The hawk was both amazing and amusing: the mighty raptor who had been harassing crows until the rain started was now splashing on the roof outside my window like a sparrow in a birdbath.  His feathers were fluffed and disheveled; his positions were sometimes comical.

Why did the hawk come to mind during therapy? Although at therapy I was not fluffed and disheveled (neither am I a raptor, since I don’t eat meat and I do try not to harass anyone), dignity was out of the question in the contorted and goofy-looking body-positions that were required of me.

Anyhow, bodily creatures that we are and often in need of humility, I came to the not-so-profound conclusion that there is a time for pondering the Trinity, and there is a time for tending to the body.  There is also a time for dignity and a time for just forgetting self and getting with the program.  And there is a time for simply having a good time with what God has provided—which the hawk seemed to be doing.  (But if you’ve ever been to physical therapy, you’ll agree that fun is not the goal there.)

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.

Psalm 139:14

In other words, going to church is a routine drive through a tame stretch of twenty-first century civilization.

One weekday, something unusual came into view: a parking place on University Avenue right in front of the church.  I braked, preparing to parallel park, but with a city bus right right behind us, I was eager to get out of the way.  As I hurried to back into the space, the rear wheels hit the curb.  The bus waited, although I think it could have easily gotten past, and the driver’s courtesy made me more anxious.  I cut the wheels and went forward, tapping the bumper of the expensive-looking car ahead of us.

Under the car there happened to be a squirrel.  Startled by the thump, the squirrel ran out into the street and was immediately run over.  I was rattled, but I finally managed to park, and the bus continued on its way.  A close inspection of the car ahead of us showed no damage, but I felt terrible about the squirrel, which by the end of Mass had been completely flattened.

Wilderness breaking through

These were on the surface minor events, hardly worth mentioning (in spite of the squirrel’s demise), especially when one compares them with being bombed in Libya or losing family and home to the tsunami in Japan.  But as I reflect on them I am put in touch with a truth that humanity spends a lot of energy trying not to notice.

Just beneath the surface of civilization lurks the wilderness.  Not the wilderness in the sense of lions and tigers, but the fact that reality is not domesticated.  In the midst of the city, we find that the desert (or in our subtropical climate, the swamp or the jungle) is never totally absent.  Life is unpredictable, and we are not in control.  Hints of the wilderness are everywhere. We glimpse it whenever grass pushes through what we have carefully paved over. We are invited to nod before the wilderness when the computer crashes at an inopportune moment, or a squirrel runs out into a busy street and is squashed as we head for Mass. The wilderness embraces us when we are surprised by beauty. And it crashes in on us when health fails, or a loved one dies, or a hurricane turns toward a coastal town where the forecaster had assured us that it would not go.

Choices

It seems to me that we have two choices when faced with the wilderness.  One is to moan, like the Hebrew people just freed from slavery in Egypt :

“Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you have taken us away to die in the wilderness? What have you done to us, bringing us out of Egypt?   Is this not the very thing we told you in Egypt, ‘Let us alone and let us serve the Egyptians’? For it would have been better for us to serve the Egyptians than to die in the wilderness.”
(Exodus 14:11-12).

The other is to listen for the voice of God saying to us:

Therefore, I will now allure her,
and bring her into the wilderness,
and speak tenderly to her.
(Hosea 2:14)

In the wilderness we are freed from the false securities of Egypt .  There it finally becomes evident that we are not God, and that God is all-sufficient.

(1. Soul of Christ, sanctify me.)

(2. Body of Christ, save me.)

(3. Blood of Christ, inebriate me.)

(4. Water from the side of Christ, wash me.)

- – - – -

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

Jesus, may your crucifixion, emblem not only of self-giving, but also of weakness and helplessness, strengthen me.  May your weakness give me strength.

We would normally turn to someone we thought was strong to give us strength, wouldn’t we?  But Jesus on the cross is helpless.

Father Michael J. Buckley, SJ, in “A Letter to the Ordinands” (published in The Berkeley Jesuit in Spring 1972), poses a strange question concerning those feeling called to the priesthood.  He asks, “Is this man weak enough to be a priest?”

What do I mean by weakness? Not the experience or sin, though it may contextualize sin, but the experience of a peculiar liability to suffering. A profound sense of inability, both to do and protect even after great effort, to author, perform, effect what we have wanted or with the success we would have wanted, an inability to secure one’s own future, to protect oneself, to live with clarity and assurance or to ward off shame and suffering.

Father Buckley goes on to compare Jesus and Socrates – Socrates who gave a profound speech, “found no cause for fear; drank the poison and died.”

