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A few notes from Facebook, for Melanie.

I've been reading Elisabeth Leseur's Journale et Pensées de Chaque Jour (Journal and Daily Thoughts) this summer, and occasionally posting some passages to FB.  Melanie was interested in the conversation but has had some trouble following along what with the intermittent uselessness of the native notifications.  I'm reproducing some of it here for her benefit.  And maybe yours?

Begin...

I have made a substantial dent in Journal et pensées de chaque jour by Elisabeth Leseur including the lengthy biographical memoir by her husband that serves as the preface.   Some notes follow...

Note 1.  I hadn’t noticed before, but E.L. didn’t write in her journal very often. (These are not excerpts, as far as I can tell.) She wrote in bursts and isolated days: five entries in September 1899, one the next February, two back-to-back days in March, once in May…

Often the entries give brief accounts of the time since the last one, lists of resolutions for the future, and private expressions of thoughts that she feels she can’t share with anyone in real life. She sometimes comments on rereadings of past entries. It’s a journal of spiritual progress, I get the sense that she uses it to help her remember her resolutions and be accountable, but it isn’t a daily journal. And while she discusses how she’s fulfilled or not fulfilled her resolutions generally, she very rarely describes particular failings or successes in any detail. Very different compared to, say, St. Thérèse with her many personal anecdotes. She mentions day-to-day joys (presents from Félix, vacations, etc.) and worries (sick loved ones especially).

 

It’s nice to know that a significant and fruitful journaling practice can be irregular, as-needed, seasonal, and even discreet. You don’t have to put your whole examen in it every day.

 

Note 2. On my first (English) reading of the journal and of biographical material about E. L., what I found most prominent about her difficulties was that she lived and moved among people who didn’t share her faith and whom she couldn’t really talk to about it from the heart; and that she resolved not to argue with people and to always respect consciences, preferring to be an example of charity, honesty, and simplicity as well as intense in private prayer. This is a suffering of isolation and loneliness (despite living in a lively intellectual circle of friends and relations).

 

On this second reading, I am more struck by her descriptions of the suffering caused by her physical illnesses, both because of chronic pain and exhaustion and because she has to set aside active kinds of service and take care of herself instead of other people. She doesn’t specifically mention their childlessness (that I have seen yet) but I think I can read that between the lines. She’s determined to make this suffering fruitful. She also resolves often not to complain about her illness.

 

I find it interesting because she resolves to be honest and simple, and to care for her body as required (to rest instead of work for instance), but also to keep some deep layer of her suffering private and interior, because it seems to her to be more fruitful that way. (She later acquires a spiritual director to whom it seems she reveals some of this.) It’s an interesting line to walk: sometimes it is a sacrifice to be honest, and sometimes it is a sacrifice to be reserved.

 

Also this may depend very much on the kinds of people who are around her and her specific desires for those relationships. I don’t think she’s offering us a universal rule. It’s her *personal* path which she’s arrived at through long contemplation.

 

Note 3. There’s a rule of life that she laid out in autumn of 1906 that is absolutely fascinating. Part of her personal apostolate is to learn as much as possible about all kinds of intellectual subjects so she can understand everyone she meets as clearly as possible. And she is absolutely convinced that her specific duty is never to speak directly about Christ or her faith, unless asked, but simply to be a very attractive and self-giving personality that displays Christlikeness, and also secretly offer many prayers and sacrifices for the people she encounters and loves.

 

I’m trying to imagine the social milieu in which a person would decide after much thought and prayer that it is an actively superior and more fruitful type of evangelization to literally never speak the name of Christ.

 

One possibility would be if experience has taught you that you yourself often commit unrecoverable errors such that you drive people farther from Christ, or that you are sorely tempted to pride and contempt or to self-aggrandizement whenever you speak openly about Him. There are some suggestions that E. L. was concerned about personally falling into errors of pride.

 

Another possibility—E. L. specifically identifies this—is if you are surrounded by people with very strong hostility and prejudices against Christianity, who would be repelled or tempted to double down against it; she has decided that she can let Christ work on them through her without revealing it to them.

 

A corollary to this that I identify by extension is when we are surrounded by people who have been harmed, hurt, and traumatized in the name of Christ, so that the name itself wounds.

 

The existence of an enormous confusing backdrop of many disunited voices talking over each other and arguing about who Christ is and what He would have us do, coupled with an awareness that one is not particularly equipped to stand out from the background, is another.

 

I guess another thing to think about: Quite often it is fruitful, we assume, to proclaim, instead of being silent about, what God has done for us. But E. L. is here renewing resolutions “after lapses, of silence about myself, about my soul, about my sufferings, about graces received.” Usually spontaneous testimony and confession (public) is thought of as positive.

 

I don’t doubt that there are fruits to it. Encouraging one another, etc. And of course the publication of the diary happened. But E. L.’s firm conviction that she was called to near-total silence rather than testimony calls attention to a need for discernment. Testimony is not an unalloyed good, is not appropriate in all circumstances and for all people.

 

It’s an error to believe that our outward expressions will hit home before the hour chosen by God. Let us speak only in the measure that seems to accord with the intention of Providence, when our words answer the souls’ call.

 

Note 4.  She writes the same, or nearly the same, resolutions over and over again.

 

Deirdre commented:

 

I find the idea that we’re called to draw other people back to Christ just by… being someone people want to be like very challenging, as I’ve often been told point blank that my family does the opposite by being too weird and disorganized and unattractive. My current tact is “if we’re not too much of a hot mess to be part of the church, you’re not too much of a hot mess either?”

Because yea, we are pure mess, and it’s not for want of trying to be less messy.

 

But her method seems especially well suited to aggressively secular France.

 

Oh, I said to Deirdre, if you read the diary it’s very clear that her resolution to be verbally silent about her faith (except when called upon, and then to express herself firmly but very simply) is a response to her very personal and specific situation. She is even holding her tongue in the face of people mocking the faith, as a personal mortification.    ("Wow.  That's... Iron will," said Deirdre.)

 

Also, I said:  It’s more than “being someone people want to be like.” Over and over she uses a metaphor of cracking open a door just a little so that the light shines out.

 

Melanie chimed in, 

 

[M]y thought is that the people who find your family too unattractive or whatever… they’re not the people you’re called to be witnessing to. Or maybe what you’re witnessing to those sorts of people is… something else. But anyone who says crap like that to you is cruel and unkind and honestly needs to do some serious soul searching about what kind of witness they are called to be. Because comments like that are not witness to Christian love. They’re meant to wound.

 

Here are some more quotes from Elisabeth:

 

I am renewing my resolution of silence, seeing more than ever how necessary is an extreme reserve with all people, especially concerning matters of God. My soul, my spiritual life, the graces received, I must veil from everyone; and also, I must speak as little as possible about my ordeals and my health.

 

The edification of our neighbor which used to sometimes spur me on (aside from less-pure motives) to effusiveness can only be a result, but not… our goal. The only end that I want to pursue is the will of God, and my ‘abandon’ must become complete, humble, and filled with love.

 

Nifty wordplay here perhaps. ‘Abandon’ can mean ‘abandon’ as in abandoning a post or a responsibility, it can mean ‘withdrawal’ as in dropping out of a contest, it can mean ‘freedom’ as in ‘a sense of total abandon’ and it can mean ‘surrender’ as in ‘abandoning oneself to the will of another’ — all these senses work here at once.

 

But really the part I was pointing out is the difference between “only a result” and “our goal, our end.”   The same entry continues:

 

The absolute incomprehension or ignorance of many concerning the supernatural life is a serious reason to practice this silence which the ascetic authors have so often recommended.

 

Therefore, interiorly I want to practice a more complete contemplation, a more intimate union with Our Lord; exteriorly, I want to step up still more, give more lavishly of myself, become more amiable and cheerful. And when my task of humble charity and daily efforts is complete, God will know how to use it for souls and for his glory.

 

Mine is the labor, unrecognized by others; His is the bringing about of the good that I desire, of the spiritual ‘oeuvre’ toward which my poor labors aim. The laborer brings his works, the Master uses it as he pleases; let it be enough for me to know that never shall this labor remain unproductive.

 

To work, then, and joyfully. And if I still must suffer for my faith, I shall offer those troubles with serenity for my usual intentions and in a spirit of reparation.

At the start of Lent 1912:

 

More than ever I want to hide my works, prayers, mortifications in the Heart of Jesus; no longer preach except by example; not speak of myself and speak little of God, since in this sad world to speak of one’s love for him scandalizes and irritates people.

But whenever a soul comes to me, whenever it seems to conform to the divine will that I go to a soul, I will do it, very humbly, very discreetly, effacing myself and disappearing when the job is done, not confusing the “me” with the act done for God alone.

And then if I am unfavorably judged, criticized, imperfectly understood, I will turn my efforts to rejoicing, thinking of our divine Model, and I will make myself very small in the eyes of others, myself who is really so poor and little compared to God.

I think it is really interesting this response to seeing people scandalized and irritated by hearing about people’s love for God.   Emphasizing here that I am pretty sure E.L. is not prescribing this way for everyone. Obviously it is some folks’ job to preach even in the face of others’ feeling scandalized or irritated.

 

But we have all known some people who seem to respond instead by being all the more emboldened to scandalize and irritate even harder?  Or who take others’ scandal and irritation as a positive sign that they are preaching well and sharing correctly?

 

I am not saying that negative reactions on the part of others are necessarily evidence of bad sharing/preaching (and neither is E.L.!) but E.L. is advocating some very serious discernment about it. She reminds us that “edification” of souls is not the end we are aiming at. That God’s will be done is primary; their edification (by us) may be the means God wishes, or He may wish to accomplish it some other way. So she’s reasoning that if we edify contrary to the way God wishes, that would be inferior to being silent and offering private prayer and sacrifice for them.

 

It seems that at least for herself, she believes that, in the absence of a strong positive sense that God wants her to “edify” by speaking to a particular person, she is called not to risk scandalizing and irritating people with talk of God.  That was something that was easy to do in her social circle (and, I would argue, is easy to do in many circles here and now). When most minds are unprepared or unable to receive the Gospel verbally, there is a real risk of making the situation worse by speaking rashly, without humility or discernment. And E. L. firmly believes in the power of the other options available to her.

 

Melanie responded:

 

I really like the emphasis here on discerning God's will as primary and edification of souls as secondary. I think this is where we often make mistakes-- when we assume we know God's will in a situation and thus push forward to preach at people or correct them or whatever it is we think we need to do, *before* we actually stop and ask God what it is HE thinks we should do.

 

I was recently listening to a podcast interview (from a few years ago) with Meg Hunter-Kilmer in which she was talking about the importance in her ministry of giving God some quiet space in each day. Even though most of the time she was just sitting there bored in the silence and God didn't actually say anything, it was important that she give him the chance to talk. If he said nothing, then she'd go ahead and do whatever she thought was best to do, whatever the logical next step was, etc. And that was most of the time. But sometimes she'd understand that God wanted her to do X where X clearly wasn't an idea that came from her own mind or will. And she was saying it was that radical openness to listening that she felt was really most important.

 

Or to put it another way, one of the Franciscan friars on another podcast I've been listening to likes to say his favorite prayer is: "Jesus, what is your heart for me in this situation?" And then again, the implication is we follow that prayer with silence so that we can listen to hear what it is that Jesus has to say.

 

And maybe this is really speaking to me because I'm trying to learn how to make time and space for that kind of silence, that listening. Which is really hard. Recently I've been envying people in religious life who have built in a time and place for making a holy hour, having a chapel in the place where they live where they can go and be quiet with Jesus for a time. I've started doing a weekly holy hour on Wednesday nights from 11-12 and it's hard to fit even that in, but I really felt I needed to make that space in my week. I don't know that I could have done it before now and even now it feels like a big sacrifice. And yet at the same time part of me yearns to be able to do that daily. (It would help if the adoration chapel were closer instead of a 15 minute drive. Not that 15 minutes is THAT far, but still a holy HOUR is actually an hour and a half out of my day.)

