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The Four Griefs of Wisdom

Thu, 04/25/2024 - 19:52

With much wisdom comes much grief: and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow” (Ecc. 1:18). Long have I pondered the meaning of your enigmatic words, O Solomon. Why should the possession of wisdom and knowledge bring me to grief? If, as the Proverbs say, “Wisdom will come into your heart, and knowledge will be pleasant to your soul” (Prov. 2:10), then in what sense is knowledge sorrowful? How can its attainment be a source of both delight and distress?

The degree to which wisdom brings delight or distress is relative to one’s spiritual orientation. Here is manifest the great duality of the human experience, which the Scholastics used to say is lived in statu viae—“in a state of journeying.” For we are not yet what we shall become (cf. 1 John 3:2); so long as we sojourn on this earth, we are wanderers straddling the boundary between two worlds. Of the flesh, we live in the spirit. Born of earth, we long for heaven. We pilgrimage towards “a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God” (Heb. 11:10). Behind us is the City of Man, before us the City of God. We have one foot in each world, like the angel of the Apocalypse who “set his right foot upon the sea, and his left foot on the earth” (Rev. 10:2). While we are in the flesh we must satisfy the obligations of both worlds, until the Day of Judgment commits us irrevocably to one City or the other, and the wheat is separated from the tares.

Here we see why the attainment of wisdom can bring joy and sorrow, for the City of God and the City of Man are in antithesis. They are not only divergent destinations, but each have their own contradictory value systems as well. What makes one great in the City of God is despised in the City of Man, and what brings success in the City of Man excludes one from the City of God. Money is the currency of the City of Man, while prayer is the currency of the City of God. Power is esteemed in the former, meekness in the latter. Pride motivates in one, humility in the other. The City of Man is built upon selfishness, the City of God upon sacrifice.

Thus, if we grow in the virtues that are valued in the City of God, we will find less comfort in the City of Man. With each passing day our status as pilgrims will become more evident. We feel more profoundly our position as outsiders in this world. With Christ, we learn to say, “My kingdom is not of this world”; with St. Paul, we profess that “here we have no lasting city” (John 18:36; Heb. 13:14). We imbibe these words deeply, appropriating them to our own experience and making them the pulse in our veins. The things of this world make less and less sense to us. We perceive life as “this, our exile,” as the classic Marian hymn Salve Regina calls it. The greater our orientation towards the Kingdom of God, the greater our estrangement from the things of this world.

Alternately, if we adopt the values of the City of Man, the things of God are repugnant to us. The Gospel seems like foolishness. Christian ethics are misunderstood or scoffed at. Prayer and spiritual things appear silly. Seeking God feels like a waste of time. The deeper we enmesh ourselves in the ways of the world, the less relevance the Gospel of Christ appears to have to our lives. It seems an embarrassing relic from an age deemed less sophisticated. Such are those oriented towards the City of Man; these persons cannot be expected to appreciate the spiritual richness offered in Christ Jesus. For, “the carnal man does not receive the gifts of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him, and he is not able to understand them because they are spiritually discerned” (1 Cor. 2:14).

In the myths of ancient Greece, we read of the prophetess Cassandra. She was given the gift of prophecy by the god Apollo, but the same god capriciously cursed her for resisting his amorous advances, decreeing that she should prophesy truly but nobody would believe her words. Cassandra was thus blessed and cursed: blessed with the ability to know the truth but cursed by its constant rejection by those with whom she shared it. Is this not like the dilemma faced by those who seek the Kingdom of God? For the very act of drawing closer to God estranges us further from the world. Like Cassandra whose gift of prophecy ensured she was ignored, our commitment to the Gospel becomes an occasion of mockery to the world, the more so to the degree we advance in the spiritual life. Those who love Christ are all Cassandras in this world.

Now the meaning of Solomon’s words become apparent. The wisdom of God brings us delight insofar as we progress towards the City of God, but the estrangement from the world it engenders also saddens us. But why does it sadden us? “To get wisdom is better than gold” says Solomon elsewhere (Prov. 16:16). If this is the case, should we not rejoice in the wisdom of God? Why should estrangement from the world bring us grief?

There are four senses in which estrangement from the world brings us grief as we draw closer to God.

