our lives are not our doing either.

Does it strike anyone else as odd...

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 13:08:00 +0000

...that today people are likely to work on the Sabbath while we celebrate 'Labor Day' only once a year?

Jesus Christ, Wordsmith

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 11:51:00 +0000

It is something of a commonplace in Pauline studies to point out that the gospel forced Paul to exercise a certain ingenuity when trying to express our participation in Christ. He invents a variety of words, often with the prefix sym to indicate our union with Christ.

I have not seen pointed out that Jesus Himself (or, others would say, the evangelists to recorded His teachings) also made use of words not found in Greek authors, either the classical authors or the Septuagint translation of the Old Testament.

"O ye of little faith" is a phrase that appears several times in Matthew's gospel and once in Luke's. The word behind it is one of these neologisms: oligopistos 'small faith'. Here are the uses of this word (and a closely related word oligopistia, smallness of faith) in the gospels (RSV translation):

"But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O men of little faith?" [Mt 6: 30; see parallel at Lk 12: 28]

"And he said to them, 'Why are you afraid, O men of little faith?' Then he rose and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm." [Mt 8: 26]

"Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, 'O man of little faith, why did you doubt?'" [Mt 14: 31]

"But Jesus, aware of this, said, 'O men of little faith, why do you discuss among yourselves the fact that you have no bread?'" [Mt 16: 8]

"Then the disciples came to Jesus privately and said, 'why could we not cast it out?' He said to them, 'Because of your little faith." [Mt 17: 19-20a]

***

A few things to note about this word. First of all, only Jesus uses it; Matthew and Luke do not use it as narrators, but only recounting something Jesus actually said. Aside from the first saying, which would belong to the putative 'Q' source, St. Matthew is the only author to quote Jesus using this word. In St. Mark's gospel in the parallel stories, we have similar, but not quite the same, phrasing: "Have you no faith," for instance (Luke has "Where is your faith?"). The story of Peter walking on the water is totally unique to Matthew.

The word makes a handy alternative to apistia, 'faithless', which Jesus also uses, but which obviously has darker connotations.

That faith is something that starts small and grows does seem to be something of a new teaching in the gospel. Faith has a central place in the Old Testament, but with the revelation of Jesus Christ, a whole new knowledge of the world is initiated, and it takes time to rediscover our bearings, once we have 'lost our lives' for the sake of the gospel and 'found them' through faith. There are two particularly well-known examples of partial faith (you might think of more). First, when Mark tells the story of Jesus healing a blind man, and at first his sight is only partly restored (people look like walking trees), commentators from early times tell us that this is a symbol of the ongoing process of enlightenment that begins at baptism and continues throughout our lives. Secondly, when Paul professes that we see now as in a mirror darkly, but then we shall see face to face, we glimpse again the process of belief, that the gift of faith in baptism is not the end but the beginning of salvation, which will only be completed in the next life.

With this in mind, the role of contemplatives in the Church gets some grounding: we are in need of those whose vision has penetrated further into the mysteries than is possible in the secular sphere.

In any case, if we are found 'small in faith', we should be properly chastised, but it should also be a spur to deeper prayer and seeking after God.

Thoughts on "Co-creation"

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 13:07:00 +0000

From an early age, my sisters and I were creative; I thought up my first song on the occasion of my sister Valerie's birth, when I was five. I could still sing it for you, but it is no Mozartian production, so I won't. In any case, without thinking much of it, in my family, we made up songs, games, wrote short stories and such throughout childhood. We would not necessarily have appeared to be artsy family or an American Von Trappe imitation. It has been something of a surprise, as I've aged, to discover that few children have this type of experience. We rarely watched television. At Grandma's house, entertainment seemed to spontaneously erupt after a few post-dinner Manhattans: the accordion, clarinet, and trumpet would appear from nowhere, someone would sit at the piano, and everyone who could would perform German polkas and waltzes. I participated in these 'jam sessions' several times, even though no one ever taught me any of the songs; you just listened hard and figured out what to play as you went along. I fear that I may be the only cousin of my generation to have learned any of these pieces, and here I am in a monastery.

