“Again the LORD spoke to Ahaz, saying, Ask a sign of the LORD your God; let it be deep as Sheol or high as heaven. But Ahaz said, I will not ask, and I will not put the LORD to the test” (Isa. 7:10-12)

“Now the birth of the Messiah took place in this way. When his mother Mary had been engaged to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found to be with child from the Holy Spirit. Her husband Joseph, being a righteous man and unwilling to expose her to public disgrace, planned to dismiss her quietly. But just when he had resolved to do this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife’” (Mt. 1:18-20).

The final candle of Advent represents Love. We enthusiastically speak of love when, in reality, we are more hesitant to receive it than we like to admit. We enshrine love in our songs and poems, we praise its goodness, all the while harboring a secret fear of what it might mean if we really experienced it. “It’s silly,” you say, “to be afraid of love” but brief reflection will show that to be the case.

”In reality we all need at times, some of us most times, that Charity from others which, [God] being Love Himself in them, loves the unlovable. But this, though a sort of love we need, is not the sort of love we want. We want to be loved for our cleverness, beauty, generosity, fairness, usefulness” (C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves, chp.5). We had rather feel that the affection we are offered is deserved. “Well of course s/he loves me, I am good looking after all.” “Who has any doubt that s/he loves me? I’ve such a wonderful sense of humor.” “Love me? She could hardly resist me! I showered her with gifts.” Whatever behavior or characteristic we identify we would like to believe that somehow we have merited the adoration and friendship of others. Love at its highest, however, is completely unmerited. Even farther, it is not merely undeserved but love amidst contradiction! We are not loved “because of” but “in spite of.” And while intellectually we acknowledge such love as being the strongest, purest, and holiest, it is the sort of love we much prefer to give and are not very keen to receive. “The first hint that anyone is offering us the highest love of all is a terrible shock. This is so well recognised [sic] that spiteful people will pretend to be loving us with Charity precisely because they know it will wound us. To say to one who expects a renewal of Affection, Friendship, or Eros, ‘I forgive you as a Christian’ is merely a way of continuing the quarrel. Those who say it are of course lying. But the thing would not be falsely said in order to wound unless, if it were true, it would be wounding” (ibid).

The facts of the case are twofold: 1. We do not like to be in another’s debt. We like things on an even keel. It is fine that you do me a good turn but only because I had already done you one (or I will soon in the future). To be given a gift that we know we could never repay somehow makes us uneasy. It is a power dynamic that makes us feel “beneath” or “less than.” Our pride will not allow it. 2. In order to recognize that we are being loved “in spite of” our unloveliness (whatever that trait may be) we must admit that unloveliness. We must admit the we are grumpy in the mornings. We must confess that we did shout. We have to own up to being irritable when we haven’t eaten. Whatever the thing is, in order to admire a love that loves “in spite of,” there must be something to spite, and that thing resides in us. Again, our pride does not like that admission. Receiving Love which is “love indeed” exposes our great need, and we loathe being “needy.”

”There is something in each of us that cannot be naturally loved. It is no one’s fault if they do not so love it. Only the lovable can be naturally loved. You might as well ask people to like the taste of rotten bread or the sound of a mechanical drill. We can be forgiven, and pitied, and loved in spite of it, with Charity; no other way. All who have good parents, wives, husbands, or children, may be sure that at some times—and perhaps at all times in respect of some one particular trait or habit—they are receiving Charity, are loved not because they are lovable but because Love Himself is in those who love them” (ibid).

Ahaz was offered a gift that he did not deserve and he could not repay. It could be any sign, “as deep as Sheol or high as heaven.” We might think we would enthusiastically accept such an offer ourselves but when we consider all that we’ve said above Ahaz’s reponse makes a little more sense. “I will not put the LORD to the test.”

St. Joseph was also granted a great gift. When Joseph was moved to put away holy Mary “quietly” we are only told that he did so because we was “just” and, as revealed by the angel, “afraid.” It is commonly assumed that he was motivated by suspicion of her adultery. He was afraid that others would believe him to have lain with her before their marriage and his justice was revealed in his desire to put her away without making a public spectacle of her.

