Hereunder

The Sign of Jonas

Gentle Visitors, it has now been week since the end of winter storm "Jonas," and we have had time to reflect on its significance.

The calamitous nature of the frigid nor'easter tells us that it was aptly named. Go back a few years in your mind and imagine, if you will, being locked-in with a house full of 'tweens for three days with the complete collection of the Jonas Brothers playing in a kind of Kafkaesque loop. This is no mere inconvenience or irritation, but a catastrophe -- causing one, perhaps, to question whether all of creation is no more than a cruel joke of a blind-eyed cosmos, or a pantheon of petulant and reckless gods punishing us beyond justice for our sins or simply torturing us out of capricious spite -- all through the agency of tragically conspiring meteorological conditions. 

But, then, on the third day, when all seems lost, and when you've heard "Don't Speak" for the 30th time, and you are moving, deliberately and even furiously, toward the MP3 player with a ball-peen hammer -- then, you glance out the window and, yes, there is the hibernal sun peeping out between parting clouds and -- there!-- the glint of its faintly warming light off an icicle, with a small drop of the solid substance in its liquid form assembling at the icy southern end.  'Don't speak,' you think, 'There's nothing to say -- the curse is lifting.'   And, briefly, you are struck by the artistic mastery of the Jonas Bros ... before you come to your senses, put on your boots, and head outside with a shovel.

And, of course, like the storm, there was Jonas (aka Jonah), the reluctant prophet who was loath to preach to the sinners in Nineveh and fled by boat to Tarshish in order to avoid his divine commission.  God was not pleased, and, as a result, Jonas was caught in a storm, pitched overboard, swallowed by a whale. He remained in the belly of the beast for three days. When he came out, thus chastened, he went off to preach to the Ninevites.  The sign of Jonas, as it were, is that of death and rebirth: akin to being buried alive by three feet of snow and, on the third day, digging out into the sunlight and the bright, frozen creation.

The monk, Fr. Thomas Merton -- who hung out in a Trappist monastery south of Louisville, Kentucky in the mid-Twentieth Century -- kept a journal entitled, "The Sign of Jonas."   He wrote, thusly, on Jonas:

Know that there is in each man a deep will, potentially committed to freedom or captivity, ready to consent to life, born consenting to death, turned inside out, swallowed by its own self, prisoner of itself like Jonas in the whale. This is the truth of death which, printed in the heart of every man, leads him to look for the sign of Jonas the prophet. ***

[But,] it is the whale we cherish. Jonas swims abandoned in the heart of the sea. But it is the whale that must die. Jonas is immortal. If we do not remember to distinguish between them, and if we prefer the whale and do not take Jonas out of the ocean, the inevitable will come to pass. The whale and the prophet will soon come around and meet again in their wanderings, and once again the whale will swallow the prophet. Life will be swallowed again in death and its last state will be worse than the first.

We must get Jonas out of the whale and the whale must die at a time when Jonas is in the clear, busy with his orisons, clothed and in his right mind, free, holy and walking on the shore. Such is the meaning of ... the peace that finds us for a moment in clarity, walking by the light of the stars, raised to God's connatural shore, dry-shod in the heavenly country, in a rare moment of intelligence.

But even if we are not always intelligent, we must inevitably die.

I pursue this thought no further. It came to me because [one of the friars] got a lot of kids’ pictures from a sister in a school somewhere in Milwaukee. The pictures were supposed to be by backward children. Backward nothing. Most of them were of Jonas in or near the whale. They are the only real works of art I have seen in ten years, since entering Gethsemani [Monastery]. But it occurred to me that these wise children were drawing pictures of their own lives. They knew what was in their own depths. They were putting it all down on paper before they had a chance to grow up and forget. They were proving better than any apologist that there is something in the very nature of man that expects a Redeemer and resurrection from the dead. The sign of Jonas is written in our being. No wonder that this should be so when all creation is a vestige of the Creator but also contains, written everywhere, in symbols, the economy of our Redemption.

Admittedly, Fr. Merton is not as sublime here as the Jonas Brothers were at their finest -- but, he does, at least, scratch the surface.