 

I noted:  E.L. writes often about how she longs for more solitude and a real kind of monasticism, but one of the mortifications of her state of life is that she can’t have as much as she would like. She treasures a daily meditation, the obligatory practices, and communion when she can, and manages a pilgrimage once in a while. But the rest of the time her “cell” is wholly interior.

 

Back to Elisabeth.  Here’s something interesting from September 1912. She describes having asked Jesus for “the virtues dear to his Heart” and lists them each with a short elaboration: purity of heart, mildness, patience, humility, mortification, and finally:

 

[P]overty of spirit, by interior divestment, real renunciation, and as far as my state in life allows, the carefully hidden practice of personal poverty and detachment. Sacrifice nothing that concerns the duties of my state; rather, take even more care of ‘the exterior’; grooming, attention to the home, food, elegance even, the better to make myself more attractive and the better to hide my private austerity.

 

What do you think of this framing of “poor in spirit?”

 

Melanie:  "I'm really fascinated by her interpretation of poor in spirit as a very inward trait, not discernible to her neighbors or possibly even to her household. Really focusing on the 'in spirit' part."  (And I noted:  It would be especially indiscernible to her household. She kept everything secret from her husband, who knew nothing until he read her journal after her death.)

 

I think that's where we left off.  Anyone interested can continue in comments.

 

 

Planning, creatively.

As the years go by I choose Lenten disciplines which are less and less ambitious. 

I think this is funny, because early on I assumed that I would get better and better at deciding to resist a desire in the moment; at keeping track of my planned sacrifices day by day; at remembering we are in a season of self-discipline at all.  

Remarkably, this has not happened.  I am no better at practicing Lent now than I was thirty years ago as a beginner.  Maybe I am just lazy.  Or maybe I've learned something.

 I can't tell you whether it is smart or not to keep starting over at very low levels.  It might be something that is smart for me and wouldn't be smart for other people.  But I've noticed a theme in the past few years:   

It turns out that I am less able than I realized to make things happen the way I want them to. 

It turns out that when things don't happen in accord with my expectations, when we can't meet expectations—when I pile more expectations (on myself or others) to catch up, well, that doesn't actually force us back onto the track I imagined.

I've been dropping a lot of expectations.   I still wake up each day, drink my coffee, and wait for the caffeine to kick in with that lovely feeling that I can accomplish my plans.  But the plans for the day are growing sketchier all the time, and leaving more room for surprise; and I am reframing disappointment as discovery.

+ + +

So my Lenten discipline, other than a few extremely minor practices that are not so much sacrifices as variations that mark the season,* is to read through the thirty-eight very short and approachable Catecheses on Prayer from the Wednesday papal audiences beginning May 6, 2020. 

(That link goes to vatican-dot-va, in case you would like to follow a penitential path; in all these years they have never added a "forward" button that lets you read Wednesday audiences in order.  A more useful link is this roundup from Irish Papist which links to all the addresses in numerical order.)

And, should my youngest child stay in bed long enough to afford me extra silence, to pray a rosary or at least as many of the decades as I have time for.   Because the flesh motivates the spirit, it's actually helping that splurged on a lovely new rosary from Iron Lace Designs this year, one that's absolutely a pleasure to hold and fiddle with.  

 

+ + +

Anyway, today I read the thirteenth catechesis:  "Jesus, Teacher of Prayer."

During his public life, Jesus constantly availed himself of the power of prayer. The Gospels show this to us when he retired to secluded places to pray. These are sober and discreet observations that allow us only to imagine those prayerful dialogues. They clearly demonstrate, however, that even at times of greater dedication to the poor and the sick, Jesus never neglected his intimate dialogue with the Father. The more he was immersed in the needs of the people, the more he felt the need to repose in the Trinitarian Communion, to return to the Father and the Spirit.

...The Catechism states that “when Jesus prays he is already teaching us how to pray” (no. 2607). Therefore, from Jesus’ example we can derive some characteristics of Christian prayer.

There are several characteristics, and I encourage you to read the whole thing, but I found myself focusing on this one:

Another characteristic of Jesus’ prayer is solitude. Those who pray do not escape from the world, but prefer deserted places. There, in silence, many voices can emerge that we hide in our innermost selves: the most repressed desires, the truths that we insist on suffocating, and so on. And, above all, in silence God speaks. Every person needs a space for him or herself, somewhere to cultivate their interior life, where actions find meaning again. Without an interior life we become superficial, agitated, and anxious — how anxiety harms us! This is why we must turn to prayer; without an interior life we flee from reality, and we also flee from ourselves, we are men and women always on the run.

I sometimes (who am I kidding—it's all the time) don't manage to get any serious morning prayer in, because the kids wake up too soon, or whatever, and I don't get any morning time alone with my coffee.   Obviously I could make more of an effort to make that alone time later in the day, but let's not pretend it isn't a bit of a handicap!  Seeking solitude, having trouble finding the space for prayer when you're surrounded by people, is normal and healthy.  If you never get that alone time, you are probably going to have to resort to other types of prayer:  communal prayers in the family, which I've never got the hang of except in scripted situations like mealtime grace; ejaculatory prayers, those tiny interior spaces we find between the moments of our day, I find, are more nourishing.

Anyway, this helped me feel less like there is something wrong with me that I feel I can't quite do it right without solitude.  And it led me to think it would be interesting to go over the Gospels and compare two types of passages: those where Jesus disappears into solitude to pray, and those where Jesus prays out loud in front of everybody so they can hear.  I wonder what can be learned from the conditions which surround those two different modes.

+ + +

In the first decade of my rosary, the mystery of the resurrection, I was still thinking about plans and how plans don't work out the way we expect them to.  And I thought about how the individual resurrection is, we assume, the start for all of us of really actually living out the plan God has for us.  Hmm, I thought,  a lot of people say things like "God has a plan for your life," but... I guess we don't really know that? 

(h/t for the meme to this great post by Amy Welborn)

God has a plan for everybody's resurrection and eternity.  Assuming we find ourselves still on board with the plan upon death, we'll be living that plan ever after.  Because our wills will be fully aligned with his, et cetera.

And of course, we believe in a "divine plan" that broadly encompasses the whole of creation, an engine that gets us there, supplied with enough grace to drive us whenever we choose to tap into it.

But I'm inclined to think that, free will being what it is, there may be no individualized plan for our lives at all.  At least not a "plan" that resembles the kind of things that humans make and call plans in any way.  It may be actively harmful to think of "a plan" that God has for my life, as it admits of the possibility of failing so badly that I cannot keep up with it or ever catch up at all.  It also, I think, devalues the role of will and discernment as images of God:  discernment isn't, I think, a kind of decipherment, where we try to read exactly the itemized steps that God has determined are best for us.  It's a kind of creativity, of problem solving; cooperation.  

The idea of an individual plan for my life is, I think, maybe a bit of an accretion?   We have a perfectly good and much more open-ended model, instead, in the idea of vocation.  I think it will be healthier, at least for me, to put listening first, and then apply prudence as needed.  

Plans are not bad!  They are good!  Well, they can be, anyway.   But let's accept that we don't have to figure out the divine plan, in whole or in part.  We can make normal fallible human plans, for my life, for my year, for my morning; and we can plan to be flexible.    Listening, learning, adjusting, getting closer to alignment, solving problems as they come up, creatively.

 

________

* I mean.  I like eating fish or chickpea curry a lot.   I like my tea without milk just about as much as I like it with milk, too.     Milkless tea is Lenten tea, it's not sacrificial tea.  I don't know, it still seems like a good idea.  I should find more of these little practices.

Branches.

Today I am two weeks post-vaccination for COVID-19.  I went out into the back yard to take a new maskless selfie for my FB page.   

I'll still be wearing one quite a bit for a while, indoors in public or with unvaccinated friends at least, while we all navigate through this in-between time.   I'll keep them around for when I have respiratory symptoms, for sure.   But I felt like marking the milestone some way.

+ + +

I'm planning on going to Mass this weekend.  (How odd to be writing that sentence!)  Just me, by myself; both Mark and I feel like starting off with relatively uncrowded spaces if we can.  My solution is to go early:   I signed up to go to the 7:30 a.m. Sunday Mass at our own parish.  Mark is not such an early bird; he may try a weekday Mass first, or a smaller congregation nearer our house.    We'll probably take turns until we decide it's prudent to bring the children.   

+ + +

Last Sunday, the Gospel—on the parish livestream—was "I am the vine, you are the branches."  It's tempting to think of returning to Mass as a sort of re-attachment, but that is stretching the metaphor too far.  I have not been utterly cut off from the vine.  I have had regular, if infrequent, access to the sacraments. I have maintained a prayer life that's maybe been even more lively, on average, than before.  I have been part of the great mass of Christians, friends and strangers, praying for one another for intentions small, large and unknown; I've studied, even co-hosted a little book group for the end of Lent and the start of Easter. 

I'm still here, as are many others who always have been attached:   the tendrils of the true vine are invisible.  Did we forget?  There always, always, always have been people for whom attending Mass in person, often or ever, is imprudent or impossible.  And yet they are infused with the green life, whether we remember them or not.  Now that I've been one of them, let me not forget again.

What will it be like to return?  Jesus is the same.  I'm changed.  Something has sharpened in me.

+ + +

Aloneness, and media, provides a lot of opportunity for intercessory prayer.  I mean, a lot.   And I know I haven't taken all the opportunities there have been.  But... so much suffering happened over the last year-and-then-some, and so much more came to light.  A great deal of cruelty and selfishness was exposed.  And maybe more than this, a great deal of carelessness:  a kind of breaking and spilling and muddying, and wandering off without thinking, probably across the clean floor with muddy shoes, never noticing, never taking note later that someone has come by and cut themselves on the shards, and a someone else has come by and cleaned up the mess.  Unintentional, to be sure.  But somewhere there's a willfulness not to look behind you.  And when you really see that carelessness, the carelessness of people who do not seem to see how careless they are (and yet... how could it not be obvious?) you realize that yes, you also must have been this careless, at least a little, and how often?  How would you know how many messes you have made when it is someone else's role to clean them up?

So, a lot of penitential prayer as well.

+ + +

MrsDarwin and I hosted, as I mentioned, a brief book club on Robert Hugh Benson's The Friendship of Christ.  (Buy her edited, prefaced, and newly-typeset paperback edition here.) It was a good book for a strange time.  Different people got different things out of it, for sure.  Here's what it did to me:  I opened it thinking "Perhaps this will tell me how to get closer to Jesus," and found that—for me—it really has been a matter of appreciating how close He has come to me already.  I mean, He's right there.  All the time.  No, really, right there.  Right here.   

Even things that I thought were a way of holding Him at a distance are means by which He comes very, very close.   I know that more than I did before, and really believe it.  

+ + +

All of a sudden, I started to find anything that smacks of purity....

UNBELIEVABLY tiresome.  

I don't mean the virtues that include the term "purity," although the word used all by itself, well, its attributes should be broken up and assigned to other virtues.  Ninety percent of the time when Catholics start talking about the virtue of purity,  they are really just trying to avoid speaking frankly about sex, and it drives me up the wall.   No, I mean purity like... this fear of contamination?  This fear of going out to the margins, of exploring the distinctions, of making contact?