There is, however, another and very ancient interpretation going back at least as early as Origen of Alexandria in the early 3rd century. In this interpretation St. Joseph sought to put her away—not because he did not understand—but precisely because he did! St. Thomas Aquinas mentions this in his commentary on The Gospel of St. Matthew as well as his Catena Aurea (Golden Chain) which is a kind of parallel commentary collecting the opinions of many ancients on the text of the Gospel. According to Aquinas, Origen wrote, “But if he had no suspicion of her, how could he be a just man, and yet seek to put her away, being immaculate? He sought to put her away, because he saw in her a great sacrament, to approach which he thought himself unworthy” (Catena Aurea). Again, “But according to Jerome and Origen, he had no suspicion of adultery. For Joseph knew Mary’s purity and had read in the scripture that a virgin would conceive (Isa. 7:14) and in 11:1: ‘There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.’ He had also known that Mary had descended from David. Hence, it was easier for him to believe that this had been fulfilled in her than that she had fornicated. And so, considering himself unworthy to live together with such holiness, he wanted to put her away secretly” (Commentary on St. Matthew’s Gospel).

In this interpretation we see again something like a reticence to receive gifts of Love. Ahaz would not receive the sign. St. Joseph would not receive the Immaculate Virgin and her holy child. We, like Joseph, need to hear the words of the angel, “Do not be afraid.” The offer of Love is the offer of God Himself for “God is Love” (1 Jn. 4:8), and perhaps that is why we so often reject Him.

Accepting Love, the highest Love, the Love which we cannot repay, is an acceptance of our inherent Need; It is an acceptance of our creatureliness. “For what do you have that you did not receive?” (1 Cor. 4:7).

But we recoil at being creatures! “No sooner do we believe that God loves us than there is an impulse to believe that He does so, not because He is Love, but because we are intrinsically lovable. The Pagans obeyed this impulse unabashed; a good man was ‘dear to the gods’ because he was good. We, being better taught, resort to subterfuge. Far be it from us to think we have virtues for which God could love us. But then, how magnificently we have repented! As Bunyan says, describing his first and illusory conversion, ‘I thought there was no man in England that pleased God better than I.’ Beaten out of this, we next offer our own humility to God’s admiration. Surely He’ll like that? Or if not that, our clear-sighted and humble recognition that we still lack humility. Thus, depth beneath depth and subtlety within subtlety, there remains some lingering idea of our own, our very own, attractiveness. It is easy to acknowledge, but almost impossible to realise [sic] for long, that we are mirrors whose brightness, if we are bright, is wholly derived from the sun that shines upon us. Surely we must have a little—however little—native luminosity? Surely we can’t be quite creatures?” (Lewis, Four Loves, chp. 5).

But we are! We are creatures! And all that we have is as much gift as the sign to Ahaz. It is as much gift as the virgin birth. Our life, our virtues, our beauty, our goodness, is all gift. We are creatures. We we stand in need, and it is need “all the way down.” So if we are to be faced with God at all we must be faced with the God who gives a Love we could never merit and a love we could never repay. He would give us Himself, as He does in Christmas, and Advent is intended to prepare us to receive Him. To receive love is to humbly—for there is no other way!—confess our need. But therein is our freedom. “For all the time this illusion to which nature clings as her last treasure, this pretense that we have anything of our own or could for one hour retain by our own strength any goodness that God may pour into us, has kept us from being happy. We have been like bathers who want to keep their feet—or one foot—or one toe—on the bottom, when to lose that foothold would be to surrender themselves to a glorious tumble in the surf. The consequences of parting with our last claim to intrinsic freedom, power, or worth, are real freedom, power and worth, really ours just because God gives them and because we know them to be (in another sense) not ‘ours.” (ibid). All that is “ours” is “His”! “The earth is the LORD’s and all that is in it” (Ps. 24:1).

Paul begins his letters over and over, as we read this fourth Sunday, “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ” (Rom. 1:7). What else is there when we are creatures in need? All is grace. All is Love, a Love which is unmerited, a Love we cannot repay. We have to learn to receive a Love like that because God cannot give Himself apart that; It is all He is. Advent prepares us for Christmas, it prepares us to accept Love into our lives as creation accepted Christ in the stable.