And, as for those Brothers Jonas, I suppose the old monk would have told them to take their own advice -- "Don't Speak."  In fact, he might have invited them to join the monastery and embrace the life of complete silence, wherein they might do penance for what Fr. Merton called the "sin of noise."

If this were to transpire, surely, many 'tweeny, tiny hearts would be broken; but, many others would rejoice, rushing out half-dressed into the chilly wasteland and leaping into a colossal snowbank - then lifting up their frosty, joyful faces, perhaps with some word of good news for their Ninevite neighbors, like our ancient brother, Jonas.

Seven Deadlies Luncheon

Gentle visitors, let us listen in on the monthly luncheon of our constant companions, the Seven Deadlies.

Superbia:	I don’t know why I hang out with you losers.
Invidia:	Oh, Miss High & Mighty.  Aren't we special.
Superbia:	Envious are we? Typical for a lowlife. [looking over menu] God, there’s nothing here worth eating.
Invidia:	"Oh, I mustn’t spoil my gorgeous figure!"
Ira:	What a pair of snobs! You make me sick!
Gula:	[looking at menu] I’ll take the monster portion.
Ira:	Shut your yap tubbo! There ought to be a law!
Avaritia:	I’m not picking up the tab for all of this
Invidia:	Who would expect you to? You’re only the richest one here.
Avaritia:	Well, that didn’t happen by accident, dearie – it’s the fruit of sound investment policy and wealth preservation strategy.
Superbia:	Ah, the nouveau riche. How tiresome.
Acedia:	I’m tired. Are we done?
Luxuria:	Check it out – our waitress is hot, hot, hot!
Invidia:	Oh yeah, she’s beautiful – in a cheap kind of way.
Luxuria:	I didn’t say she was beautiful, just hot.
Ira:	What a perv! Someone ought to bust your chops!
Gula:	Can I get a second helping?
Superbia:	God, what a slob. Have you ever heard of a napkin?
Gula:	[chewing food, indecipherable]
Acedia:	This is boring. Can we go now?
Waitress presents bill
Luxuria:	[grabbing waitress] Hey, baby! Haven’t we met somewhere before?
Avaritia:	[examining bill] See – I told you they’d overcharge. I hope she doesn’t expect a tip.
Ira:	Skinflint!
Gula:	Can I get a doggie bag?
Acedia:	Do we have to walk to the car?

Lent Relent

Gentle visitors, we have arrived at about the mid-point of Lent, a season observed by the Romish and others.  Pilgrim that he is, your humble Contributor marks the season by trudging along with his fellow lowly cohorts in the faith.  But, at about this point, his rebellious nature begins to bray and stay put like senor burro, burdened and halfway up the cold, desert sierra. 

The issue, your humble Contributor tells himself, is the whole notion of self-denial so tied to Lent.   It seems such an out-dated concept, what with the new science of self-affirmation.  Why, he asks himself, continue writing the same old negative self-scripts for yourself when you could be writing positive self-scripts, by which you might take a "healthy 'selfish' or self-oriented route in your life so that you can 'let go' of people who drain your resources and keep you from experiencing full personal health?"  Goodness, it sounds positively wonderful! 

The first step, of course, is visualizing your healthy/selfish self, free from burdensome family, neighbors, co-workers, etc.  Visualize your own private magic omnibus, happily tooling along and tooting the horn ....  Do you see it?  Yes.  Now, visualize tossing these resource-draining others to the curb.  Off you go!  Farewell, burdensome baggage.

Next step, practice assorted self-affirmations: 

• "I am the best friend I have!"
• "I am the brightest, most capable, creative, intelligent, giving, loving, handsome, relaxed, and enjoyable person I know!"
• "I would have had nice teeth, if I had proper orthodontia in my youth!"

Whoops!  Already slipping into another negative self-script.  Let's try the next step: giving up whatever is non-self-affirming. 

• Give up doing the dishes -- the source of much pain and anger.   
• Give up admonishing yourself for your failures of will - "failure" is no longer in your personal vocabulary  -- everything is now a "success", even those successes that would land you in debt, prison, or Siberia for the winter.
• Give up giving up things -- give in and live a little -- you're worth it!