First, at the beginning of our conversion, we grieve because we struggle to let go of the delights that bind us to our old life. We are accustomed to living according to our passions; we miss the pleasures of worldly living, even as the Israelites longed for the fleshpots of Egypt during the Exodus (cf. Ex. 16:3). Our friends continue to live in the manner they are accustomed, but we can no longer do so in good conscience. We must put distance between ourselves and our old life, but this also distances us from old friends. Sometimes there is resentment., “The way of the Lord is unfair” (Ezk. 18:29) we may say, as we see the wicked prosper, or the dissolute live lives of given over to pleasure with no apparent consequence. We feel stretched, longing for the kingdom of God but still feeling the seductive pull of the kingdom of man. This grief is a kind of trial, the outcome of which determines whether we advance in the service of the Lord or whether we are one who “puts his hand to the plow and looks back”, proving we are unfit for the kingdom of God (Luke 9:62).

The second type of grief is the sadness we feel at our own shortcomings. We have walked with the Lord for some time, we have made some progress in the spiritual life. The impetus of our original zeal has carried us a little way. But we have also experienced considerable setbacks; we have come to fully internalize the Lord’s saying, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak” (Matt. 26:41). With St. Paul, we cry out, “I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate…I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do” (Rom. 7:15,18-19). Often this type of grief arises from disappointment with ourselves, emerging out of the chasm between what we are and what we wish to be. In more enlightened souls, this grief becomes less about falling short of our own ideals and more about falling short of God’s standard. Fortunately, this kind of grief is purifying, as it nurtures our humility and teaches us to lean not on our own strength, but on the Lord.

The third grief occurs when we find ourselves frustrated at the unbelief, irreverence, and perversion we see in the world. We desire the glorification of Christ and His Church and are deeply saddened at the world’s rejection of Him. Sometimes our grief is a burning indignation, and we are tempted, with the disciples, to say, “Lord, shall we call down fire from heaven and consume them?” (Luke 9:54); other times it is more of a weeping lament for the stubbornness of the world, like our Lord expressed when he wept over Jerusalem (cf. Matt. 23:37). We have tasted and seen the goodness of the Lord and we desire nothing more than that the whole world should do the same; their refusal to do so is a source of pain to us. This is the grief of the saints who wept for the sins of men and offered tearful prayers of reparation for offenses against God.

The fourth grief comes from the persecutions and trials that are heaped upon us. St. Paul warned Timothy that “all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted” (2 Tim. 3:12). When we think of persecution and martyrdom, we usually think of authoritarian governments, or the Roman tyrants of old. But most persecution a Christian faces in his day-to-day life comes not from the government, but from his friends and family. Either through ignorance, insensitivity, or hostility, it is those closest to us who wound us most. Did not our Lord warn as much? “Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s foes will be those of his own household” (Matt. 10:34-36). We recall the words of Zechariah, “These are the wounds I received in the house of my friends” (Zech. 13:6). We grieve at the sarcastic comments, the little barbs, the misunderstandings, insults, and dismissiveness that comes from those we love. How we wish they would see what we see! How we grieve that we could not all be united in a single love. “How good and pleasant it is when brethren dwell in unity!” (Ps. 133:1) That it cannot always be so is a source of continual grief. We would die of sadness if it were not for our Lord’s promise that we who suffer such things for His sake are blessed (cf. Matt. 5:10)

Thus are the four griefs of Christian life that accompany those who grow in wisdom. Aside from the first (which passes as we mature), these griefs will all only intensify proportional to our closeness to the Lord. As we grow in the wisdom of God, the duality of living in two worlds pulls upon us, and in that tear is found grief.  “With much wisdom comes much grief, and he that increase knowledge increases sorrow.”

+AMDG+                 

Categories: All, Lay, Traditional

Seeking Essayists for Latin Mass and the Youth Project

Sun, 04/21/2024 - 19:18


Blessed Sunday to you friends! I am working on compiling a series of essays from young people on the subject of what the Latin Mass means to them, which will ultimately be published in book form. The goal of this book is to explore the question of why the traditional liturgy is so appealing to the youth.

I am therefore asking for your help to identify young people who would be interested in contributing essays to the project. This post contains all the information about the project for those who might be interested in participating or having their children participate. If you are interested in supporting this endeavor, please read on.

1. Who Can Participate?

Contributors should be:

(a) Between the ages of 12 and 24
(b) Regular or semi-regular attendees of the TLM 
(c) Willing and able to cogently write an essay on the subject of the Mass
Participants certainly do not need to be advanced writers, but they should at least be competent writers.