I've been a practicing, communing Catholic since I was eighteen.  I had to figure out the culture gradually, as a sort of teenage immigrant to it.  Am still figuring it out, as I continue to encounter the astonishing diversity of thought and experiences that makes it up, has made it up, across the centuries and nations, so that it's more like cultures than culture.   And I'm sure a lot of my memories of the process of figuring it out have been colored by all kinds of cognitive biases.  I started out with a longing to belong, trying to understand what it meant to be part of a larger community of believers, and trying out the different kinds of "belonging" that there are.  We do things this way here.  If you are Catholic, you will be a certain way.  I have tried to do things this way, and that way, and other ways, to see which ways fit, to see how to belong.  

But all belonging means a definition of "self" and "others"—of "us" and "them—and more and more I am convinced that the "us" and "them" is and always has been an illusion.  There are ridiculous "us/them"s within the Church as well.  But it isn't real.   There is no us and them, there is only everybody:   trying or not trying, or trying to some degree, to align themselves with the way and the truth and the life, which presses us invisibly from all around.  Our job is to align ourselves and in so doing, strengthen the field, so to speak, and just doing that for real helps align others.  

Be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind.

Yes, yes, baptism is real and a maker of an "us," but nobody is excluded from it in principle; it's a difference in marking, not an essence.  We need collective humility, very badly.  We could use a little less fear that the Church will come crashing down if we have frank conversations with the wrong kind of people.   We could use a little less fear of doing love wrong by sending the wrong message.   We could use a little less gatekeeping; the gates will not prevail, after all, no?   Caretakers of the deposit of faith have been provided for us, thank God:  but lately I've become very aware of the large number of, shall we say, volunteers who have decided it is their job to staff the gates.

The pandemic found me doing a lot of "well, if I was in charge I'd do things a lot differently" and at one point it occurred to me that I am not in charge, and I didn't really want to be.  In fact I'm not in charge of anyone, with the possible exception of my own children, and there are signifcant limits to that.   I am my brother's keeper, but not his gatekeeper.  

+ + +

When I come back, I come back changed.  I come back more aware of a certain awarelessness that will probably follow me my whole life.  I come back more aware of the closeness of Jesus.  I come back tired of separations.   I love orthodoxy, orthopraxy, and always have; I've often felt a little ashamed of that, from the pressure of the personal-relationship-with-Jesus crowd; but I've learned that these are not things that stand between us and that relationship; they are a way He befriends us.  What has sharpened for me is a new desire for a Jesus-first orthodoxy, a Jesus-centered orthopraxy.   I come back seeking to strengthen it.

On detraction.

One day last week I felt like writing for once. But I couldn't form my many roaming thoughts into anything coherent, so instead I opened up my copy of Introduction à la Vie Devote and started translating one of the chapters, the one entitled "De la médisance:"  "On detraction."  Or perhaps, "On speaking ill of people."   

Translation for fun is a pleasant exercise when one feels creative but not too creative:  a comfortable tension between being scrupulously exact, and rendering into modern English.  And a text like this is not quite as difficult as translating poetry, but it still contains enough interesting imagery, allusions, and the like to allow for a little poetic interpretation.  Of course, diving into theology (even a theology for the practical layperson) is a bit risky, so I hope you all understand that this text carries no official stamp.

St. Bernard says that the one who defames and the one who listens are both possessed by the devil, who has one by the tongue and the other by the ear.   The detractor's tongue, forked and sharp (says David) like a serpent's, strikes twice:  poisoning at one stroke both the listener's ear and the victim's reputation.

I beg you then, dear Philothea, never to defame anyone, neither directly nor indirectly: 

• take care never to impute against your neighbor false crimes or sins;
• nor to reveal those that are secret, nor to exaggerate those that are apparent;
• not to put a bad spin on a good work, nor to deny the good that you know to be there in someone, nor to maliciously omit it, nor to minimize it by yor words;

for in all these different ways you would greatly offend God, but especially in making false accusations and denying the truth to the point of harming your neighbor.  For it is a double sin to lie and, in doing so, to harm another person.

Our city experienced a second, short burst of anger, with destruction and looting, not long ago:  a man suspected (correctly, it seems) of murder shot himself in the mouth, in the middle of downtown, as police (witnesses say) ran toward him with guns drawn; someone somewhere suggested the police had summarily executed him, an all-too-plausible scenario after George Floyd's murder; the spreading rumor attracted an angry crowd.  Police released a surveillance video of the man's suicide, and perhaps that was enough to send some of the people in the crowd away satisfied, but not everyone.  Large, angry crowds are not unlikely to contain individuals who feel like breaking and burning things, if they are still assembled there when dusk turns to night.

...Even if you've once seen someone drunk, don't say 'Such-and-such is a drunkard.'  Nor, just because someone was once caught in the act, call him an adulterer or a committer of incest, for a single act does not give its name to the actor... To take the name of a vice or a virtue, one has to have made it a habit and progressed some distance along its way.  Similarly it is a slander to say of a man that he is bad-tempered, or that he is a thief, just because you have once seen him angry, or known him to steal.

I turn again and again to the Introduction as my guide in ways of personal holiness.  I am always open to suggestions of other books that might do the job, but I've yet to find anything that offers such practical advice for Christians living in the world: 

Christians busy with many everyday duties and tasks,

Christians whose colleagues, neighbors, and loved ones might object to their practices,

men and women,

married and single and widowed, from the wealthy to the poor: 

anyway, Christians who do not live in a bubble.

Even when a man has been for a long time the picture of wickedness, we run the risk of lying when we call him "wicked." 

Simon the Leper called Mary Magdalene a sinner because she had been one, not long before; nevertheless he spoke falsely, for she wasn't anymore, but by then was a holy penitent, and so Our Lord took her side. 

The foolish Pharisee considered the publican to be a great sinner, or perhaps to be a cheat, an adulterer, or a thief; but he fooled himself greatly, for at that very moment the publican had been vindicated by God. 

Alas!  since the goodness of God is so great, that at any moment we may ask for his grace and receive it, what assurance could we possibly have that yesterday's sinner must be a sinful man today?  Yesterday must not pass judgment on today, nor must today judge yesterday:  of all days, only the last will be the judge. 

Thus we can never call a man wicked, without risking great error:  what we can say, should it be necessary to speak, is that he did such-and-such a wicked act; or that he lived wickedly at such-and-such a time; or that he is acting wickedly now.  But we cannot deduce from yesterday any conclusion about today, nor derive yesterday from today; and still less can we conclude anything about tomorrow.

Living not only in a family, but a neighborhood and a wider community, I waver unsteadily between priorities.   Not quite the dilemma of Martha and Mary, of activity and contemplation, but something related.  Shall I lay a shoulder, beside many others who know better what they are doing, to the nearest out-of-alignment joint of the whole structure of power and justice?   Shall I instead look for people, a person, and see what works of mercy could do?  Do I just open my wallet?   The wavering itself says, perhaps: wait, it's I who am disordered. 

Tells me:  Put my own house and heart in order first; I can't do anything of use in this state; I'm the very embodiment of a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

Though we must be extremely careful to never commit detraction against others, at the same time we have to guard against falling into the opposite error, as some do when in order to avoid speaking ill of another, praise and speak well of those others' sins. 

• If you happen upon a person who slanders others, don't excuse them with words like 'straightforward' or 'independent-minded';
• nor describe someone who's obviously conceited as 'generous' or 'fastidious.'   
• When you see someone dangerously pushing against appropriate boundaries, do not call it an innocent mistake. 
• Nor must you dismiss disobedience as merely a type of 'getting carried away,' nor arrogance as a type of frankness, nor lewdness as a type of showing favor.   

No, dear Philothea, you must not try to flee the error of slander by favoring, fawning over, and feeding other errors.   No, you must promptly and frankly call evil 'evil,' and lay blame upon blameworthy things.  In doing so we glorify God, provided that this be in accord with the following conditions.....

Truth:  Wading helpfully in makes screw-ups possible.   Probable, even, when the do-gooder doesn't understand the situation, or offers a kind of help for which they are manifestly incompetent.   The most dangerous do-gooder is the one with a loveless motivation:  the one who hopes to play the hero and savior, or to confirm their own image of the self, or to enjoy a side order of punishment and vengeance.

[First condition for calling out evil.]  In order to condemn the wickednesses of another without being condemned ourselves, it must be necessary for the good of the other:  either the good of those whom we are speaking about, or those to whom we speak. 

Suppose someone is telling stories, in the presence of the young, of certain men and women carrying on recklessly with each other; or describing so-and-so's obviously lecherous words or actions.  Should I fail to clearly condemn this wrong, or should I make as if to excuse it, those tender souls who are listening might stumble into something similar. 

These disgraceful things require my frank condemnation in the very moment, unless I can carry out this duty more effectively and discreetly at a later time.  

Justified or not, a certain awe in the face of my own shortcomings keeps me from stepping forward, even in very small ways.   There are many situations I do not understand—and how would I know, most of the time, if I correctly understand them?  Years of mortifying evidence tells me I do not know how to interact correctly with strangers.   And my motivations are always, always suspect.    

[Second condition for calling out evil.]  Besides this, in order to speak on such a subject, it must be my proper place to do so. 

For example, if in a certain company of people I am counted among the leaders, I might seem to approve of a wrong if I do not speak up. 

But if I occupy a lower place, I must not take it upon myself to censure.

Positive outward acts of justice and mercy seem only rarely safe from my blunderings, that is, when I stick to what I know well and keep to things in which I have competence.

[Third condition for calling out evil.]  Above all I must choose my words precisely, not saying a single superfluous word. 

For example, if I criticize the intimacy between a young man and a young woman, on the grounds that they seem dangerously indiscreet:  O God, Philothea, I must walk a very careful line so as not to exaggerate the problem, not even a tiny bit;

• if there is only a slight appearance of impropriety, I must say no more than that;
• if it is only a matter of simple imprudence, I will not say that it is more;
• if there is neither imprudence, nor a serious appearance of wrongdoing, but only something that a gossip might latch onto, either I will mention only that or say nothing at all. 

For my tongue, when I speak about my neighbor, rests in my mouth like the scalpel in the surgeon's hand, ready to make an incision among the nerves and tendons; I must cut precisely, so as to say neither more nor less than what is.  

There's freedom in uncertainty:   I choose prudence in the sober acceptance that it might really be cowardice, if only because I prefer it to choosing courage that might turn out to be recklessness.   

[Final condition for calling out evil.] And finally, in condemning the vice, I must ever be careful to spare the person as much as I can. 

It is true that one can speak freely about those who infamously and publicly make their sins manifest---provided that this be done with a spirit of charity and compassion, and not at all with arrogance and presumption; nor to take pleasure in the sorrows of another, for this betrays a vile, mean heart. 

I only except those who declare themselves enemies of God and of his Church, for those we must decry as much as we can, along with heretic and schismatic sects and their leaders; it is a kindness to cry wolf wherever it is found among the flock.

Still, though, there are two things left.  One positive; one, a double negative.

One, I had better act on myself, so as not to persist in the ignorance, incompetence, and self-love that I see in myself and that gives me reason not to take more action.   

I do  have a responsibility to learn about the situations in the world that require more justice and mercy;

I do have a responsibility to form myself in the kinds of skills that would make me a better servant to others, and to locate uses for the kinds of skills I already possess;

underlying both of these and primary to it:   I do have a responsibility to cooperate in the rooting-out of self-love and the cultivation of correct love; to decrease that Another can increase.   

All of these actually are positive acts.  They're quiet, they may be noticed by absolutely no one while the work is going on, but they are things to do.

Everyone thinks themselves free to judge and criticize a prince, and to speak ill of entire nations, based on feelings.  Philothea, don't make this mistake:  for besides offending God, you could provoke a thousand quarrels. 

• When you hear someone speaking ill of another, raise objections and doubts about the accusation, if you can in justice do so;
• if you cannot, give the benefit of the doubt to the intentions of the accused;
• if that does not work, be evidence of compassion towards him, and change the subject, reminding yourself and everyone in the company that it is only by the grace of God that anyone manages not to fall. 