There.  Now, your humble Contributor finds himself feet up, consuming a quart of bubbly, flavored fructose, a tub of popped and larded corn, and a entertainingly vacuous program.  He says to himself, "Self, thou art affirmed."

Sadly, he will probably return to the same, tired old self-script on the morrow -- a man, once again, in denial.

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 10

Whether they know it or not, Catholics believe that the ordinary is the material for the extraordinary – the makings of a story that may be the telling an absolute reality. On that note, Walker Percy once shared some unusual thoughts on being a novelist and a Catholic.

If one had to design a religion for novelists, I can think of no better [than the Catholic faith]. What distinguishes Judeo-Christianity in general from other world religions is its emphasis on the value of the individual , person, its view of man as a creature in trouble, seeking to get out of it, and accordingly on the move. Add to this anthropology the special marks of the Catholic Church: the sacraments, especially the Eucharist, which, whatever else they do, confer the highest significant upon the ordinary things of this world, bread, wine, water, touch, breath, words, talking, listening – and what to you have? You have a man in a predicament and on the move in a real world of real things, a world which is a sacrament and mystery; a pilgrim whose life is a searching and a finding. . . . Show me a lapsed Catholic who writes a good novel about being a young Communist at Columbia and I'll show you a novelist who owes more to Sister Gertrude at Sacred Heart in Brooklyn, who slapped him clean out of his seat for disrespect to the Eucharist, than he owes to all of Marxist dialectic.

For Catholics, and for other Christians, receiving Communion is ordinary enough – perhaps too ordinary given the extraordinary claims of the sacrament. But, even if every communicant fully appreciated what they received, they would still have to negotiate the church parking lot afterwards.

Given the human predicament, perhaps the pure extraordinary would overwhelm and compel: something, we believe, that God refuses to do. Perhaps the ordinary is most merciful means: sufficient, in the eyes of faith, to grasp and yet not fully grasp.

***

The church bulletin advises me to check the Christmas schedule for extraordinary ministers. This being Advent, an extraordinary time of preparation, I should go to confession, write another check or two to charity, write a few Christmas cards, start thinking about Christmas shopping, find a way around constant pre-Christmas feasting, and drop into the Ukrainian shoe shop to improve my unworthy soles.

If all goes well, on Christmas Eve, we might be singing the same old songs, hearing the same old story, and receiving the same old communion; but, as the psalmist describes the captives returning to Zion, we may be like men dreaming, our mouths full of laughter and our tongues with rejoicing.

-----------------

The quotations are from Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being, 124-5 (ed. Sally Fitzgerald, Vintage Books, 1979), and Walker Percy, "The Holiness of the Ordinary" in Signposts in a Strange Land, 369-70 (ed. Patrick Samway, Noonday Press, 1991).

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 9

In fact, physically speaking, my brother had hit a ledge well above the bottom. In the year that followed -- 2002 -- he was visited by every additional complication of disease and treatment that had not already arrived, including the loss of his use of his legs.

As he declined, we talked about his condition and his prospects often. He had believed passionately that he would be cured: if not by medicine, then by herbal cocktails and positive thinking. But, his faith in this was shaken. He could not understand why God – if there was a God – would bring this upon him.

Yet, one day, he asked me to contact Fr. Gerry, who had come to see him in the past; and, soon, the pastor came to visit him. A few weeks later, he came again, bringing Communion. And, in time, Fr. Gerry asked me to bring Communion to John each Sunday, as long he wished to receive.

By that time, John was set-up with a hospital bed in a small room in his apartment, with a window that looked out upon a stand of trees. Sometimes, he could transfer to his lounge chair; later, this became a precarious move. And, it seemed that he was in the hospital as much as he was home.

But, when he was home, it was my habit on Sundays to bring the pyx, a café latté, and an apple cinnamon bagel. He would right himself in bed, say the abbreviated rite with me, then receive the Eucharist. We would pause, then pray for his health. Then, he would break the bread and sip the cup, relishing them as if they were sweet and forbidden to him.