Jesus—how much the contrary. Jesus was almost hysterical with terror and fear; looked for comfort from friends and an escape from death and found neither; finally got control over himself and accepted his death in silence and lonely isolation.

…Socrates never expressed sorrow and pain at the betrayal of friends. He was possessed and integral, never over-extended, convinced that the just man could never suffer genuine hurt. And for this reason, Socrates—one of the greatest men who has ever existed, a paradigm of what humanity can achieve within the individual— Socrates was a philosopher. And for these same reasons, Jesus of Nazareth was a priest, ambiguous, suffering, mysterious and salvific.

But is it only the ordained priest who is called to enter into the salvific weakness of Christ?  No, because Jesus calls us all to take up our cross and follow him (see Matthew 16:24; Mark 8:34; Luke 9:23).  And here it is that we find power – here in the very depths of weakness and helplessness.

Saint Paul hears Jesus say, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”  And Paul realizes that he doesn’t have to rely on some illusory personal strength: “for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:9,10).

The Latin word used here, conforta, comes from late, Medieval Latin, not classical Latin, and it is also the root of our English word “comfort.”  So sometimes this petition is translated, “Passion of Christ, comfort me.”

How we need comfort!  Our peace can be so easily disturbed: for minor things – or for major, earthshaking, heartrending things that we cannot change or influence.

So we pray:

Passion of Christ, comfort me,
passion of Christ, encourage me.
O Christ, comfort me in your own moment of comfortlessness,
when you cried out,
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
O Jesus,
in your powerful weakness, strengthen me.
in your comfortless consolation, console me.
in your efficacious failure, recreate me.

Passion of Christ, strengthen me.
Passio Christi, conforta me.

- – - – - – - – - -

“Southern Cross with Spanish Moss” photograph by Rose Hoover, rc

(Click here for Part 1)

Body of Christ, save me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.

We are learning more and more about the connections between body and mind, body and spirit.  I read in the newspaper recently that up to 90 percent of groups such as combat veterans and rape victims have nightmares.  What affects the body affects the spirit, and vice versa.

At the same time, I am more than my body. What I can accomplish physically may be limited by the kind of body I have (my 110 pounds would never get my toe in the door of the NFL, for example). But who I am is not irrevocably determined by my physical makeup. I am more than this mortal coil that I will shuffle off at death, as Hamlet puts it. I am also more than what happens to my body in this life, whether it be violence, illness, abuse, or injury.

But is my body irrelevant?

Jesus, once incarnate, is forever and always human as well as divine.  At his Resurrection, Jesus does not abandon his body and become pure spirit.  He is raised as what Paul – in his effort to explain the unexplainable – calls a “spiritual body” – σωμα πνευματικον (1 Cor 15:44).

The body is anything but irrelevant, but as we learn from the helplessness of Christ with hands and feet nailed to the cross – Jesus the bread of life, who can now not even scratch his own nose, much less feed anyone – neither Jesus nor we ourselves can be finally determined by our own weakness or woundedness. The crucifixion shows us that physical violence or even destruction of the body can never ultimately define human life.

God’s purpose for our lives is not to be thwarted.

I am helpless:

• to save myself
• to heal myself
• to save or heal anyone else

Yet the body of Christ, through the mystery of the Cross and Resurrection, does save.  The body of Christ is efficacious where my own efforts are not.  The body of Christ, as we know from the Eucharist, is totally and joyfully present to us, whereas our own presence (to God, to ourselves, to others) can be momentary or partial or reluctant.

“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed.”

“Salva me” can also be translated “heal me.” The body of Christ often heals through the Christian community or the medical professions.  But not all healings are medical, and the presence of Christ heals, even when there is not a medical cure. The body of Christ heals and transforms, though there may be wounds that I carry with me in my body, in my body/spirit connection, to death.

Body of Christ, save me, heal me.
Corpus Christi, salva me.

• the blind see (Isaiah 29:18)
• the desert blooms and rejoices (Isaiah 35)
• the barren bear many children (Isaiah 54:1)
• the wolf shall dwell with the lamb [along with other unlikely companions] (Isaiah 11)
• the meek inherit the land (Psalm 37:11)

The primary example of the unexpected way in which God works is the cross.

How ridiculous it must have looked — that sign, “King of the Jews” above someone who was stripped, naked, and helpless on the cross!  The one who had claimed to be the bread of life, but now can’t even scratch his own nose, much less feed anyone!  Surely the invitation to take up our cross and follow Jesus is the height of folly.

This wasn’t even a noble death.  Crucifixion was the most shameful method of execution.  If Jesus had been a war hero dying in battle, it might have been considered an honorable death.  Even if he had been a great Greek or Roman philosopher who made a dramatic speech in his defense — that might have been less shameful.  But Jesus didn’t say much at all — a few words, a cry of anguish.  Even as a death, it was disappointing in human eyes.