Call out the gossiper, but gently; and mention, if you know it, the good in the person who has been so defamed.

Two, even if I haven't the clarity to see whether I have the love to act, I might yet have the clarity to see how I can love by declining to act.  

It seems pretty rare that I get the chance to do real work that increases the justice in the world, at least not in a way that doesn't risk going terribly wrong.  But I get so many far-more-obvious opportunities each day to enact selfishness:  to tear at, or at least pick at, the fabric of mercy and justice.   

There isn't much risk of screwing up by deciding, through an effort of love, NOT to do that.  Making tiny and thankless decisions to not act, to not tear down, to not demand adulation, to not seek retribution, to not mock, to not gossip, to not assent to mercilessness and injustice. 

Lay down the mallet; damp the gong;  rest a quieting hand on the cymbal.

 

The greatest commandments and the city council.

I am out of practice, so expect a somewhat stream-of-consciousness post today.

...

Today I listened to a relatively short homily in which one point went like this (paraphrased from memory): 

We cannot expect the city council to solve our problem, because our problem is sin, and Jesus is the only solution for that.  We cannot put all our hopes in them or set them above God.  Our problem will only be solved by conversion of hearts, and so that is where we have to look first.

None of this is false, and yet I went away troubled and unsatisfied by the homily.  Part of the truth is, I think, missing from it.

Surely one reason I am unsatisfied is the lone reference to the “city council.”  It is true that the city council cannot solve the problem of sin, but it’s also true that the words “city council” call to mind for those of us living now in the Twin Cities something quite specific.  The Minneapolis City Council is in the process of dismantling the status quo ante of the police department, and everyone, whether they live in Minneapolis or not, seems to have an opinion about it.  So I am left with a strong impression that the homilist meant that whatever we hope the city council might do, we ought to mostly focus our efforts not on influencing it, but on conversion of our own hearts regarding such things.

But maybe what was really meant was not to point just to city government, but to government in general.  That would be a more expansive view, and so less incomplete.  It isn’t just the city council who can’t solve the problem of sin.  Traffic and parking can’t; the state legislature can’t.  Federal judges cannot solve the problem of sin; getting the right president in office will not solve the problem of sin.  Only conversion of heart will solve the problem of sin.  Now, it is true that I do not remember ever being warned on the Sunday preceding the first Tuesday after November 1 that I should be careful not to trust in federal judges to solve our big problems.  But I am as subject to cognitive bias as anyone else, and my memory might be faulty.

Anyway, all that is not wrong.  We cannot set any level, any branch of government up as a substitute salvation that will solve the big problem.  There is certainly a risk that we might.  As the legend goes, progressive atheists want to set government up as a new idol, substitute central planning for morality.  I am not sure there were very many of those listening to the homily.  But the point is taken. Government is not the solution to the Big Problem.

And yet, even if we don’t fall for the idea that government can solve The Big Problem (sin, or if you like, selfish human nature), still we think government can be useful to solve, if not THE problem, then just A problem, here and there, from time to time.  How do we work to get our government to solve A problem without accidentally making an idol of it?  Without neglecting conversion of hearts?

If I look to the city council for help keeping, say, police officers, from, say, murdering unarmed Black residents, is that so wrong?  Surely what we really need is for a bunch of hearts to be converted so that no one tries to murder anyone at all, but do we have to see many more people die while we try to convert them?  And are we working on the correct set of hearts?

+ + +

I often think about the two great commandments, Love God and Love Your Neighbor.   Probably I should think about their content, but I often think about their number.  Why are there two?  Jesus says that in those two are contained all the rest of the law.  But at least superficially, one might think that they are also contained in each other.   “Love God” should imply loving His creation, including the neighbors, no?  And “Love your Neighbor” should imply the existence of a law of Love higher than ourselves, which must come from God, no?  So why do we get both instead of one or the other?

Let’s suppose we only had been given one, and see if it gets us somewhere different.

1.

If the only greatest commandment were “Love God,” then we would at least know to love God more than neighbor.  And that seems to go with other bits of scripture, like today’s, where Jesus says we ought not love parent, son, or daughter more than we love Him.  But without “Love your neighbor,” how could we really be sure that our neighbors even exist as real people?  What if they are illusions?  What if I, and the voices in my head, are all that is?  The voices in my head, or the desires in my heart, might themselves be God.  I might try to love God only by obeying those voices, or only by obeying my desires.

But because “Love your neighbor” is also a great commandment, I have a way to test the voices in my head and the desires of my heart.  If they tell me to hate, to harm, or to use my neighbor as a means to an end—anything impossible to square with loving the neighbor—then I know it isn’t God I am serving if I do what they tell me.  I know the god to be a false one.

2.

And what if the only greatest commandment were “Love your neighbor as yourself?”  Then I know I am always to will my neighbor’s good, yes, in the same way that I will my own good.  But what is my good?  What is my relationship with Good?  Who am I?  What am I?  If I cannot understand myself and how I relate to Good, how do I will and enact good to others?

This is why I also need the commandment “Love God.”  I am a creature, but not a thing.  I need God and am to love God.  And since I am to love my neighbors as myself, they are also creatures who are not things.  I owe my love, because I owe myself, to God.  And so I can also test my love of neighbor:  if I attempt to will and enact the good of my neighbor in a way that violates my own right relationship as a child of God, with my own dignity and my own duties, I have chosen the wrong way.

Conclusion:

The two commandments interpret each other, test each other, and together they test all the others.

+ + +

The two together are, I think, the test of most moral questions, questions of right relationship— such as whether we have inadvertently set some useful tool up as an idol.  Any tool, even a quite useful one, can be an idol if we attempt to obtain and wield it at all costs—in particular, if we are willing to violate the two great commandments.

Yes, even if we wish to use the tool (once we have it) to love God or to love (some) neighbors.

If you try to obtain the tool, or the power to use it, by denying or wounding or neglecting God—or by harming your neighbor, or using the neighbor as a means to get the tool—or by lying or deceit or cheating

—yes, even if you hope to use the tool to help someone later, or a great number of someones—

your tool is an idol.  Even if it’s the city council; even if it’s a federal judge.

 

+ + +

But... if you haven’t set it up as an idol....

....your tool can be simply a tool. 

There is nothing wrong with writing to my city council representative, or showing up to a public meeting, and telling her my opinion about how a future public safety department ought to be organized.  There is nothing wrong with me writing that I will vote for her if she does one thing and against her if she does something else.  There is nothing wrong with my voting.  Nothing about any of that is inconsistent with loving God or my neighbor, as long as I form my opinion with an honest attempt to serve the common good, and to spend my vote and my words and my work to get the best outcome for that common good that I can get.  And it doesn’t prevent me from hoping for conversion of hearts, or even working for conversion of hearts, in some other way.

Trying to make civil society better, fairer, safer, more just is not a risk of making it a substitute for God, unless you choose means that violate your relationship with God or your relationship with your neighbor.  And there are usually means available to you that do not violate them.

There are also probably means available to you that would so violate them.  And those means might well seem as if they will get the job done faster, better, or with more certainty.  Congratulations: this is what is known as a “temptation.”  They are common, and the point is to avoid them if you can, and if you can’t, then not to give in.

+ + +

And so it comes back, as it so often does, to means and ends.  We may use any thing—a tool, a structure, a process, an organization—to love our neighbors, giving them what is justly theirs, and to love God, giving God what’s due.

We may not use, or harm, a neighbor in order to get hold of the tool; and we may not deny or neglect God either.

If we aren’t breaking those commandments, I submit that we ought to be confident that accusations of setting up false idols are baseless.  And so we shouldn’t be scared away from using those means to try to protect the powerless, provide for the poor, and make whole the injured.

Or, for that matter, to reach and speak to all those unconverted hearts, even ours;  the ones that work together, maybe without knowing it, to embed the Big Problem—selfish human nature—deeply in all the systems we participate in, including the ones we want to use and change to lift the very burdens that oppress us all.

 

Consolations and the prosperity gospel.

Amy Welborn recently put up a post on the prosperity gospel's more subtle forms, a "well-trodden road" that she's considered many times.   

This is an interesting discussion, because while some versions (the "health-and-wealth" gospel) are so obviously out of line with orthodox Christian thought as to be almost a parody, others are more difficult to untangle precisely because they seem to grow right out of unarguably Christian and Judeo-Christian beliefs.  

It’s easy for us to look at an interpretation of Christianity with which we disagree and dismiss it out of hand, mock or condemn it – especially something as obviously wrong as the health-and-wealth gospel. More fruitful, I think, is to look at the why and the roots and explore how aspects of an incorrect interpretation might have crept into our own thinking. To examine it, see what’s true, what’s false and use it as a way, not so much to condemn others – over whom we have no control – but to grow in our own faith and conform ourselves more closely to truth.

So let’s take the most recent newsworthy example – pastor John Gray purchasing a $200K Lamborghini for his wife.  Gray defended his purchase against criticism by pointing out that he’d not used church money to buy it, but rather money from a book deal, a television show on Oprah’s network and other income sources. He didn’t go whole hog Prosperity in defending it, but he did say: “God helped me to make my wife’s dream come true,” he wrote in an Instagram post Tuesday night. “Why not? She’s made mine come true!”

This is a little different from promising the impoverished that if they align themselves correctly with God’s will, they’ll find more material comfort, but the very basic fundamentals are the same: When we do God’s will, it shows in our earthly lives. God helps us make our dreams come true.

This is not, of course, incorrect. The deep roots of the Prosperity Gospel are in the ancient life of Israel. Read Psalms, read Proverbs. External blessing is a sign of God's favor in our tradition.

But then along came the Exile.  And the challenge of Job. God’s people had to ask themselves: What does it mean to be blessed by God? What does God’s presence among us look like?

The philosophical problem here is that our faith teaches that here on earth, all good things, visible and invisible, do come from God.   And we have plenty of Scripture to back us up that God does (at least some of the time) provide some kind of good to His faithful servants.  Perhaps health and wealth and safety; perhaps supportive mentors, friends, and family; perhaps graces of understanding and acceptance that help us put into perspective our lack of such things.  

And yet... if this is the leaping-off point... can we leap off in the wrong direction?  

One of the biggest dangers would be if we become satisfied.   Satisfied that our temporal blessings (visible and invisible) constitute evidence that we are doing the Christian life correctly.  Satisfied, too, in the sense of no longer... longing.

Amy muses in this direction:

It seems to me that the fundamental error of any “Prosperity Gospel” lies in the elevation of the truth that yes, we find authentic peace and true joy when our wills and choices are aligned with God’s will. That’s the truth we find in the very beginning of Scripture: Adam and Eve at peace in the Garden, and then at war with each other, God, nature and themselves outside of it.

The way that a “Prosperity Gospel” twists this truth is when it encourages us to uncritically identify the fruits of a right relationship with God with anything temporal.

It instrumentalizes the spiritual life.

So now, look beyond the easy targets of health-and-wealth. Survey the contemporary popular spiritual landscape, Catholic and otherwise. If there’s a current self-help trend out there, are spiritual gurus close behind, baptizing it?

ou might see and hear some of this:

Through faith, I came to understand my purpose and look at the success I’ve found because of that.

Through faith, I came to see and accept how beautiful I am, and what true beauty is.

Because of faith, I feel great about myself and affirm my life as amazing and accomplished.

This is hard, this is tricky, and I hope I can tease this apart correctly. Because I’m sure this might be striking you as just wrong. Because isn’t that  part of what faith is? In accepting Jesus as Lord of my life, aren’t I opening myself to a re-orientation, a proper understanding of myself and my relationship to the world that’s going to bear this fruit?

True. All that is fruit of a relationship with Christ.

Plot twist: But it’s really not that important, either.