John spent his last couple of weeks in the hospital, because he wanted to continue to fight the complications to his bodily life. He was visited by priests in each of his last three days; they brought him three sacraments: Reconciliation – confession for short; the Anointing of the Sick – a once known as the Last Rites or Extreme Unction; and, viaticum: the form of the Eucharist for those about to "pass over" to the next life.

After these rites, on his last day, he asked whether he should continue living or let go: for months, he seemed to live solely by virtue of his insistence on staying alive. No-one knew quite what to say; but, he arrived at the answer. That evening, he said goodbye to his friends and family, kissed his wife good night, turned out the light in the hospital room, and simply gave up his spirit.

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 8

It was like the time I was distributing communion one Sunday, when it suddenly seemed clear to me how God could love everyone. Anyone might wonder, how could He? Okay, you might see you’re family, maybe with one or two exceptions. Sure, the minority of wonderful, generous, gracious people out there; some of the less wonderful but more numerous decent folks. But, everyone? Intellectually... mayble, you could work it out; emotionally, not so sure.

Even so, for a few moments, presenting the host to the usual queue of ordinary unworthies, I understood how this could be. In that brief time, it seemed so clear. But, a day later, again, I couldn’t see how. You mean the guy in the late-model, turbo charged import, yapping on the cell phone, cutting me off sharply, and taking the time to give me the finger. He is loved beyond all measure?

***

On the First Monday of Advent, I attend the Mass for Stanley. Not that the priest says anything about Stanley: not even in the Eucharistic prayers or the Intentions. But, in the case, the intention is sufficient. And, in any case, seated in the pew and hearing the Mass, I am reminded of my brother John.

As it happened, John and his wife moved into the parish a year and a half into his second bout with cancer; but, he didn’t come to church. His wife was Buddhist, and he had not so much lost his faith as he had misplaced it among a large and diverse collection of spiritual and self-help programs.  He had worked through every conventional treatment for his disease and was well into the exotic and experimental.

But, by Christmas of '01, after he had abandoned a last resort course of arsenic infusion; he appeared to have hit bottom.

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 7

The Catholic Church still teaches that the Eucharist is the true Body and Blood of Jesus, Christ, who is really and substantially present under the appearances of bread and wine, in order to offer himself in the sacrifice of the Mass and to be received as spiritual food in Holy Communion.

The term, "real presence", applies very specifically here: the Church believes that Jesus is really present, body and soul and divinity, in each morsel, every drop, of the apparent bread and wine. Eucharist, itself, is defined as "thanksgiving", since, at the Last Supper, when Jesus instituted this sacrament, he gave thanks. The Church sees in it a connection to the Passover and the Seder: a meal of thanksgiving, a meal for a journey.

The Orthodox Church holds a very similar teaching; the Anglican, Lutheran, and other Christian churches also hold this basic teaching, in some way or to some extent. Other Christian churches hold Communion to be a purely symbolic, but significant, ritual. It would have been easier on public relations had the Catholic Church simply taught the Eucharist as a symbol. People understand symbols, especially in the context of ritual. We understand the flag, the hand held to the breast, and the playing of the anthem.

But, for the Church, it’s not that easy. We believe that, when Jesus said, "This is my body; this is the cup of my blood", he really meant it, in some ineffable way. In his Gospel, John describes Jesus teaching at the synagogue in Capernaum, on the Sea of Galilee, saying: "I am the bread come down from heaven. My flesh is real food; my blood is real drink. He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day."

Many of the followers were disturbed by these words: "This is a hard saying; who can endure it?" But, rather than re-phrasing his words, he asked them, almost in a challenge: "Does it shake your faith?" Afterwards, those shaken stopped following him. He did not send an apostle after them to explain what he had really meant to say; instead, he asked those who remained, "Will you also leave me?" They didn’t. Instead, they became the first ordinaries.

In one of her letters, the writer Flannery O’Connor described a curious encounter:

I was once, five or six years ago, taken to have dinner with Mary McCarthy……. She departed the Church at the age of 15 and is a Big Intellectual. ...I hadn’t opened my mouth once, there being nothing for me in such company to say… Having me there was like having a dog present who had been trained to say a few words but overcome with inadequacy had forgotten them.