“Let the LORD enter; He is King of Glory.”

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“The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom. They will bloom with abundant flowers, and rejoice with joyful song. The glory of Lebanon will be given to them, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the LORD, the splendor of our God. Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak, say to those whose hearts are frightened:
Be strong, fear not!” (Isa. 35:1-4)

With Assyria and captivity looming on the horizon fear gripped the Israelites. In the midst of that threatening gloom a prophet arose with the hope of joy in the morning. He promises that the desert will “rejoice will joyful song” and so calls the people to support one another during their present trouble. “Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak, so to those whose hearts are frightened: Be strong, fear not!”

The lighting of the Joy Candle this Advent brings us the same message. I cannot recall a scarier time in my life than right now. Constitutional protections are being eroded. People are disappearing. Children are being detained. Prisoners (wrongly apprehended) are dying in dilapidated prisons. The dark lies heavy over the land. But we light our small candle and we lift our eyes looking for the promised signs that can bring us joy.

Isaiah promised that when God comes to save us “The eyes of the blind will be opened, the ears of the deaf be cleared; then the lame will leap like a stag, then the tongue of the mute will sing” (Isa. 35:5, ,6).

But we have a privilege! Whereas they looked forward, we can look back! Our joy is not only future but past, and indeed present! When John and his disciples grew weary and began to feel doubt they sent for our Hope. They sent for our Joy. And they asked Him, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?” (Mt. 11:3). Jesus pointed to the presence of the long awaited promise of Isaiah. “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have good news proclaimed to them” (11:4, 5).

And that was nearly 2,000 years ago. While we may not often see the blind regain their sight, the deaf hear, or the dead raised (though some have been blessed to see just these—blessed are those who have not seen and yet believed). We can say assuredly that these have happened, do happen, and will happen again! We can say that the poor have good news preached to them!

Mr. Rogers told us to “Look for the helpers.” And wherever we see our neighbors encouraging one another, strengthening the weakened hands and making firm the feeble knees, there is cause for rejoicing because Christ is among us. He is here. Our Joy is present. So we are saved! So we are ransomed! So we can sing! “Those whom the LORD has ransomed will return and enter Zion singing, crowned with everlasting joy. They will meet with joy and gladness, sorrow and mourning will flee” (Isa. 35:10).

The Psalm is ours. “The LORD God keeps faith forever, secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry. The LORD sets the captives free” (Ps. 146:7). Everywhere there is oppression, there is the light of Advent joy. While some would starve women and children, we can lift our eyes and find the helpers. There are women working tirelessly at food pantries to make sure that their neighbors get to eat. “The LORD gives food to the hungry!” While they throw our brothers and sisters is detainment we can find the helpers. There are countless lawyers fighting day and night to release our innocent neighbors, our immigrant siblings. “The LORD secures justice for the oppressed!” There are common folk, like you and me, protesting raids and demanding the release of prisoner. “The LORD sets the captives free!” We can sing and sing with joy amidst the dark.

But like you, I lament that these are only glimmers. This Advent light is only a candle. This joy is only a seed and we await the harvest. We rejoice that there is seed to plant and that it has been planted! We water and tend the crop. We cannot be weary in well doing! We find the signs of joy amidst the waiting but the waiting does not stop. So we hear the words of our brother James: “Be patient, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, be patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You too must be patient. Make your hearts firm, because the coming of the Lord is at hand” (James 5:7, 8).

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“Tomorrow’s peace must be more than the absence of armed conflict. It must be just, creative, and cooperative. The weak must be protected from exploitation, the brutal strong curbed, and a sympathetic appreciation developed for the races of mankind”—Elizabeth Tipton Derieux

On the second Sunday of Advent we light the Peace candle. It is curious that on a Sunday dedicated to peace we have one of the most fighting Gospel readings. John the Baptist appears in the wilderness preaching repentance (Mt. 3:2). He turns to the Pharisees and Sadducees only to call them a “brood of vipers!” (3:7). This jarring confrontation teaches us something important about peace: “True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice” (Martin Luther King Jr.).