I continued to write music, eventually making a profession of it briefly before my entrance into monastic life. In college, I came under the spell of the Second Viennese School. I can't say exactly what drew me to it, except that the music of Schoenberg, and especially Webern, struck me as something totally new, whereas I had adopted what I now believe to be a naive stance vis a vis 'classical' music, that it doesn't have much variety, and (importantly) that this apparent quality is a bad thing. (My later study of late Beethoven and the Renaissance music of Josquin changed my mind on this point)

I began composing music 'that had never been heard before'. In fact, much of the music I produced at the time (I was about 21-22) is music that I am quite proud of in a good way. Some of it became simply unplayable. Little of it was ever performed, since performance requires other persons to learn the music and an audience willing to listen. This alignment was rare enough that what came of this period of creativity is limited to a few recordings, mostly 'scratch' recordings, meant to be works in progress.

Later, I encountered many others who wished to create music that 'had never been heard before'. I came to recognize this as a kind of temptation. Often times, we can imagine sounds in our heads that in fact correspond to nothing concrete in the world, and therefore this music cannot be heard literally. Often what is meant is that a person has a feeling that he or she wants to evoke with music, but does not know how to do it, and imagines that no music has ever been written to evoke this feeling. This corresponds to the serious difficulty in modern community life of individuals imagining themselves with totally unique feelings and experiences, assuming that others cannot understand them and therefore completely at sea when it comes to making decisions.

As I suggested above, these, I have come to believe, are temptations of the Deceiver, who wishes to divide person from person. This is not to say that musicians should not try to be original. In my better moments as a composer, I recognized that I could not really help but be original; we really are unique persons. But if I wished to communicate with others, I had to use reference points that others could understand. The idea then is to take the materials already provided and arrange them in a new way. The effect might not be totally new, but why shouldn't that be alright?

Creativity in the human person is fascinating to me. Of course, our creativity is always limited by the Creator, Who set the parameters for making new artifacts with created things. The longing to make something 'that no one has ever heard' can be interpreted as a longing to usurp the Creator's rightful place, rather than at least working with Him.

These are preliminary thoughts on a topic that is not yet well formed in my understanding. I hope that it is interesting for anyone reading!

The Monk and the Cross

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 14:46:00 +0000

Anonymous asked the following questions late last week:

"As a monk, what would you say is the monk's primary relation to taking up one's
cross and being a disciple of Christ? On a side note, do monks ever get time to
be alone in solitude? Do they ever go outside of the monastery?Or is the
schedule always strictly structured?"

I will answer these questions in order, beginning with the first, which is more central and yet more subtle than the others. Sometimes early monastic literature is criticized for not fully accounting for the Cross. St. Benedict's Rule, at first glance, would seem to support this: the word 'Cross' does not appear in the Rule.

However, St. Benedict alludes to the Cross indirectly, and in this allusion gives an insight into the peculiar relationship between the monk and the Cross. At the end of the Prologue, St. Benedict writes, "we shall through patience share in the sufferings [passionibus] of Christ that we may deserve also to share in his kingdom." Here, St. Benedict demonstrates that discipleship of Jesus Christ is bound up for the monk with patience and perseverance. The monk perseveres especially in the disciplines of obedience, restraint of speech, humility, and prayer (chapters 5-20). These qualities are quintessentially those of the crucified Christ, who 'humbled himself and became obedient unto death [Phil 2: 8],' who was 'oppressed [and] afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter [Is 53: 7; Acts 8: 32-33].' As for prayer, 'in the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death [Heb 5: 7].' So the monk puts no confidence in his own accomplishments, even when he makes progress in humility and obedience; rather, he recognizes the need to persevere continually.

Now it might not immediately appear that these disciplines are worthy of the sufferings of Christ, but St. Benedict and the monastic Fathers before him would hold that the powers of evil stand against the person who attempts to model Christ in this way, and so they engineer all sorts of temptations and hidden sufferings to sway the monk from his path. Thus, monks traditionally see themselves next to Christ in the spiritual battle that He underwent in the desert after His baptism. After our solemn professions, we expect to encounter great spiritual resistance, and it is by persevering and not running away that we share in the Cross through patience (which, at root, means to suffer).

The three remaining questions are of a piece: we do have a very strict schedule, but it allows for monks to spend a significant amount of time in solitude. Each day from 5:40 a.m. to 6:25 a.m. and again from 5:40 p.m. to 6:15 p.m. we are to be alone in our cells. On Sundays and Mondays, we have more personal time. We also practice silence, which means that when we are together, it is without talking most of the time. This heightens a sense of privacy and interiority. As far as leaving the monastery, it depends on the reason: since we have a very small property, it is common for brothers to go out for exercise and fresh air. On the other hand, we do not generally go out for social reasons: to see movies, eat at restaurants and go to museums or concerts. From time to time we will go as a group for some recreational outing, but our withdrawal from the world requires us to renounce the social life available to persons in the world.