But as Paul says:

The message of the cross is folly for those who are on the way to ruin, but for those of us who are on the road to salvation it is the power of God.

(1 Corinthians 1:18 NJB)

Who would have guessed that out of this weakness — when Jesus couldn’t use his hands, for they were nailed to the wood; couldn’t walk, for his feet were nailed; had wounds on his head from the thorns that were part of the clown costume that the soldiers had made him wear, and his chest wounded by the spear — who would guess that out of this weakness would come new life for the world, new life for each of us?

Who would guess that a public execution would show us the power of God?

Who would guess that God’s power would be made perfect in weakness?  (See 2 Cor 12:9.)

So I was in the yard, wielding the pitchfork, hefting piles of leaves into a bin, when a nice-looking young man called out from the sidewalk, “I could help you!”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied. “I’m getting my exercise.”

He walked over and persisted, “I could do that, and you could give me a couple of dollars. I need a beer real bad.”

I tried to explain that since the city no longer accepts leaves in plastic bags, and we have only two plastic cans, there wasn’t a lot that could be done in one day.

“I’ll do two bins, and you can give me three dollars!”

“No,” I said again. “The doctor wants me to exercise.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he responded, looking sympathetic, evidently commiserating with whatever grave medical condition would inspire doctor-ordered exercise. “But I need beer,” he added pleasantly. “I drink a lot.”

“Why do you drink a lot?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m an alcoholic.”

“That’s not so good,” I said.

“Yeah, man. The stuff’ll kill you.”

“Yes, it can. It killed an uncle of mine.”

“For real, man?” (He sounded surprised, as if he had not seriously believed the danger up until now.)

“Yes, he got cirrhosis of the liver and died.”

After a few more moments of conversation, we shook hands, and he headed off toward downtown.

“Have a nice day. God bless you,” he called out.

“You have a nice evening,” I said. “And don’t drink too much beer!”

When I recounted the conversation to Sister Betty, she pointed out that he needs some lessons in marketing, if he really wants to be paid for yard work. I agreed that his sales pitch left something to be desired, but at least he didn’t claim that he needed the money to bury his dear grandma.

All of us are broken in one way or another. Most of us are just better at hiding it – or at least we think we are better at hiding it. And we are all helpless to mend ourselves.

Fertile powerlessness

The Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous are very spiritually sound. Here are the first three:

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol [or substitute here another addiction]—that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

(For the rest of the Twelve Steps, click here.)

Some of us not in AA or other Twelve-Step programs still suffer under the illusion that we can manage our lives by ourselves. Saint Paul, though, knew that he could not.  He heard God telling him, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

My power is made perfect, God says, not in your strength, but in your weakness.

Whether we are raking leaves or longing for beer or managing a Fortune 500 corporation, we stand in need of the powerful and tender mercies of the God who loves us.

The fallen spring leaves witness to the new life already emerging on the oaks, which will look scraggly and unkempt for a few weeks. Our own unkempt, ragged hearts, stripped of what we thought was our strength, offer the fertile weakness through which God’s grace brings new life — both for us and for the blessing of the world.

When Christopher Hitchens declares that given the emergence of “the telescope and the microscope” religion “no longer offers an explanation of anything important,” Eagleton replies, “But Christianity was never meant to be an explanation of anything in the first place. It’s rather like saying that thanks to the electric toaster we can forget about Chekhov.”

Stanley Fish, “God Talk,” New York Times (May 3, 2009)

But if Christianity was never meant to explain anything, then what in the world is it for?

Its purpose is far more important than explaining the intricacies of the human body or how molecules and quarks behave.  Nor is Christianity a set of rules or a list of doctrines.

David Fagerburg, of the University of Notre Dame, quotes Blessed Dom Marmion:

Columba Marmion highlighted the fact that Christianity is not a creed or institution or cultic activity or doctrine (although it includes all of these); he says Christianity is Christ’s life lived by us.   “What in fact is a Christian? ‘Another Christ,’ all antiquity replies.”  And what is the life the Christian lives? “A list of observances? In no wise. It is the life of Christ within us … it is the Divine life overflowing from the bosom of the Father into Christ Jesus and, through Him, into our soul.”

David Fagerburg, “A Theology of Liturgy,” Liturgical Ministry, Vol. 14 (Fall 2005)

“Christianity is Christ’s life lived by us.”  Fagerburg goes on to say that the theological virtues – faith, hope, and love – “understood in this mystical sense, are supernatural participation in the life Christ lived.”