We may turn to former times to see this lesson repeated. For “whatever was written previously was written for our instruction” (Rom. 15:4).

The Psalm begins, “Give the king your justice, O God, and your righteousness to a king’s son” (Ps. 72:1). Justice! The necessary presence for the existence of peace. While the poor are oppressed justice will move the king to their defense. “May he defend the cause of the poor of the people, give deliverance to the needy, and crush the oppressor” (72:4) so “righteousness may flourish and peace abound” (72:7).

Peace does not mean keeping quiet or acquiescing to unjust systems. It requires speaking up and speaking out like the root of Jesse who shall “strike the ruthless with the rod of his mouth” and shall “slay the wicked” “with the breath of his lips” (Isa. 11:4). It requires a voice in the wilderness crying aloud, “Repent for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!” It requires the cleansing fire of the Holy Spirit (cf. Mt. 3:11, 12).

Thus results the peaceable kingdom where the “weak” and the “strong” dwell together, the wolf and the goat, the calf and the lion (cf. Isa. 11:6-8). But this does not mean that the strong go hungry as so many fear. The lion is not left without food, he simply learns to live a life which does not require killing his neighbor. He learns to do with simpler fare; He learns to eat hay like the ox and to share his food (11:7).

A just peace will surely be difficult for the oppressor, but likewise for the oppressed. The poor are called to repentance alongside the rich. Not only the strong but also the weak. “All Judea” went out to be baptized by John “confessing their sins” (Mt. 3:5, 6). It is easy to justifying hating the strong when you are weak, to justify violence against the oppressor when you are the oppressed. This too must be confessed and forfeit.

“The logic of the strong-weak relationship is to place all moral judgment of behavior out of bounds. A type of behavior that, under normal circumstances, would call for self-condemnation can very easily, under these special circumstances, be regarded as necessary and therefore defensible. To take advantage of the strong is regarded merely as settling an account. It is open season all the time, without the operation of normal inhibitions. It is a form of the old lex talionis—eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth … While it lasts, burning in white heat, its effect seems positive and dynamic. But at last it turns to ash, for it guarantees a final isolation from one’s fellows. It blinds the individual to all values of worth, even as they apply to himself and to his fellows. Hatred bears deadly and bitter fruit” (Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited, chp. IV).

And so while the “brood of vipers” are called to repentance, so are those children who must “play by the adder’s lair” (Isa. 11:8). In the Kingdom of God, the child plays alongside and does not hate the snake. The lion must cease his killing and learn to eat hay; The ox must forgive the lion his killing. The kid must lie down with the leopard. The wolf will be the guest of the lamb. The bear and the calf will finally be neighbors.

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“Wake up!”

That’s how our epistle reading begins on this First Sunday of Advent. “Brothers and Sisters, you know the time; It is the hour now for you to awake from sleep” (Rom. 13:11). The way Christmas has been commodified requires the the extension of the season so as to make more and more money. This year Christmas aisles appeared alongside Halloween. We are persuaded to consume more, buy more, indulge more! Pleasure and celebration break their bounds and crowd out any season of penance and self-denial. All is “Christmas”; Advent is gone.

This is what we might expect from a World without hope. With no hope for a better day we cannot afford to delay pleasure or ignore opportunity. It is wisdom to “eat and drink” for “tomorrow we die” (1 Cor. 15:32). This pursuit of pleasure often gives way to violence. The only way to extend my pleasures is to take what belongs to my neighbor by right. So we demand more, we demand cheaper, we demand faster and someone must pay the price along the way. “They covet fields, and seize them; houses, and take them away, they oppress householder and house, people and their inheritance” (Micah 2:2). They devise these during the night and “when the morning dawns, they perform it, because it is in their power” (2:1). Though it is “morning” these are a people of the night for all they do is darkness (cf. Mat. 6:22-23).