2. What Should Participants Write On?

The general subject of the essay is "What does the Traditional Latin Mass mean to me?" There are a variety of ways to answer the question. For example, participants may write about:
  • A narrative of how they discovered the TLM.
  • How the TLM has benefited their spiritual lives.
  • How the TLM has helped them enter into liturgical worship more fully.
  • What they learned about the Catholic faith through the TLM.
  • Any personal stories or anecdotes relating to love of the traditional Mass.
  • Anything relating to the place the traditional liturgy plays in their lives
Keep the tone of the essay positive, focused on the beauty, attraction, and transformative power of the traditional liturgy. The narrative should be personal, written in first person voice. 
 
3. How Long Should the Essays Be?

Essays should be 2+ pages single spaced, or 4+ pages double spaced. A little shorter or a little longer is fine, but in general this is the average desired length.

4. When Should Essays Be Completed By?

I am hoping to have all the essays collected by the beginning of July.

5. How Should Essays Be Submitted?

Essays should be submitted as Microsoft Word documents, Google Docs, or Open Office,  and emailed to me at uscatholicam@gmail.com. Please do not send PDFs or scans of hand-written essays. I need something in an editable format.

6. Should I Forward This to Others? How Many Essays Do You Need?

I am hoping to collect at least 50 essays. Please feel free to share this post with anyone you think may be interested (although please be selective with whom you send this to; do not simply spam it to huge mailing lists—give some thought to specific individuals of interest and send it to them).

7. Will Essays Be Edited?

Essays will be edited for typos, but the specific narrative, grammar, and voice of each participant will be preserved.

8. Will Participants Be Identified?

Only by first name, age, and general region (U.S. state, province, or country).

9. How Do Participants Sign Up?

Simply send an email to uscatholicam@gmail.com, let me know the name and age of who will be participating (whether yourself or one of your children) and I will put your name on the list. Please do not sign up unless you or your child are able to meet the criteria listed above, including the deadline. Please include first and last name of the participant and their location. This information will not be made public; it's just for me to keep track internally of who is submitting what.

10. When Will the Book Be Published?

Lord willing, by the end of the summer this year.


Categories: All, Lay, Traditional

What a Piece of Work is Man

Sun, 04/14/2024 - 05:56

What a piece of work is a man, 
How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, 
In form and moving how express and admirable, 
In action how like an Angel, 
In apprehension how like a god.

~William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 2, Scene 2

In the above-cited passage from Shakespeare's Hamlet, the titular character of Hamlet, speaking to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, comments on the promise and peril of the human condition, contrasting man's remarkable powers with the depravity of which he is capable. 

When Hamlet says, "how infinite in faculty," Shakespeare is not being daft about man's capacity. He understands that humans, strictly speaking, are not infinite in any sense. He is using poetic hyperbole to express the inestimable value of human reason, unique among all created beings. In this context, "infinite" means something like incalculable, immeasurable, vast, utterly unique, or priceless. Hamlet is here using elevated language to express his wonder at the seemingly boundless faculties of the human mind.

Such hyperbolic language is well-suited to literary genres because of its ability to draw on a rich reservoir of associated images and implications that take us well beyond the literal level of a passage. Language itself is analogical; it works by evoking mental associations. These associations are richer to the degree that time and usage—especially in cultural or literary contexts—have imbued them with shared meaning. The great English novelist Dorothy Sayers said:

It is by this kind of process that words and phrases become charged with the power acquired by passing through the minds of successive writers. Pure scientists (who find this kind of power embarrassing to them) are always struggling in vain to rid words of their power of association; and the ugly formations which they devise for this purpose have as their excuse their comparative freedom from the artist's brand of creative power. Here is a trifling example. I was once taken to task by an arms expert for using the word "dynamite" as a symbol of explosive force. He contended, very justly, that dynamite was out of date; we now knew a great many substances that exploded more readily and with more devastating effect. My defense was that the newer words, though associated with more material power, had fewer associations of literary power. "Dynamite" carries with it the accumulated power flowing from the Greek dynamis—such concepts, for example, as belong to the words dynamo, dynamic, dynasty, and so forth, and such literary associations as Hardy's The Dynasts. Hardy's poem brings with it the thought of Napoleon's explosion of power; "dynasty" taps the power of ancient Egypt as it is interpreted in our minds...It is [therefore] interesting to rake into one's own mind and discover, if one can, what were the combined sources of power on which one, consciously or unconsciously, drew while endeavoring to express an idea in writing. [1]

Using these kinds of hyperbolic, literary phrases thus allows us to access ideas that are greater than the sum of their parts. They offer us a Gestalt view of reality, providing not only what is literally deduced from a phrase, but a whole subworld of associated images that give emotional weight to the words. This is the power of a skilled litterateur, whether of prose or poetry.