 

There's more, and you should go read what she has to say.   

But I think there may be a way to... make it a little less tricky?  The Prosperity Gospel is a modern thing, but human nature is the same as always, and I suspect it's merely a new-ish manifestation of a very old temptation.

In short:  Humans are perfectly capable of taking true graces that truly come from God and... screwing up our responses to them.

+ + + 

This is what I wonder: 

This sort of celebration of temporal happiness and satisfaction, accompanied by a broader understanding of what happiness and satisfaction means

--e.g. “Now that I know what true beauty is” — something unspecified, but more than just conventional outer attractiveness — “I see that I am beautiful.”

--Or: “now that I know what true wealth is, I see that I am wealthy”) ---

might fall under the category of “consolations.”  

Consolations are, in the writings of the saints and in the writings of the magisterium, the opposite of affliction.   These are free gifts of happiness, contentment, felt blessings, confidence in the presence of God, strong feelings of conviction. All bestowed by God on some of the faithful, and occasionally understood to be withdrawn from them by God, as a means of increasing their (or someone's) growth in faith.

Numerous saints have warned Christians against mistaking the consolation for something it is not. It is not (necessarily) a reward or a punishment; it is certainly not a reliable indication of the holiness of the individual, such that holier people receive more or fewer consolations; and while we may hope for consolations, we are expressly warned against making the consolation the end that we seek.

In the Introduction to the Devout Life (IV.13) St. Francis de Sales includes "Spiritual and sensible  consolations" in the catalog of temptations to be overcome. 

[Man's state] is ever changing, constantly in movement; his life on earth like waters which ebb and flow, sometimes lifted up by hope, sometimes depressed by fear, swept one way by consolation, another by affliction; no day, no hour, exactly the same.

It is well to remember this, for we must strive to preserve our equanimity in the midst of these various changes; though all should change about is we must remain immovable, our eyes and our hearts ever fixed on God.

He then lists items of "particular advice," which are really quite detailed and wonderful but which I will paraphrase here for brevity.

1. Feelings of pleasure, sadness, consolation, or compassion which make our spiritual exercises pleasing or agreeable are not evidence of real devotion and can even be "snares of the devil, who encourages them to make much of these consolations and take such satisfaction in them that they no longer seek true devotion, which is to do constantly, resolutely, promptly, and energetically whatever we know to be pleasing to God."
2. However, they are sometimes very useful, for they make the spiritual life attractive to us.  "
3. How to know the difference between the two situations?   You will knmow them by the fruit they yield.  Our hearts are as trees, our feelings and desires their branches, our actions which follow from them the fruit.  If [consolations] make us more hunble and patient, considerate and merciful towards our neighbour, more fervent in mortifying our evil desires and inclinations, more constant in our devotion, more docile and submissive to those in authority over us, more simple in our lives [!], there can be no doubt that they come from God; but if we seek such feelings for our own satisfaction, if they make us selfish, irritable, self-assertive, impatient, overbearing, proud, presumptuous and harsh towards others and make us imagine that we are already saints and no longer in need of guidance or correction there is no doubt that they are false and evil....
4. We must receive consolations with humility, never taking them for evidence of our own goodness, and use them according to God's intention, and also "occasionally detatch ourselves" from consolations by protesting to God that we seek only His love and not the sensible goods that he sends.

Now, St. Francis doesn't take the position that I suggested above, that all consolations come from God and it is our response to them that matters.  He phrases it that some consolations are good and come from God whereas others arise "from our fallen nature" or are "sent by the devil."  I think either construction works.

If indeed the sentiments that lead one into the prosperity-gospel error are incorrect responses to real spiritual consolations, then the ancient and medieval fathers will have much to say to us about how to avoid falling into this apparently modern error.

 

 

 

Repost: The lack of checklists.

This is a repost from October 2014.

+ + +

Recently a friend of mine asked me if I could recommend any books for someone who was struggling with scrupulosity -- in particular, the Do I Have A Sufficiently Serious Reason To Delay Pregnancy sort of scrupulosity, mixed with depression and struggles with anger and being overwhelmed. I wanted to help, so I put some thought into it.

Longtime readers will know of my irritation with the tendency of some corners of the Catholic internet, lacking any actual lists of rules from the Magisterium, to write their own rules for what constitutes a Serious Reason and then disseminate them.

My position is that those entrusted with the teaching authority of the Church, as well as the inspired writers of Scripture, knew what they were doing when they didn't, for example, add "subclinical depression isn't a good enough reason to watch your fertility signs" or "if only one spouse is sure that it's a good time to try for another baby, the other one should get in line." The fact that the Church has declined to give further guidance beyond generosity and the good of the family, is itself a kind of guidance: a signal that discernment about family size and childbirth timing belongs not to theologians and pastors, nor to doctors and therapists, nor to social media friends and Twitter, but to a well-formed married couple themselves -- and no one else.

I couldn't think of any books that I could recommend through experience, although I found some promising titles via Google. I know of a number of web-published articles and blog posts that make the case for backing off from pressuring others with the so-called Grave Reasons and minding yer own business, but as it was of course web-published articles and blog posts that helped convince my friend's friend that her own struggles were not bad enough -- that she was not good enough, and if she could only be better she could handle everything, and maybe the first step towards being better was to take on more and more and more -- well, I wasn't sure that piling more websites, no more authoritative than the others, would help.

So I suggested working on recognizing scrupulosity in general, and left it at that.

+ + +

Later on this week it occurred to me that there is another sort of commandment -- one that is much, much more fundamental to the Christian life than anything having to do with married life, since it applies quite strictly to everyone of any age and state of life -- that, despite its importance, is similarly light on the details.

We all know we've got to do it. In a very real sense our salvation is said to depend on it. But no one -- not Christ's words in scripture, not the Catechism, no papal teaching document, no synod -- has ever told us exactly how to do it, or how to know when we've done it, or given us a checklist of features of successfully practicing it. And yet this virtue, this activity, is not something that is purely spiritual or invisible; like generosity in the service of life, it plays out in the arena of real contact between real human beings, and if we invite it in, if we practice it, somehow (but no one will tell us how, exactly) it will change the course of our days.

I am speaking of forgiveness. We know it's always necessary: Jesus said himself that we can't be forgiven unless we forgive. We know it must be offered again and again, without practical end; that, at least, is what the exegetes tell us that "seventy times seven" times means to say to us.

But beyond the teaching that we have to do it, and that we are never allowed to give up doing it -- we are not told what we have to do to be forgiving.

How can we ever forgive enough? There is no "enough," because our model of forgiveness -- just like our model of life-giving generosity -- is God Himself.

There is only what we are called to do. And because it is a matter of a call, no one can figure that out for us. We have to discern on our own.

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Let's talk extremes: Almost nobody (unless they are trapped, themselves, somehow) believes that the injunction to forgive means that a physically abused person must go on putting himself or herself in danger of more abuse. We don't say that there is a limit on forgiveness; rather, we advise that forgiveness doesn't require the risk of being harmed by a dangerous person.

And yet... all forgiveness means some level of risk and vulnerability (otherwise we wouldn't have to remind people to do it). And so there is always the open question of how much vulnerability we can create before we have forgiven.

The question is open. There is no checklist.

"If your neighbor commits such-and-such a crime against you, and then he apologizes and makes restitution, forgiving him means declining to press charges. But if your neighbor commits such-and-such a different, particular, crime, and then apologizes and makes restitution, forgive him some other way while you still press charges." Nope. We don't get advice like that.

"If you lend money up to $X and the borrower never pays you back, forgiveness means that you stop demanding the money and you should be willing to lend to that person again. If the unpaid amount is between $X and $Y, forgiveness means that you stop demanding the money, and don't think of it again, but probably you should not lend to that person again. If the amount is between $Y and $Z, it is permissible to take the borrower to court for the money, while forgiving the borrower in your heart..." Nope. We don't get advice like that.

"If a family member hurts you in such-and-such a way, forgiveness means that you tell the person of your hurt and then never speak of it again, and not gossip to other members of the family, and keep going to visit the relative who hurt you, and send Christmas cards, and the like. If a family member hurts you in a different way, forgiveness means that you keep silent about the hurt, keep visiting with that person, and learn to change the subject when necessary to avoid the topics that lead to people saying hurtful things. But if a family member hurts you in such-and-such a different way, it's okay to separate yourself completely from that person and quietly work on your own anger issues without subjecting yourself to further mental abuse, and that is what forgiveness means in that case." Nope. No specific advice.

Look in the encyclicals all you want. Read the Bible as much as you want. There is no algorithm.

But isn't this dangerous? Aren't some people going to feel trapped by the injunction to forgive, trapped in cycles of self-hatred, trapped in abusive relationships, trapped by toxic family members demanding what they have no right to demand?

Yes. It is dangerous. And people are trapped in this way.

And yet it would be dangerous in a different way if we were given such an algorithm, because we would none of us have any room for discernment -- for working out the best way to forgive in a specific situation, with specific human beings.

We have a Church, not a clinic; we have a Teacher, not a Diagnostic and Statistical Manual; we deal with disordered human persons (including ourselves), not with disorders. We have to judge the situations that we are in by looking at the needs of the people who are affected by the situations. We as individuals are the only ones who can see the details of our surroundings. A predictive, exhaustive flowchart (if P then Q) would, I presume, hobble us; leaving no room for a flowering of authentic human forgiveness, it would tempt us to go just so far and yet no farther.

It might serve as an excuse to limit forgiveness, by telling us when we had forgiven "enough."

Forgiveness comes in different shapes, and we have to see the shape it will fit into, in our hearts and in our relationships, and work over and over again to more fully fit it into its place. But it isn't ever done and isn't ever enough. The nature of forgiveness, like generosity, is a nature of readiness-to-serve; never saying "I am done," but instead always ready to be called to do something more.

What that something may be, we apparently have to figure out on our own, for it to be forgiveness and not some other thing -- maybe, a good thing, but something else.

The immovable object and the irresistible force.

I've been doing some mercy-blogging recently, trying to stab at some unformed thoughts.

• Can we obtain the fruits of the Eucharist on behalf of people who do not receive it? (An argument from pronouns)
• Trust as the necessary atmosphere for engaging with anyone
• Failing to love the person you proclaim the truth to = proclaiming a falsehood by denying their personhood

 What all of them have in common is the concept of "meeting people where they are:"  -- a point of difficulty for many Catholics who are engaged in the world, because it seems to put two values in tension:  

• speaking the truth without compromise
• welcoming, loving, and serving people without reservation.

The reason for the tension is the combination of the two "withouts" -- it seems as if we wish to put into play both an immovable object and an irresistible force.  

You know that old paradox, right?  There is a handy Wikipedia article about it.  It goes like this:

The irresistible force paradox, also called the unstoppable force paradox, shield and spear paradox, is a classic paradox formulated as "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?"

...The immovable object and the irresistible force are both implicitly assumed to be indestructible, or else the question would have a trivial resolution.

Furthermore, it is assumed that they are two separate entities.

The paradox arises because it rests on two incompatible premises: that there can exist simultaneously such things as irresistible forces and immovable objects. The "paradox" is flawed because if there exists an irresistible force, it follows logically that there cannot be any such thing as an immovable object and vice versa.

....The problems associated with this paradox can be applied to any other conflict between two abstractly defined extremes that are opposite. 

We wish to speak the truth without compromise:  that's the immovable object (and indeed, we are not relativists, we affirm that there exist immovable truths).    We have a duty of self-donation:  to love the neighbor as ourselves, to serve everyone -- but believing in the human person as subject means always and everywhere the interaction of service must start with inviting everyone in, hopefully successfully; we wish our love to be an irresistible force which attracts everyone.