But we are an Advent people. “Therefore you also must be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an unexpected hour” (Mt. 24:44). There will be accountability. There will be a reckoning. And because we trust that the good will out, we do not need to wait to live out that goodness. We hope for day when all will be provided for! When peace and justice will be the rule! And so we live that future hope now. We are witnesses of hope amid the darkness of wicked schemes. We will “go up to the mountain of the LORD … that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.” We will “beat our swords into ploughshares and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall we learn more any more” (Isa. 2:1-4). We learn contentment and the peace that accompanies it. We do not take from our neighbors but share what we have. The light of our Advent candles remind us of who we are. And so we say, “Come, let us walk in the light of the LORD!” (Isa. 2:5).

Wake up! See the need of your neighbor! This is a season of prayer and almsgiving. All is not Christmas; Advent is now. “Let us then throw off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; Let us conduct ourselves properly, as in the day, not in orgies and drunkenness, not in promiscuity and lust, not in rivalry and jealousy. But put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the desires of the flesh” (Rom. 13:12-14).

Whereas the World would dull our senses by sating them with pleasures, crowding out any season of reflection, restraint, sharing, and service, the hope of Advent calls us to awake! See the coming of the Lord! And in his light to see the eyes of our neighbor in need. “Keep awake therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming” (Mt. 24:42).

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“Take a Gospel. Take it, carry it with you and read it every day: It is Jesus himself speaking to you in it!”—Pope Francis

“Now John’s disciples and the Pharisees were fasting; and people came and said to him, ‘Why do John’s disciples and the disciples of the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not fast?’ Jesus said to them, ‘The wedding guests cannot fast while the bridegroom is with them, can they? As long as they have the bridegroom with them they cannot fast. The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast on that day”—Mark 2:18-20

Both John’s disciples and the Pharisees are described as fasting. Elsewhere one Pharisee confesses to fasting “twice a week” (Lk. 18:12). This may be in reference to some who fasted every Monday and Thursday (Babylonian Talmud, Taanit 12a.9; Mishnah, Ta’anit 1:7). Jesus, on the other hand, seemed to have a reputation for feasting. He ate with “tax collectors and sinners” (Mk. 2:12). He was even called a “glutton and a drunkard” (Mt. 11:19). This disparity raised questions among the people and they asked, “Why do John’s disciples and the disciples of the Pharisees fast, but your disciples do not fast?” (Mk. 2:18). His response provides an answer to their question and the theological basis for the entire Christian year.

“Jesus said to them, ‘The wedding guests cannot fast while the bridegroom is with them, can they? As long as they have the bridegroom with them they cannot fast. The days will come when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast on that day.’” (Mk. 2:19, 20). Whatever the Pharisees reasons for fasting on Monday and Thursday were, the disciples of Jesus ordered their fasting (and feasting) according to their relationship to Jesus. He is their Reason.

This basic principle of arranging our days (and their attendant rules) in relation to Jesus is the foundation of the liturgical calendar insofar as the calendar is what determines times of celebration and self-restraint, of anticipation and fulfillment.

Already in Revelation (usually dated around A.D. 95-96) there is mention of a particular day belonging uniquely to the Lord. The author writes, “I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day” (Rev. 1:10). In the New Testament it is unclear what this means. Several interpretations are offered. Some have suggested that “the Lord’s Day” ought to be understood as “the day of the Lord,” that is, a day of judgment. It would be difficult to know what day that is. Further, the Greek for “the day of the Lord” (a common phrase) is different than that which is translated “the Lord’s Day” here (unique in all the Bible).

Others have suggested that the day which belongs to the Lord is evidently the Sabbath being the day which had been dedicated to Him for thousands of years. While this is possible it does not fit the pattern of reinterpreting the Scriptures around Christ and reimagining life around Him, as happens in the New Testament and the Early Church.

St. Ignatius wrote to the Philadelphians (circa A.D. 105-110), “I exhort you to do nothing in a discordant manner, but in accordance with the teaching of Christ” (§8). He said this in answer to some who apparently gave greater authority to the Old Testament than the Gospels. He continues, “Since I heard some saying, ‘If I do not find it in the ancient writings, I do not believe it in the gospel’” to which Ignatius replies, “It is written!” And that’s just the question. Where is it written? The Saint cuts to the heart of the matter. “For me the archives are Jesus Christ, the sacred archives, his cross and death and his resurrection and the faith which comes from him” (ibid). Notice, St. Ignatius does not simply reference what Jesus said but who He is. Jesus Himself is “the archives.” Not just “the faith which comes from Him” but “His cross and death and his resurrection.”