For most monks, the schedule is a Cross! We have very little say in how we plan our days, and even if a monk is content to do what he is told to do, most of us encounter stretches of time when we wish we could just grab some money and go out for a hamburger on our own! So obedience to a community schedule is both liberating and a participation in the annihilation of self-will, which is crucifying.

"Shalom" means "harmony"

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 16:26:00 +0000

"There is a lot one learns from music. When you play music you have to express yourself but, simultaneously, you have to listen to what the others are playing. Just think what a lesson that is for life; how our life would be and how our politicians would be if they could think like this. That is why every child should have a musical education."

--Daniel Barenboim
(quoted in The Telegraph online)

Pedagogy of the Cross

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 17:33:00 +0000

"Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me."

This passage jumped out at me yesterday at Mass, and I noticed that Sr. Genevieve Glen has also commented on it here.

The phrase 'coming after' the Lord is an idiomatic way of saying 'being a disciple of'. We still use this terminology. We speak of the followers of various gurus, of Marx or of various schools of economics, physics, or even cooking. The key is that a disciple wishes to learn how to live in a way that gives meaning to life. So the disciple seeks from the Master the rules that he must follow to learn the Master's way.

As Sr. Genevieve points out, we too often simply hear this bit about taking up a Cross as a denial of life. We might search around inside ourselves to justify the need for carrying the Cross because of our sinfulness. The breadth of the gospel message permits this interpretation, but by and large the Patristic reading of passages such as this see Jesus inviting us to become true philosophers, lovers of wisdom, in His school. What He says is that we will learn what we need to achieve happiness by appropriating His teaching, which is the Cross.

If we look at the Cross in this way, we can see immediately that the Christian virtues: meekness, humility, gentleness, patience, faith, hope and love, can be learned by Way of the Cross to a depth unattainable in any other school. The Cross is a kind of pedagogy--strong to be sure--and not simply a punishment. This realization should help us to welcome the Cross in our lives with a lightness that is missing, in my opinion, from late medieval and early modern devotional approaches to the Cross (again, not that some heaviness can't serve a good). As the Cross fades out of popular consciousness, perhaps re-presenting our Lord's wisdom with more of the Patristic emphasis can help others to understand it more clearly.

Homily on the Feast of the Transfiguration

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 17:56:00 +0000

Sociologists who study the Bible like to point out that the people of Israel received the Torah in the wilderness on Mount Sinai, about as remote from civilization as they could be. To do this, they had to depart from the midst of one of the greatest example of civilization in the ancient world: the land of Egypt. In the wilderness of Sinai, the people met God Himself, and the spectacle was terrifying. If you have ever been in a lightning storm on a mountain, or at sea, you will know what they are afraid of. We had a small taste of that with Monday night’s storm: the immense power of the natural elements and the mystery of the force behind them, the Creator God. We suddenly realize how small and dependent we are on God’s love, how fragile and easily consumed we are.

The people of Israel resisted urbanization for several centuries, but eventually requested a king like all the other peoples, and with the king received the great urban center of Jerusalem, the King’s city. While the city also has a long and distinguished history in the Bible, culminating in the new Jerusalem coming down from heaven in the book of Revelation, the fact is that even in ancient times, the city was understood to be a place where the raw power of nature was subdued or lost, depending on your perspective. Part of what is lost in urbanization is an appreciation for God’s grandeur and might. In our modern cities, where we seem increasingly to be able to control nature and direct to our own ends, we easily lose sight of our fragility, our need for God, God’s power and, let’s not forget, God’s beauty. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I ever really saw the stars, and they are beautiful! But we don’t get to see them in Chicago.

The problem with this loss is that we need a reason to persevere through suffering. Jesus understood this about his disciples, and so after he predicted his Passion, but before He underwent it, He wished to strengthen and reassure them with the vision of his might and glory. Moses and Elijah, two prophets who experienced God’s terrifying presence as well as His consolation, bear witness to the fact that this man in our midst is also the God of glory.