All well and good. But we have, however, been talking solely about literary forms of expression, the type of language suitable to "the artist's brand of creative power," as Sayers says. But this is not the only manner of speaking. Sayers notes that "pure scientists" are frustrated with this type of language, because whereas literature is helped by the constellation of associations pregnant in a poetic term, science is hindered. Literature thrives on phraseology that is enriched with associated meanings, whereas science thrives on reducing words to their most precise usage. Without the ability to use words univocally, the accumulation of knowledge underlying the edifice of science would be impossible. To put it simply, in literature, equivocation nurtures imagination, while for science, equivocation yields obfuscation.

Neither manner of writing is "better" than the other; both the imaginative and the univocal have their place depending on the writer's purpose. If the writer is composing a dramatical production such as Hamlet, he will want to lean deeply into the world of symbolism and poetry. If he is writing a scientific paper, like Maxwell's Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism, he will wish to speak clearly with precision and uniformity of meaning. Ultimately, then, it depends on what form of communication one is intending and what sort of speech is proper to that mode.

And what of theology? Does theology have more in common with the creative disciplines of the literary world, or with the sciences? I do understand that in reality theology can incorporate ideas from various disciplines; art, for example, is often appealed to in order to illustrate theological concepts. Theology is capable of drawing on a rich treasury of ideas from everywhere. But that doesn't mean theology lacks an inherent structure. Theology is not a jellyfish; it is not a liquid that assumes the contours of whatever vessel one pours it into. There is a structure and a methodology to the discipline of theology that must be observed if theology is to make any sense. Theology has traditionally been considered a science that requires a precision of language in order to be comprehensible. The Fathers, for example, meant very specific things by terms like person and nature; the Scholastics had refined, precise meanings for words like substance and accident. Like any other science, there can only be true progress in theology to the degree that we have a commonly agreed upon vocabulary to work from. This has always been of immense importance; remember that time there was a universal debate over homoousion vs homoiousion? A great many of the Church’s theological disputes have occurred over differences in how words are used. Words matter immensely. 

In the wake of Pope Francis's Ad Theologiam Promovendam, which called for a "paradigm shift" towards a "popular theology" that was "fundamentally contextual" and "inductive," I wrote:

Theology is traditionally deductive; that is, we start with an objective body of truth (divine revelation, i.e., the "deposit of faith") and deduce applications from that body of truth. Theological development thus constitutes a kind of "clarification" or "deepening" of this primal deposit, such that theologians of later centuries have greater clarity on the truth, as each step of theological progress is deducted logically from the steps before it. Francis, however, wants an inductive method based on contextualization. Inductive reasoning means we construct theories based on concrete observations; in this case, Francis wants these theories contextualized based on "common sense,"  "popular theology," and "other disciplines"—in other words, the lived experience of individuals in the context of contemporary culture. This rotates the axis of theology 180 degrees, moving us from deductions derived from objective principles to theories constructed around the subjective experiences of people. It is a complete inversion of how theology has traditionally been done. ("The Last Gasp of Our Ahkenaten," USC, Nov 5, 2023)
Francis's view of theology is vastly less precise than the approach Catholics have used in the past. He does not follow the deductive method, nor does he care for precise definitions. This makes reading Francis in light of tradition inherently problematic. When Francis, for example, says that man possesses "infinite dignity," it does not good to cite discussions in Aquinas's philosophical discussions about relative infinity, nor John Paul II's use of similar phraseology, because Francis plainly states that his theology will no longer utilize the same methodological framework as earlier generations of theologians. He wants theology to be more contextual, more equivocal, more culturally determined, more replete with literary allusion. Whatever Aquinas or John Paul II meant in their writings, it cannot be assumed that Francis means the same. I've not read the document, and this is not a theological exegesis on the use of the word "infinite." Rather, it is to point out that, if Francis himself says that his theology is fundamentally contextual, then we have no justification for assuming any of his theological assertions have a precise, univocal meaning in continuity with tradition. Francis himself has said this is how he wants theology to be done now.

This is certainly not to say his words have no meaning; it is to say, however, that we can no longer simply presume the meaning bears continuity with previous theologians like Aquinas or John Paul II.

What a piece of work is Francis!

[1] Dorothy L. Sayers, The Mind of the Maker (Harper Row: New York, NY, 1979), 117-118


Categories: All, Lay, Traditional