 Unsurprisingly, we run into problems. It seems that we wish both to radiate a love that is stronger than truth, so that it draws people in regardless of whether we tell them the truth, and proclaim a truth that is stronger than love, so that our poor showing in the love department does not matter.

This cannot stand.  The commonest resolution of the irresistible-force-immovable-object paradox, mentioned above, is to point out the logical fallacy:  both cannot exist in the same causal domain.  Thus the easiest answer comes to mind:  Either there is no truth that cannot yield, or there is no love that can move every heart.  

If I stick within the rigid fence I build from Truth, and my attempts at Love from within its boundaries fail to move people outside it, I conclude those people are unreachable by Love.  Not my neighbor. 

If I regard Truth as essentially flexible, then when in the course of exercising Love I encounter a person who resists it beyond my ability, I conclude those people are un-attractable by Truth.  I feel free to distort, deny, or denigrate Truth to attract them; I draw them wherever I can draw them, in the process taking both of us off-target.  

In practice (practice only), faced with any moral dilemma or tension that appears between serving truth and serving others, Catholics seem to fall into two camps:  the "truth" faction and the "love" faction. 

In that practice, by the way, it isn't a moral fault, may simply reflect incompetence or lack of practice, to find ourselves stuck in one camp. 

I mean, how do I stay within the bounds of truth, and yet reach out to people in love?  Maybe I'm just not good at navigating a particular situation.  We might find it very easy to avoid distorting the truth, but not know how to reach out.  Or we might find ourselves overflowing with energy to serve all sorts of people, but be flummoxed as how to answer questions truthfully and stay in that place of tact and kindness.

The crucial trouble -- in practice -- comes when the two camps point at each other and say "You are the problem."

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There is an intriguing hint at the resolution (sadly, marked "citation needed!") in the Wikipedia summary of the irresistible force paradox.

One of the answers generated by seeming paradoxes like these is that there is no contradiction---that there is a false dilemma....

[A]n irresistible force, an object or force with infinite inertia, would be consistent with the definition of an immovable object, in that they would be one and the same. Any object whose momentum or motion cannot be changed is an immovable object, and it would halt any object that moved relative to it, making it an irresistible force.

The less common resolution is not to deny the existence of the opposing realities, but to remove the assumption that they are separate, and to assert that they both exist in the same entity.  They will never meet each other because they are fused in their essence from the beginning.  

I think this is the correct way for Christians to look at it:   Love and Truth are  one and the same, and in fact are personified on earth in Christ.

In theory Christians accept this, actually.  It's just that we don't behave like it.  We behave in every situation as if one is more important than the other, and to emphasize the "wrong" one is sure to lead to disaster.

(See above regarding "in practice.")

In theory, whichever camp we fall into, we claim we are uniting Truth and Love.  

The "sola veritas" crowd theorizes, "I am putting Love first, because I put Truth first, and Truth is the same as Love."

The "sola caritas" crowd theorizes, "I am putting Truth first, because I put Love first, and Love is the same as Truth."

But in practice, because it is difficult, we usually compromise one for the sake of the other.  And always, always, always, we point at people who make the opposite error -- even people trying hard in good faith! -- and say, "You are the one making it hard for the rest of us!"

+ + +

Only in the person of Christ have Truth and Love ever been perfectly united.  In one sense this lets us off the hook:  we don't have to be perfect, because we can't.  On the other hand it means we have to let other servants off the hook in the same way.   And we have to strive for that unity, and encourage others to strive for it too:  point out the contradictions, point out the gaps into which people fall, keep bringing that fraying thread right up to the the eye of the needle over and over again.

 

Pronouns in the Divine Mercy chaplet.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the mercy-related problem of, so to speak, "meeting people where they are."  About one dilemma of the good news:  some demands of Christian life are scary, off-putting, downright repugnant at times.  Certainly from outside, but I've felt that way from the inside from time to time too.  So how do we attract and welcome people, exercise the hospitality and mercy we are commanded to do, avoid hurting people or driving them away, and yet, be honest and not lie about the difficulties?  We know we must reject lies and reject everything that separates human beings from God; we must not do so by rejecting human beings, or provoking them.   "The truth hurts" is the world's saying, not ours. 

It is an old problem, tackled by saints and yet not solved; a problem that reinvents itself in every place and time.  So even though it's the saints' problem it's our problem too.  We can all try to approach it and yet be doing new work.  

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It's been a long time since I made it to any Saturday-morning mass, let alone a first Saturday, so I was glad this past weekend to be entirely free.  I carried some special intentions for old friends having hard times, and one of the children's rosaries hooked away from its thumbtack on the schoolroom bulletin board, to the parish thirty blocks south where daily mass happens on Saturday.  

I got there near the end of the rosary but before the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.  And found myself, as I recited along with the parishioners, thinking about the first-person pronouns in the CDM.  I copied them down in my notebook after the chaplet, while I waited for mass to start.  Let me show you what I mean:

Eternal Father, 

I offer You the body and blood, soul and divinity of Your dearly beloved son, our Lord, Jesus Christ,

in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world.

For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.

 

So what I was asking myself is:  Who is "I?"  Who is "us" and is it the same "us" to whom belong "our" sins?  

Who is "the whole world?"  Is that the same "us" or is it actually a "them?"  Or is "us" a part of "the whole world?"

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One of the beauties of communal prayers, like this one, with agreed-upon texts, is that they can and do have slightly different meanings inside the heads of all the individual people who say them.  But I want to be clear about what they mean inside my own head.  I want them to be real words, not just my mouth moving in agreed-upon patterns.  So I think about those words and sometimes form theories about them.  Even the pronouns.

(If you like this sort of thing, here's a guest-post I did for Jen Fulwiler some years ago.  Good times.)

 So let's get started, and why not start with the first person.  I'm not exactly taking these phrases in order as they appear in the poem, by the way, but more in the order in which they came to my mind.

1.  "I" offer

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that the "I" refers to the person speaking the prayer.  For now let's just note that it's an "I" not a "we," although later we'll speak of "us" and not "we."  The agent of the offering-sentence is an individual, not a collective, despite the fact that the Chaplet is very often a communal prayer, and it has a very communal-prayer feel to it if you ask me.  The sense of community comes out the most when it is recited -- even alone -- at 3 p.m., the "hour of mercy," the time when the Church especially invites us to recite it.  So at that hour one knows that one is among many with the same, or similar, intention.  And yet we do not say, "we offer you."  I offer you.   This offering is a personal offering.  I offer the part that I possess in myself, however much or little that may be.  It is not, so to speak, pooled, at least not at the moment that I offer it.

2.  ...[to] "You"

Is "You" God?  Yes, but more precisely, "You" is another "first person" -- in this case the first person of the Trinity, the Father, and precisely, distinct from the Son and from the Holy Spirit.   This is made obvious by the first two words of the prayer.  The Father is the one whose will Jesus does on earth, and the one to whom he makes offering of himself on the cross.  So when "I offer" the offering mentioned in the prayer, "I" make that offering to the same Person.  

3.  ...in atonement for "our" sins and those of the whole world"

This sentence makes it clear that "I" am making an offering not just for myself, but for others.  In fact I am making the offering on behalf of everybody ("the whole world.")  

But here is a curious puzzle.  As long as this offering is meant to make atonement for everybody, why do we not just say "...in atonement for the sins of the whole world?"  Why is there an "us" and a "them" of sorts here, or if not that, at least an "us" and a wider "us?"  

I see two possibilities.  Either we are meant to make a sort of mental distinction between "us/our" and "the whole world," or we are meant to make a distinction  between the "our sins" and "those [sins] of the whole world."    The prayer makes it clear that everybody's sins demand atonement, "ours" as well as "the whole world's," but why the distinction?  Who is "us?"

Before embarking on this contemplation, my mental picture of the "us" had been framed by my habit of reciting the CDM mainly in community, like I was doing on Saturday with other parishioners before Mass.  I had been picturing the "us" as "all the people here in this room with me, all of us here together reciting in this place."  "The whole world" then, must have meant to me "everybody outside this room."  And it may be an acceptable interpretation of the phrase; I don't know.  

 But it breaks down for me a bit when I remember that the chaplet is not only to be said in community, but also alone.  So I'm inclined to think that "our" is more expansive than "the people in this room."   Fortunately there is another clue...

 

4.  "our" Lord, Jesus Christ 

Here at least, "our" is apparently those of us of whom it may be said, Jesus Christ is Lord.  The phrase "our Lord" is an appositive; it mentions a second time and renames "Your dearly beloved Son;" it is, strictly speaking, unnecessary.  One of its purposes is apparently to stress that Jesus is "our" Lord.  So going out on a limb here and assuming that the two "our"s have the same antecedent:  the "we" is the set of all faithful Christians, all those who recognize Jesus and sincerely call him Lord and try however imperfectly to follow His commands.   I tend to think that here we can interpret the set relatively broadly and not restrict it to Christians who are visibly members of the Catholic Church; I think there's room for discussion there.

So what does that get us?  Well, I think it means that "the whole world" refers to all the other people who don't call Jesus Lord for one reason or another, and possibly some people who do call Jesus Lord but insincerely or with an entirely wrong idea about who Jesus is or what Lord means.  Roughly, Christians and non-Christians, or followers of Christ and others, or the Church and people outside the Church (with perhaps some acknowledgment that there may be folks who are really in the Church but only God knows it).  This does jibe pretty well, incidentally, with Scripture tending to contrast "the world" with Christ.

And the salient point here is that "I" am making this offering in atonement for the sins of Christians, and, apparently equally, for the sins of everybody else.

 

5.  Have mercy on "us" and on the whole world

I don't need to belabor the point again, so I'll just note that the distinction between "us" and "the whole world" is significant enough to make it twice.  I think this underscores that it's a real distinction.  "I" ask for mercy for "us" and for all the other people too.

 + + +

All this being said, let's come back to "I" in the context of exactly what it is that "I" am offering.

 

6.  the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity

It's meditating on the meaning of this that got me thinking about this at all.  How can "I" offer this, which is basically "Himself," what Jesus offered on the cross?  I know how Jesus could do it; it was His to give.   I know (sort of) how a priest at Mass does it:  He is alter Christus and makes the offering in persona Christi.  What is it for someone like me to offer these back to the Father?

The way I figure it is that "I" can offer the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ only because I somehow possess it -- and the way I possess it is through having received it the Eucharist.

I freely admit that I may have worked it out wrong, but the Eucharist itself only remains literally with a person for a short time after Communion.  So one possible meaning here is that each of us makes this offering by dedicating the fruits of the Eucharist that he has received to do God's work and God's will; another is to consecrate the graces the Christian has received from it back to God, which may mean, so to speak, allowing God to redistribute or enact them for His good will and not specifically the good of the person making the offering.  

+ + +

The latter possibility, I clearly came up with under the influence of the idea of Marian consecration, and perhaps it's mixed up too much, so let's explore the first option:  That "I" offer the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, by dedicating the fruits of the Eucharist that I have received outside myself somehow.

The fruits of the Eucharist are said to be seven (cf. the Catechism, ¶1391--1398; scroll down from this link to the section):

• augments our union with Christ
• separates us from sin
• preserves us from future mortal sin
• wipes away venial sins (specifically, by strengthening our charity)
• makes the Church
• commits us to the poor
• signifies our unity

There are many, many people who in their circumstances do not or cannot receive the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity.   But the whole world can receive its fruits, no matter who they are or what their circumstances.

God can increase and make full any person's knowledge of and union with Christ.

God can detach any person from whatever sins trouble them.

God can wipe away any person's venial sins.

God can preserve any person from mortal sin.

God's power and mercy can incorporate anyone God chooses into the mystical body of Christ.

God can turn any heart toward the poor.

God can, someday, unite any person at all to the rest of us in the gift and sign of the Eucharist, and grant to any person the possession, not just of its fruits, but of the Eucharist itself.