It is of great importance that we city dwellers meditate frequently on this mystery: of God’s power and glory veiled in the human flesh of Jesus Christ. To do this, we should find ways of calling to mind the beauty of creation, and the mystery of life, so that when we encounter the weakness of the flesh we do not fall prey to discouragement or scandal. We need to take time out to go to the wilderness alone with Christ, not merely for friendship and companionship, but to be reminded how mysterious this man is who calls us ‘friend', who touches us and says, "Do not be afraid."

Active Participation

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 14:27:00 +0000

What I wrote yesterday must be balanced with the call of Pope St Pius X and Vatican II for the active participation of the faithful in the Church's work of praise. Is it perhaps the case that 'full and active participation' is controversial because it is understood in a modernist, subjectivist context? In other words, we don't feel like we are participating unless we are 'getting something out of it?'

In contending that the effects of the sacrifice of the Mass should not be judged by our subjective response, I am not therefore advocating a return to mandatory attendance without comprehension (and certainly not routine abstention from communion). Rather, the gravity of the Mass calls for a deeper penetration of the liturgical action by our minds and hearts than a mere participation in something that makes me feel better.

Part of my strong response to our present circumstance, as I indicated yesterday, is the overwhelming fact of injustice, cruelty and despair in the world. The Precious Blood shed on the Cross is offered 'for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven'. Christ's death is the answer to horrible mystery of sin and suffering. Our conscious consent to bind ourselves to the New Covenant in His Blood means that we, too, become an offering 'so that sins may be forgiven'. We partake, therefore, in the Church's liturgical celebration in praise of God not merely to get a nugget of insight each day (though we should welcome this when it happens), but to 're-present' the saving Sacrifice and 're-enlist' in the struggle against evil and death. On a mystical level, this is of supreme consequence for those who suffer now, but whose lives we cannot directly affect by corporal works of mercy (it also implies our obligation to help those whom we can). Rather, we implore God to remember His mercy by placing ourselves at the foot of the Cross 'in memory of' our dear Savior Jesus Christ.

I'm not getting anything out of this...

noreply@blogger.com (Prior Peter, OSB) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 14:20:00 +0000

In my high school junior-year Confirmation class, a friend of mine raised his hand and asked poor Fr Tony (who was mismatched with high school juniors, to say the least), "I'm not getting anything out of this; is that alright?"

After a dreadful moment's pause, Fr. Tony mustered up his best authoritative tone of voice and said, "Yes."

Today, I am a priest myself who routinely corresponds with young persons dealing with many questions. So I feel for what Fr. Tony was going through. Worse for him, he was from the old school where it was taken for granted that sixteen-year-old Catholics would actually have been raised practicing their faith, known what it involved and even been fervent in their desire to further the cause of the Church militant. I at least have the advantage of assuming that many people will ask just this sort of question.

The fact that the question that my friend Scott asked focused on the subjective experience of one person says everything and goes a long way toward explaining why 'religion' seems so deathly dull to young people. 'Why do adults just go through the motions?' No one looks like they are 'getting a lot out of Mass'. We put the Mass into the vernacular, and people still don't look like their getting much out of it at times. We organize youth retreats and sing around campfires (at least I did when I was a youth--does this still happen?). When, as young adults, people have to go back to St. Mary's of Centerville, they pine for those campfires with young, exciting people, and quietly let their faith fall into desuetude.

To ask in return, 'Well, what are you putting into it?' does not address the underlying problem, that we for some reason feel entitled to 'get something out of' the Mass (besides receiving Jesus Christ in the Eucharist!). What, just what if, the point of religion is not about me?

This is, in a sense, a follow-up to yesterday's post about liberation theology. There is a healthy sense in which liberation theologians are attempting to address the problem of subjectivism in the Church. By pointing out the necessity of working for justice and the 'preferential option for the poor', liberation theology moves us away from the question of what we get out of worship and points us toward mission. As I pointed out yesterday, this attempt can easily backfire when homilies or talks or books rant at length about the evil people who disempower the poor, since it tends to exonerate the ones giving and receiving the rant! We still 'get something out of it'.

Now I do not mean to imply that we should strive to have religion be something dry that does not engage us. Quite the contrary. I wish everyone were passionate for God and God's justice! But this passion for the Other, for the salvation of the world, is a far cry from passion for one's daily 'pick-me-up'.