It should come as no surprise then to find the same Saint writing to the Magnesians, “those who conducted themselves in accordance with the ancient ways came to a newness of hope, no longer keeping the Sabbath but living in accordance with the Lord’s day, on which our life appeared through Him and through His death” (§9). Time was rearranged in relation to Jesus.

The Epistle of Barnabas follows suit, composed roughly around the same time period. “You see what he means: It is not the present Sabbaths which are acceptable to me but that which I have made, in which I shall give rest to everything and make a beginning on the eighth day, which is the beginning of another world. Thus we also observe the eighth day in gladness, the day on which Jesus was raised from the dead and appeared and ascended into the heavens” (§15). We began to meet together on the first day of the week, not because Jesus “said so,” but simply because He was resurrected on that day. Jesus is the “sacred archives.”

With Jesus’ arrival all of life begins to shape itself around Him. Not just our belief in God or our morals but even the Way we measure time and, accordingly, which days are days of feasting or fasting, days of celebration or self-denial. This rearrangement of time extends through the early Church altering our most important day of worship. It extends even further to eventually establish new Holy Days, like Easter and Christmas. Our years are ordered around the limits of Jesus’ earthly life, the very beginning (Christmas) and the very end (Easter), the beginning and end of our salvation. These days became for Christians periods of feasting with attendant preparatory periods of fasting, namely Lent (40 days which mimic Jesus’ 40 day fasting in the wilderness) and Advent (a mini-Lent, 4 Sundays for 40 days).

Of course the full grown Christian calendar did not exist in the nascent Church but its roots are here in the Gospel. Our lives, the way we measure time, when we eat and when we don’t, celebration and self-denial, everything is shaped by the Life of Christ, “the sacred archives” of the Christian Church.

Take a Gospel. Read it every day: It is Jesus Himself speaking to you.

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“Take a Gospel. Take it, carry it with you and read it every day: It is Jesus himself speaking to you in it!”—Pope Francis

“And the Spirit immediately drove Him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on Him”—Mark 1:12, 13

It is the scholarly consensus that Mark was the first Gospel. Matthew and Luke came along after and added material. John came much later. And because Mark is the earliest it is, in many ways, not as polished. Certain allusions of Matthew and Luke are clearer. Still, each Gospel connects itself to the Old Testament, to Genesis, Exodus, Deuteronomy, Isaiah, etc. Matthew begins “These are the generations,” a refrain throughout the book of Genesis (2:4; 5:1; 6:9; 10:1; 11:10, 27; 25:12, 19; 36:1; 37:2) bringing us all the way to Jacob who later bears the name of Israel and gifts his name to a nation adopted as God’s Son (cf. Ex. 4:22, 23). Luke gives Jesus’ genealogy all the way back to Adam who is likewise identified as the “Son of God” (Lk. 3:38). John adopts the first words of Genesis, “In the beginning …” (1:1).

Mark also connects his Gospel to the book of Genesis (among others). “In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him” (1:9-10). Jesus enters chaotic waters and is met with the presence of God’s Spirit like a bird. Similarly, in Genesis, the Spirit of God “hovered,” or “brooded over the face of the waters” (1:2). The word translated “hovered” is used elsewhere to describe a bird hovering over her chicks (cf. Deu. 32:11).

After God’s Spirit sweeps across the waters all things spring to life ultimately culminating in the creation of Adam, God’s “son” who is called pleasing, or “very good.” When Jesus, the Second Adam, ascends from the waters, a voice speaks from heaven, “You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased” (Mk. 1:11).

“And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him” (1:12, 13). The “forty days” of Jesus’ wilderness temptation is reminiscent of Israel’s “forty years” in the wilderness, only back then it was God who tested Israel, not Satan. “Remember the long way that the LORD your God has lead you these forty years in the wilderness, in order to humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether or not you would keep his commandments. He humbled you by letting you hunger, then by feeding you with manna, with which neither you nor your ancestors were acquainted, in order to make you understand that one does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD” (Deu. 8:2, 3). This is the very passage quoted by Jesus in Matthew and Luke’s accounts of the same temptation (cf. Mt. 4:4; Lk. 4:4).