Well, ... the conversation turned on the Eucharist, which I, being the Catholic, was obviously supposed to defend. [McCarthy] said that when she was a child and received the Host, she thought of it as the Holy Ghost, He being the "most portable" person of the Trinity; now she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one.

I then said, in a very shaky voice, "Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it." That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now that this is all I will ever be able to say about it, outside of a story, except that it is the center of existence for me; all the rest of life is expendable.

It was O’Connor’s habit to state things in the bluntest manner. Of course, the Church sees a host of symbols and allusions in the Eucharist; yet, these are the signs, not the real substance, of the sacrament – a thing of intensity and mystery that O’Connor confesses. You could spend a lifetime just reading texts written over the centuries devoted to the subject; but, at the end of such a life, you would still not fully grasp the subject.

This is where faith comes in. Either you have received something beyond all understanding – held, as it were, God in your hand – or you have received a wafer of almost tasteless, unleavened bread and, perhaps, a sip of fruity red wine – the psychological understanding of which is, maybe, a fascinating matrix of delusion.

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 6

For some periods, I brought communion to Mary and Tommy (baptized Dominic), who lived in the trailer park on Braniff Circle, but in a double-wide trailer. This was their retirement home. Both of them had lost their first spouses. They met late in life and dated for years until they finally married.

Pete, the extraordinary manager, had asked me to go to Mary, who had contracted ALS – Lou Gehrig’s disease. Over the space of a year or so, I watched her go downhill: from sitting up in her lounge chair, chatting amiably, to lying flat on a hospital bed set-up in the dining room, speechless.   In the latter days, I would break off a tiny piece of the host and offer it to her. She would nod her head, slightly, and receive it in her mouth, then take a sip of water from a straw.

One Sunday, I came to their home and noticed that the tree in the small patch of front yard was full of birds, singing with full throats. For some reason, I knew that Mary was gone. Tommy answered the door, fighting back tears. I saw his family gathered around in the small kitchen table behind him and beyond them the empty hospital bed.

Later, when Tommy was diagnosed with inoperable cancer, I began taking communion to him. Once, we sat down at the triangular kitchen table, and Tommy said, "When you see the tree full of birds again, Joe, then you’ll know." He looked at the table and traced the random patterns on the formica top. He didn’t last long after that.

Through most of this time, I continued to visit Stanley. Other than these visits, Stanley’s life consisted primarily of television, prayer, medication, smoking, and sleep. He had little use for physicians, Republicans and politicians generally, lawyers, or most other kinds of people, for that matter.

But, whenever he heard bad news on the TV, he would say a special prayer for those who were killed, those who were injured, and those who survived. He would often say, with some fresh proof, that the world was going to hell; then, he would add, "So, how’s the misses, the boy?" Whenever my son did come with me, Stanley would struggle out of his chair, fumble through the items on the kitchen table, and press several bills into my son’s hand, insisting that he take them.

When I last saw him, I came in, as usual and asked him how it was going. Not good. And, in fact, he was not doing well: he was failing quickly. His son, who had long since moved to Texas, was urging Stanley to come live with him. For years, Stanley had resisted every suggestion to move. But, now, he had relented. I gave him Communion.

That week, his son came back to get him. In a month, Stanley died somewhere in Texas. I heard nothing about a funeral for him.

The Ordinary Extraordinary - Part 5

Living in Brooklyn, Stanley had never owned a car and never bothered to learn to drive; he felt no need. He worked a variety of blue collar jobs – the last one with a cabinet manufacturer. His wife worked at a department store for years, until she started making simple errors at the cash register. He took her to a doctor, who diagnosed "old-timers" disease.

His wife, then, wanted to leave New York to live closer to one son in Virginia. She insisted. Stanley didn’t want to go; but, the doctor told him it might be best to go along with what she wanted. So, he retired, bought a mobile home, and moved with his wife into the trailer park.