+ + +

I think that when "I" am offering to God the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, I am saying:  You, Father, may take these fruits back from me, and spread them around to everyone; or at least, I say to you, God, that the fruits you have given me through the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, help me to use these fruits for the good of everyone else.  To realize these fruits for the people who (though they cannot yet receive the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity) may yet receive its fruits, by my words and actions.

By the works, you may say, of mercy.

The offering makes atonement, and enacts mercy, at the same time.  Atonement requires a sacrifice, and the sacrifice that the Chaplet enacts is a commitment to turn the great gift of the Eucharist outward, not keep its fruits just for myself, but actively work toward their wider distribution.

 

 

St. John Bosco and how to *not* punish kids (a repost).

St. John Bosco, like St. "Mother" Teresa or St. "Padre" Pio, is one of those whose names started to sound a little weird when their popular monikers got altered by the application of sainthood.  He's often "Don" Bosco even though his name is John-actually-Saint-John-now, "Don" being the honorific applied typically to diocesan priests in Italy.  I think this is because he, like they, like some others -- Thérèse comes to mind too -- is one of those saints that once you know them, you just sort of make friends with.  The "saint" can feel a little embarrassing between friends.  Or because a straightforward humility, a groundedness, is so much a part of their persona that they succeed in never feeling... I don't know, lofty.  

Here's a repost about Don Bosco for his feast day, Jan. 31.  In which I write about why I take him as my personal role model in his approach to child discipline.

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My personal parenting/discipline ideal has always been to avoid punishing kids.

I get the impression from other people that the idea alarms them, because it sounds a lot like "avoiding discipline;" perhaps it calls to mind the stories of parents who insist their offspring can do no wrong.  You know, the kind who sue the school when their child is suspended for cheating on a test or something like that.

That's not my point.  By punishment, I mean those arbitrary unpleasantnesses inflicted in return for misbehavior:  the spanking, the grounding, the confiscation. Mrk and I aren't what you'd call permissive parents.  We try to be authoritative, if not authoritarian.  We use the term "obedience" with the kids and are clear about what it means and why it's important.   But (this is our ideal, mind you, not always the way we manage to make it work) we try not to get to the point where we need a "punishment" in the first place.  

We try to let them experience the consequences of their actions, insofar as it isn't dangerous.  

• Didn't pack an extra dress like you were supposed to?  Well, I guess you'll be wet and uncomfortable now that you've run through your friend's sprinkler in your clothes.  
• Refused to eat your lunch at lunchtime?  Ooooops, snack time isn't till 3:30, I guess you can have some of these plain almonds I keep in the car for emergencies.
• Shrieked at each other in the car while we were running errands?  After all that, I (honestly) don't feel anymore like taking you out for lunch, so instead we're going home and having tuna sandwiches.

On the occasion when something truly egregious happens -- such as when one of my kids came to me and admitted that a long string of perfect scores on math assignments had been faked -- consequences are meted out rather than merely allowed to happen; but we really try to have it make sense.  In the case of the spurious perfect scores, since I had no way to know whether the child understood the material, the child was assigned double math lessons for as many days as the lessons had been faked, each day doing the regularly scheduled lesson and at the same time re-doing one of the lessons from before.  That plus a long conversation about honesty.  And dangerous misuse of a tool around here is very likely to result in revocation of privileges to use said tool until competency and proper respect for risk is demonstrated; that's just common sense, not a punishment.  

It was difficult for us to figure out when our first was very young, but we hit our stride eventually, and he grew out of the normal frustrations of toddlerhood into an earnest child and now a delightful teenager, and that has given us a lot of confidence as we continue to bring him up, him and the four that have followed.  It's true that I yell more than I wish I did, and lose my temper.  It's an ideal I fail to measure up to.  But I still strive for that "no-punishment" ideal.

+ + + 

I notice, however, that this isn't language I tend to hear from my fellow Catholic parents much.  Indeed, at more than one parish I've seethed while listening to a priest (including in the homily at my daughter's baptism) cheerfully recommend vigorously and frequently spanking small children.  

I think this is an American Catholic phenomenon, borne of being caught between a decadent permissive culture and an army of evangelical Protestants -- in many ways, serious American Catholics are constantly playing "keeping up with the Bob Joneses," and so, for better or for worse, we have been inculturated with what I personally see as a break-the-child's-sinful-will, thou-shalt-honor-us-because-of-the-ten-commandments sort of  attitude toward child discipline.  

The exceptions are the super-crunchy attachment parenting Catholics.  Am I one of those?  Sort of; as a young parent, AP wasn't good enough for me and if you were foolish enough to ask me about it I would talk your ear off about how I was into "CC" parenting, which stands for "continuum concept," which, well, some other time....    

I did have plenty of role models for the way that I felt was right for me to parent my kids, but I lacked Catholic ones.   And that's why I was so excited when I first learned about the educational philosophy of St. John Bosco.  AKA "Don" Bosco (1815-1888) because that's what you call a diocesan priest in Italy.   Here's Wikipedia on him, for some background:

At that time the city of Turin had a population of 117,000 inhabitants. It reflected the effects of industrialization and urbanization: numerous poor families lived in the slums of the city, having come from the countryside in search of a better life. In visiting the prisons Don Bosco was disturbed to see so many boys from 12 to 18 years of age. He was determined to find a means to prevent them ending up here. Because of population growth and migration to the city, Bosco found the traditional methods of parish ministry inefficient. He decided it was necessary to try another form of apostolate, and he began to meet the boys where they worked and gathered in shops, offices, market places. They were pavers, stone-cutters, masons, plasterers who came from far away places, he recalled in his brief Memoirs.

The Oratorio was not simply a charitable institution, and its activities were not limited to Sundays. For Don Bosco it became his permanent occupation. He looked for jobs for the unemployed. Some of the boys did not have sleeping quarters and slept under bridges or in bleak public dormitories. Twice he tried to provide lodgings in his house. The first time they stole the blankets; the second they emptied the hay-loft. He did not give up. In May 1847, he gave shelter to a young boy from Valesia, in one of the three rooms he was renting in the slums of Valdocco, where he was living with his mother. He and "Mamma Margherita" began taking in orphans. The boys sheltered by Don Bosco numbered 36 in 1852, 115 in 1854, 470 in 1860 and 600 in 1861, 800 being the maximum some time later....

In 1859, Bosco selected the experienced priest Vittorio Alasonatti, 15 seminarians and one high school boy and formed them into the "Society of St. Francis de Sales." This was the nucleus of the Salesians, the religious order that would carry on his work....In 1871, he founded a group of religious sisters to do for girls what the Salesians were doing for boys. They were called the "Daughters of Mary Help of Christians." In 1874, he founded yet another group, the "Salesian Cooperators." These were mostly lay people who would work for young people like the Daughters and the Salesians, but would not join a religious order.

Bosco's capability to attract numerous boys and adult helpers was connected to his "Preventive System of Education."

Don Bosco explained his "preventive system" in an essay, "The Preventive System in the Education of the Young," which can be found here.  It begins by contrasting his "preventive" system with the "repressive" system.  The "repressive" system, he says, has its place "in the army and in general among adults and the judicious, who ought of themselves to know and remember what the law and its regulations demand."  

The repressive system consists in making the law known to the subjects and afterwards watching to discover the transgressors of these laws, and inflicting, when necessary, the punishment deserved.

According to this system, the words and looks of the superior must always be severe and even threatening, and he must avoid all familiarity with his dependents.   

In order to give weight to his authority the Rector must rarely be found among his subjects and as a rule only when it is a question of punishing or threatening.  

But Don Bosco's system is different:

[The preventive system] consists in making the laws and regulations of an institute known, and then watching carefully so that the pupils may at all times be under the vigilant eye of the rector or the assistants, who like loving fathers can converse with them, take the lead in every movement and in a kindly way give advice and correction;  in other words, this system places the pupils in the impossibility of committing faults.

This system is based entirely on reason and religion, and above all on kindness; therefore it excludes all violent punishment, and tries to do without even the slightest chastisement. 

"Excludes all violent punishment, and tries to do without even the slightest chastisement" being what I was going for all along, I was so glad to find this.  

The basic idea is that children are closely supervised at all times by leaders who care for them, model good behavior, encourage reception of the sacraments, participate in their games, and converse with them frequently about behavior norms in a way that "appeals to [their] reason" and "generally enlists [their] accord."  Close supervision and "forewarning" means that there is little chance for a child to commit a fault. Don Bosco believes that young people misbehave, initially at least, because of inattention, not malice:

The primary reason for this system is the thoughtlessness of the young, who in one moment forget the rules of discipline and the penalties for their infringement.  Consequently, a child often becomes culpable and deserving of punishment, which he had not even thought about, and which he had quite forgotten when heedlessly committing the fault which he would certainly have avoided, had a friendly voice warned him.

To apply this system Don Bosco lists several principles of education and discipline.

1.  Close supervision by the people entrusted with the children.  "[The Rector] must always be with his pupils whenever they are not engaged in some occupation, unless they are already being properly supervised by others."

2. Moral teachers who actively lead the pupils to and in each new place or activity. "Teachers, craftmasters, and assistants must be of acknowledged morality... As far as possible the assistants ought to precede the boys to the place where they assemble; they should remain with them until others come to take their place, and never leave the pupils unoccupied."

3.  Allow rowdiness and physical activity.  "Let the boys have full liberty to jump, run, and make as much noise as they please.  Gymnastics, music, theatricals, and outings are most efficacious means of obtaining discipline and of benefiting spiritual and bodily health.  Let care be taken however that the games... are not reprehensible.  'Do anything you like,' the great friend of youth, St. Philip [Neri] used to say, 'as long as you do not sin.'"

4.  Encourage and promote, don't force, the sacraments.  "Frequent confession and communion and daily mass are the pillars which must support the edifice of education, from which we propose to banish the use of threats and the cane.  Never force the boys to frequent the sacraments, but encourage them to do so, and give them every opportunity.... [L]et the beauty, grandeur, and holiness of the Catholic religion be dwelt on..."

"Avoid as a plague the opinion that the first communion should be deferred to a late age... When a child can distinguish between Bread and bread, and shows sufficient knowledge, give no further thought to his age... St. Philip Neri counseled weekly and even more frequent communion."

5.  Exclude bad materials and trouble-making people.  "[P]revent bad books, bad companions, or persons who indulge in improper conversations from entering the college.  A good door keeper is a treasure for a house of education."

6.  Brief daily reflections -- a sort of community examen.  "Every evening after night prayers before the boys go to rest, the Rector or someone in his stead shall address them briefly, giving them advice or counsel concerning what is to be done or... avoided.  Let him try to draw some moral reflection from events that have happened during the day... but his words should never take more than two or three minutes."

7.  Love before fear.   "An educator should seek to win the love of his pupils if he wishes to inspire fear in them.  When he succeeds in doing this, the withholding of some token of kindness is a punishment which stimulates emulation, gives courage, and never degrades.... With the young, punishment is whatever is meant as a punishment.... in the case of some boys a reproachful look is more effective than a slap in the face would be."

8. Do not  shame children.  "Except in very rare cases, corrections and punishments should never be given publicly, but always privately and in the absence of companions."

9.  Employ patient reason and religion. "[T]he greatest prudence and patience should be used to bring the pupil to see his fauly, with the aid of reason and religion."

10.  No corporal punishment.  "To strike a boy in any way, to make him kneel in a painful position, to pull his ears, and other similar punishments, must be absolutely avoided, because the law forbids them, and because they greatly irritate the boys and degrade the educator."

 11.  Clear communication of expectations.  "The Rector shall make sure that the disciplinary measures, including rules and punishments, are known to the pupils, so that  no one can make the excuse that he did not know what was commanded or forbidden."