In that case, faith is not our belief in God, it is a share of Christ’s trust in the father; hope is not our optimism, is is Christ’s confidence in the Father made ours; love is not our affection for the deity, it is Christ’s filial intimacy with the Father spilled over to include us through the Holy Spirit.

How consoling this is! We hear Paul say:

…it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.  (Galatians 2:20)

Note that an alternate translation of this verse reads, “I live by the faith of the Son of God…”

Is our faith weak? We draw on the very faith and trust of Christ himself.

Does our hope falter? We live through the powerful hope of Jesus Christ who, in giving himself, relied totally on the promises of God.

Is our love inadequate to the task of life? Our own love is always inadequate to the Christian life which calls us to love our enemies, do good to those who hate us, love our neighbor as ourselves, forgive those who sin against us, and love God with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength.

But the love of God is always sufficient.

The voice I overheard was talking about me.

“…but she couldn’t even find St. John’s Mercy Hospital.”

I recognized the speaker, as I had given her an ill-fated ride the day before. And yes, it’s true, I have what seems to be a genetic propensity for getting lost. At least I call it genetic. (Anne Tyler, in The Accidental Tourist, called the condition “geographical dyslexia.”) On the other hand, some people think that if I just concentrated, I wouldn’t have the problem at all. And others, like the owner of the voice speaking above, simply take my inability to navigate as a sign of mental deficiency.

Symptoms:

• I have been known to drive for a half hour on the interstate in the wrong direction.

• The words, “You can’t miss it,” send me into quivers.

• After giving up searching and telephoning for directions, I have had to admit that I had no idea where I was calling from (seriously hindering the direction-giver).

• I find highway signs woefully inadequate, disappearing just when I need then.

On the spiritual journey, however, there is a sense in which most of us, left to our own devices, are directionally challenged. The way is fraught with puzzling intersections and foggy back roads and trackless wastelands where we long for a GPS or a printout from Mapquest.

But happily, and often in spite of ourselves, we are being led, even when the haze appears so dense or the night so obscure that we can’t see our hands before our faces. And amazingly enough, we are being guided not just to where we ought to be, but to where we want to be.

The beautiful Latin verses of St. Thomas Aquinas, which we know as “Panis Angelicus,” end with this prayer:

Per tuas semitas
Duc nos quo tendimus,
Ad lucem quam inhabitas.

“Lead us,” we pray, “along your paths…” —

Lead us through everything:

• through interior struggles, through joy and pain, through knowledge and unknowing…

• through prayer, in the body and blood of Christ (panis angelicus: bread of angels), to the divine life of Christ that we receive and are called to live…

• from indifference to love, from judging to compassion, from violence to peace…

Lead us along your paths, because our own roads tend to get us lost.

“Lead us where we want to go,” continues the prayer, in the direction we are already leaning, if we are paying attention to our heart’s longing.

Lead us “to the light wherein you dwell.”

Where we are being led is indeed where we want to be. The goodness of God leads us, not to some desolate wasteland where we will still be wandering around hunting for a highway marker, nor even to a faraway or foreign land, but to the very place for which we were made and for which our hearts long: to the Light that is God’s dwelling and our home.

You show me the path of life.
In your presence there is fullness of joy;
in your right hand are pleasures for evermore.
(Psalm 16:11)

__________

P.S. There are many renditions of Cesar Franck’s “Panis Angelicus” on YouTube, performed by the likes of Luciano Pavarotti, Leontyne Price, and Placido Domingo. Unfortunately, Franck’s version uses only one verse of Aquinas’ hymn, omitting the words cited above.

I believe that God accepts our feeble efforts to love (and to forgive, which is the companion of loving), and I take courage from these verses taken from W. H. Auden’s poem, “As I Walked Out One Evening”:

O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart.

We love as we can, and we pray to be transformed into the likeness of Christ, so that we may love, no longer with our “crooked heart,” but with the heart of God.

What does it mean to be thankful even for our sins? Does it mean that we should languish in wrongdoing so that God may bring good from it? After all, sin does hurt people. Paul himself asks, “Should we continue in sin in order that grace may abound? By no means! How can we who died to sin go on living in it?” (Romans 6:1-2)

It may sound strange to hear that we have died to sin — we who know so well our own faults. But it is true that we have already begun to share in the death and resurrection of Jesus. We are already being transformed into the image of Christ.

Yes, grace does abound and our loving God does work to bring good out of everything in our lives, including our faults and failures (Romans 8:28). So we praise God, who gives us “this joyful season when we prepare to celebrate the paschal mystery” — that marvelous mystery of Jesus’ death and resurrection which shows us the love and the life to which we are called.