Soon after, his son moved 50 miles away. But, Stanley stayed and took care of his wife there for ten years, as she declined mentally and physically. One day, when she had fallen in the tiny hall leading to the bedroom, he fell next to her, trying to get her up, then neither of them could get up. So, he took her to a nearby nursing home.

For ten more years, Stanley went to see her every single day, catching the bus or a ride from a friend or parishioner. He would make sure that she had a good meal, and he would hold her hand and talk with her. Even when she could no longer speak, he could tell by the way she looked at him, that she understood him.

The decor of the trailer, such as it was, appeared the same as it had twenty years before – shaggy and brownish with a yellow tint from sun, smoke, and inattention. Along with family photos, Stanley had hung a photo of Pope John Paul II, who shared Stanley’s age and nationality, an old, plastic crucifix, and a Catholic calendar, with the prior days of the month duly X’ed out.

For years after that first visit, nearly every Sunday, I came to bring Stanley Communion. Each time, I would come in, sit down, and ask him how he was doing, how it was going. Each time, invariably, he would answer, "Not good." Then, he would begin a litany of physical and other ailments and worries, involving his sight, hearing, bowel function, motor function, circulation, roof leaks, ground rent, overhanging trees, and troublesome neighbors, among other things. But, usually, before he went too far, he would stop.

Then, we would recite a greatly abbreviated rite of the Mass: I would remove the host from the pyx and say, "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world," and he would adjust his glasses and look on the printed rite and say, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I will be healed." With that, he would receive the host. We would pause for a few moments in silence, and say a closing prayer for the restoration of his health.

Then, he would resume his complaint on his bowel problems.

The Ordinary Extraordinary, Part 3

This is Advent – the true beginning of the year in the old Roman Church. The Church anticipates by about a month the beginning of what is, for most in the secular world, the new year.  On the Latin rite calendar, we have just come off the longest period of ordinary time in the church year: from early June to the end of November – every day, ordinary time.

But, Advent is extraordinary time – a four-week season in preparation for, a "coming to", Christmas – what most Christians believe to be the First Coming of the God-man – an unlettered Jewish tradesman from Nazareth in the ancient province of Galilee, who, we believe is, notwithstanding his humanity and humble circumstance, divine. We have begun the third year in a three year cycle of readings from the Old and New Testament – a canon the Church adopted from first century Judaism.

But, the readings allude not so much to the First Coming as to the Second Coming: the time, we believe, that Jesus, the Son of Man, will return to earth, passing judgment on everyone still living and everyone passed away, and making all things new.

Christmas is a shorter but equally extraordinary time – not just a day, but two weeks, more or less, beginning on Christmas Day and ending on the Epiphany, the feast of the Magi, with the solemnity of the Mother of God in between. Then, in early January, we’ll be back to ordinary time, again, until late February, when we begin six weeks or so of Lent, followed by six weeks or so of Easter. Finally, we are back in ordinary time for the long haul.

In addition to the few months of extraordinary time, the Church these days has some other extraordinariness. Before the Second Vatican Council, one rarely saw extraordinary ministers: only priests or the few ordained ministers administered the sacraments. After the Council, however, the Church permitted some of the consecrated religious and the laity to assist the clergy in cases of necessity or by special delegation. The ordinaries are still the bishops, priests and deacons, in that order; but, in recent years, the extra ordinaries have become the order of business.

I am not an extraordinary minister because I was extraordinarily pious or faithful, but because of ordinary reasons. I had known the former pastor for years – through my family, at a different parish – I showed up at church every Sunday, and, as he correctly surmised, I actually believed what the Church proposed to be true. When he asked me to serve as an extraordinary minister, I told him, politely, no: I was not worthy. He said, no-one is worthy. Well, I thought, that’s me.

So, I agreed to a three-year assignment, which the former pastor and the current pastor, Fr. Gerry, have renewed a couple of times. When I started, the parish had only a small group of extraordinary ministers. Since then, Fr. Gerry has appointed many new ministers, and my services are not in such demand. Frankly, if the pastor to put me out to pasture, so to speak, I’d be OK with that. I don’t know that I’m worthier now than we I began.