+ + +

I think these principles of Salesian education and discipline are sound ones that speak for themselves, principles that seek to form and transform human nature rather than to fight against it, and principles that respect and elevate the dignity of both child and educator.    When I discovered Don Bosco I felt I'd finally found someone who was truly on my side.    

If only I'd known about him when I was having to make post-baptism chitchat with Father Spare-the-Rod!

 

St. John Bosco, like St. "Mother" Teresa or St. "Padre" Pio, is one of those whose names started to sound a little weird when their popular monikers got altered by the application of sainthood.  He's often "Don" Bosco even though his name is John-actually-Saint-John-now, "Don" being the honorific applied typically to diocesan priests in Italy.  I think this is because he, like they, like some others -- Thérèse comes to mind too -- is one of those saints that once you know them, you just sort of make friends with.  The "saint" can feel a little embarrassing between friends.  Or because a straightforward humility, a groundedness, is so much a part of their persona that they succeed in never feeling... I don't know, lofty.  

Here's a repost about Don Bosco for his feast day, Jan. 31.  In which I write about why I take him as my personal role model in his approach to child discipline.

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My personal parenting/discipline ideal has always been to avoid punishing kids.

I get the impression from other people that the idea alarms them, because it sounds a lot like "avoiding discipline;" perhaps it calls to mind the stories of parents who insist their offspring can do no wrong.  You know, the kind who sue the school when their child is suspended for cheating on a test or something like that.

That's not my point.  By punishment, I mean those arbitrary unpleasantnesses inflicted in return for misbehavior:  the spanking, the grounding, the confiscation. Mrk and I aren't what you'd call permissive parents.  We try to be authoritative, if not authoritarian.  We use the term "obedience" with the kids and are clear about what it means and why it's important.   But (this is our ideal, mind you, not always the way we manage to make it work) we try not to get to the point where we need a "punishment" in the first place.  

We try to let them experience the consequences of their actions, insofar as it isn't dangerous.  

• Didn't pack an extra dress like you were supposed to?  Well, I guess you'll be wet and uncomfortable now that you've run through your friend's sprinkler in your clothes.  
• Refused to eat your lunch at lunchtime?  Ooooops, snack time isn't till 3:30, I guess you can have some of these plain almonds I keep in the car for emergencies.
• Shrieked at each other in the car while we were running errands?  After all that, I (honestly) don't feel anymore like taking you out for lunch, so instead we're going home and having tuna sandwiches.

On the occasion when something truly egregious happens -- such as when one of my kids came to me and admitted that a long string of perfect scores on math assignments had been faked -- consequences are meted out rather than merely allowed to happen; but we really try to have it make sense.  In the case of the spurious perfect scores, since I had no way to know whether the child understood the material, the child was assigned double math lessons for as many days as the lessons had been faked, each day doing the regularly scheduled lesson and at the same time re-doing one of the lessons from before.  That plus a long conversation about honesty.  And dangerous misuse of a tool around here is very likely to result in revocation of privileges to use said tool until competency and proper respect for risk is demonstrated; that's just common sense, not a punishment.  

It was difficult for us to figure out when our first was very young, but we hit our stride eventually, and he grew out of the normal frustrations of toddlerhood into an earnest child and now a delightful teenager, and that has given us a lot of confidence as we continue to bring him up, him and the four that have followed.  It's true that I yell more than I wish I did, and lose my temper.  It's an ideal I fail to measure up to.  But I still strive for that "no-punishment" ideal.

+ + + 

I notice, however, that this isn't language I tend to hear from my fellow Catholic parents much.  Indeed, at more than one parish I've seethed while listening to a priest (including in the homily at my daughter's baptism) cheerfully recommend vigorously and frequently spanking small children.  

I think this is an American Catholic phenomenon, borne of being caught between a decadent permissive culture and an army of evangelical Protestants -- in many ways, serious American Catholics are constantly playing "keeping up with the Bob Joneses," and so, for better or for worse, we have been inculturated with what I personally see as a break-the-child's-sinful-will, thou-shalt-honor-us-because-of-the-ten-commandments sort of  attitude toward child discipline.  

The exceptions are the super-crunchy attachment parenting Catholics.  Am I one of those?  Sort of; as a young parent, AP wasn't good enough for me and if you were foolish enough to ask me about it I would talk your ear off about how I was into "CC" parenting, which stands for "continuum concept," which, well, some other time....    

I did have plenty of role models for the way that I felt was right for me to parent my kids, but I lacked Catholic ones.   And that's why I was so excited when I first learned about the educational philosophy of St. John Bosco.  AKA "Don" Bosco (1815-1888) because that's what you call a diocesan priest in Italy.   Here's Wikipedia on him, for some background:

At that time the city of Turin had a population of 117,000 inhabitants. It reflected the effects of industrialization and urbanization: numerous poor families lived in the slums of the city, having come from the countryside in search of a better life. In visiting the prisons Don Bosco was disturbed to see so many boys from 12 to 18 years of age. He was determined to find a means to prevent them ending up here. Because of population growth and migration to the city, Bosco found the traditional methods of parish ministry inefficient. He decided it was necessary to try another form of apostolate, and he began to meet the boys where they worked and gathered in shops, offices, market places. They were pavers, stone-cutters, masons, plasterers who came from far away places, he recalled in his brief Memoirs.

The Oratorio was not simply a charitable institution, and its activities were not limited to Sundays. For Don Bosco it became his permanent occupation. He looked for jobs for the unemployed. Some of the boys did not have sleeping quarters and slept under bridges or in bleak public dormitories. Twice he tried to provide lodgings in his house. The first time they stole the blankets; the second they emptied the hay-loft. He did not give up. In May 1847, he gave shelter to a young boy from Valesia, in one of the three rooms he was renting in the slums of Valdocco, where he was living with his mother. He and "Mamma Margherita" began taking in orphans. The boys sheltered by Don Bosco numbered 36 in 1852, 115 in 1854, 470 in 1860 and 600 in 1861, 800 being the maximum some time later....

In 1859, Bosco selected the experienced priest Vittorio Alasonatti, 15 seminarians and one high school boy and formed them into the "Society of St. Francis de Sales." This was the nucleus of the Salesians, the religious order that would carry on his work....In 1871, he founded a group of religious sisters to do for girls what the Salesians were doing for boys. They were called the "Daughters of Mary Help of Christians." In 1874, he founded yet another group, the "Salesian Cooperators." These were mostly lay people who would work for young people like the Daughters and the Salesians, but would not join a religious order.

Bosco's capability to attract numerous boys and adult helpers was connected to his "Preventive System of Education."

Don Bosco explained his "preventive system" in an essay, "The Preventive System in the Education of the Young," which can be found here.  It begins by contrasting his "preventive" system with the "repressive" system.  The "repressive" system, he says, has its place "in the army and in general among adults and the judicious, who ought of themselves to know and remember what the law and its regulations demand."  

The repressive system consists in making the law known to the subjects and afterwards watching to discover the transgressors of these laws, and inflicting, when necessary, the punishment deserved.

According to this system, the words and looks of the superior must always be severe and even threatening, and he must avoid all familiarity with his dependents.   

In order to give weight to his authority the Rector must rarely be found among his subjects and as a rule only when it is a question of punishing or threatening.  

But Don Bosco's system is different:

[The preventive system] consists in making the laws and regulations of an institute known, and then watching carefully so that the pupils may at all times be under the vigilant eye of the rector or the assistants, who like loving fathers can converse with them, take the lead in every movement and in a kindly way give advice and correction;  in other words, this system places the pupils in the impossibility of committing faults.

This system is based entirely on reason and religion, and above all on kindness; therefore it excludes all violent punishment, and tries to do without even the slightest chastisement. 

"Excludes all violent punishment, and tries to do without even the slightest chastisement" being what I was going for all along, I was so glad to find this.  

The basic idea is that children are closely supervised at all times by leaders who care for them, model good behavior, encourage reception of the sacraments, participate in their games, and converse with them frequently about behavior norms in a way that "appeals to [their] reason" and "generally enlists [their] accord."  Close supervision and "forewarning" means that there is little chance for a child to commit a fault. Don Bosco believes that young people misbehave, initially at least, because of inattention, not malice:

The primary reason for this system is the thoughtlessness of the young, who in one moment forget the rules of discipline and the penalties for their infringement.  Consequently, a child often becomes culpable and deserving of punishment, which he had not even thought about, and which he had quite forgotten when heedlessly committing the fault which he would certainly have avoided, had a friendly voice warned him.

To apply this system Don Bosco lists several principles of education and discipline.

1.  Close supervision by the people entrusted with the children.  "[The Rector] must always be with his pupils whenever they are not engaged in some occupation, unless they are already being properly supervised by others."

2. Moral teachers who actively lead the pupils to and in each new place or activity. "Teachers, craftmasters, and assistants must be of acknowledged morality... As far as possible the assistants ought to precede the boys to the place where they assemble; they should remain with them until others come to take their place, and never leave the pupils unoccupied."

3.  Allow rowdiness and physical activity.  "Let the boys have full liberty to jump, run, and make as much noise as they please.  Gymnastics, music, theatricals, and outings are most efficacious means of obtaining discipline and of benefiting spiritual and bodily health.  Let care be taken however that the games... are not reprehensible.  'Do anything you like,' the great friend of youth, St. Philip [Neri] used to say, 'as long as you do not sin.'"

4.  Encourage and promote, don't force, the sacraments.  "Frequent confession and communion and daily mass are the pillars which must support the edifice of education, from which we propose to banish the use of threats and the cane.  Never force the boys to frequent the sacraments, but encourage them to do so, and give them every opportunity.... [L]et the beauty, grandeur, and holiness of the Catholic religion be dwelt on..."

"Avoid as a plague the opinion that the first communion should be deferred to a late age... When a child can distinguish between Bread and bread, and shows sufficient knowledge, give no further thought to his age... St. Philip Neri counseled weekly and even more frequent communion."

5.  Exclude bad materials and trouble-making people.  "[P]revent bad books, bad companions, or persons who indulge in improper conversations from entering the college.  A good door keeper is a treasure for a house of education."

6.  Brief daily reflections -- a sort of community examen.  "Every evening after night prayers before the boys go to rest, the Rector or someone in his stead shall address them briefly, giving them advice or counsel concerning what is to be done or... avoided.  Let him try to draw some moral reflection from events that have happened during the day... but his words should never take more than two or three minutes."

7.  Love before fear.   "An educator should seek to win the love of his pupils if he wishes to inspire fear in them.  When he succeeds in doing this, the withholding of some token of kindness is a punishment which stimulates emulation, gives courage, and never degrades.... With the young, punishment is whatever is meant as a punishment.... in the case of some boys a reproachful look is more effective than a slap in the face would be."

8. Do not  shame children.  "Except in very rare cases, corrections and punishments should never be given publicly, but always privately and in the absence of companions."

9.  Employ patient reason and religion. "[T]he greatest prudence and patience should be used to bring the pupil to see his fauly, with the aid of reason and religion."

10.  No corporal punishment.  "To strike a boy in any way, to make him kneel in a painful position, to pull his ears, and other similar punishments, must be absolutely avoided, because the law forbids them, and because they greatly irritate the boys and degrade the educator."

 11.  Clear communication of expectations.  "The Rector shall make sure that the disciplinary measures, including rules and punishments, are known to the pupils, so that  no one can make the excuse that he did not know what was commanded or forbidden."

+ + +

I think these principles of Salesian education and discipline are sound ones that speak for themselves, principles that seek to form and transform human nature rather than to fight against it, and principles that respect and elevate the dignity of both child and educator.    When I discovered Don Bosco I felt I'd finally found someone who was truly on my side.    

If only I'd known about him when I was having to make post-baptism chitchat with Father Spare-the-Rod!