How strange to cast Jesus in the role of Israel, tested by God in the wilderness, only to exchange God with Satan. Satan’s great temptation in the Old Testament was not in the wilderness but in the Garden, and here we find the point! Another similarity! As Jesus was tempted by Satan, dwelling with beasts and angels, so was Adam in the garden. Whatever wilderness Jesus enters begins to change. The barren springs to life. The wild becomes a garden. We begin to see now why Mark can say this is “The beginning of the Good News” (1:1).

Adam and Eve were supposed to tend the Garden and to guard it. Several scholars believe that part of their mandate to “fill the earth and subdue it” (Gen. 1:28) was to extend the boundaries of the garden, to transform the world from wilderness into cultivated land (cf. G.K. Beale “The Temple and the Church’s Mission”). But they fell into Satan’s temptation and were banished to the wilderness instead.

Here enters Christ. He comes to the wilderness and turns it into a Garden. He dwells where all is barren and succeeds where Adam failed. This is the Way of Christ. “The All Powerful Word lept from heaven … into the midst of a land that was doomed” (Wisdom 18:15). The crooked paths are made straight, preparing the Way of the Lord. The dark of the virgin womb becomes the birth of the Light of Life. The chaotic waters of the Jordan are split and there ascends the Son of God. The barren wilderness becomes the comfortable home of beasts and angels where Satan is defeated.

Whatever crookedness and dark there is in your life there is Good News! Jesus can make it straight. He can light the way. Whatever chaos there is in your heart it can be ordered to give rise to the Son of God! Whatever wildness you enter, Jesus enters with you, and He can make it a home. “This is the beginning of the Good News of Jesus Christ, the Son of God” (1:1).

Take a Gospel. Read it every day: It is Jesus Himself speaking to you.

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“Abba Poemen said to Abba Isaac, ‘Let go of a small part of your righteousness and in a few days you will be at peace.’”—The Sayings of the Desert Folk (Poemen §141)

“Do not be too righteous … why should you destroy yourself?”—Ecclesiastes 7:16

It is common to see asceticism as a good in itself. Stories of the Saints contain heroic feats of prayer and austerity, so, we conclude, that if we would be saints then we must imitate them in whatever way we can. We adopt several devotions like the Rosary and the Scapular; We participate in consecrations to Mary and the Sacred Heart; We kneel and receive the Host on the tongue; We abstain from meat every Friday of the year and observe Ember Days. On and on we go, all the while learning to consider ourselves holier than our neighbor because we do “holy things.” Such is the danger of virtue; It is the breeding ground for the demon of Pride.

Several stories from the Desert Folk remind us that humility—not abnegation—is the greatest virtue. “Abba Nisterus the Great was walking in the desert with a brother. They saw a dragon and they ran away. The brother said to him, ‘Were you frightened too, Father?’ The old man said to him, ‘I am not afraid child, but it is better for me to flee, so as not to have to flee from the spirit of vain-glory” (Nisterus §1).

We might think that it is best to demonstrate courage in the face of danger but Nisterus shows that pride is more dangerous than cowardice. It is better to join a brother’s weakness than to stand your ground and be lifted up with pride.

Abba Isidore the Priest said, “If you fast regularly, do not be inflated with pride, but if you think highly of yourself because of it, then you had better eat meat. It is better for a man to eat meat than to be inflated with pride and to glorify himself” (Isidore the Priest §4).

How many Catholics, in pursuit of holiness, abstain from meat every Friday and, as a result, think less of those Catholics whom they consider “less traditional,” “less serious,” “less faithful”? If your abstinence has caused you to think less of your neighbor, perhaps you should start eating meat.

“A brother questioned Abba Motius, saying, ‘If I go to dwell somewhere, how do you want me to live?’ The old man said to him, ‘If you live somewhere, do not seek to be known for anything special; do not say, for example, I do not go to the synaxis; or perhaps, I do not eat at the agape. For these things make an empty reputation and later you will be troubled because of this. For men rush there where they find these practices.’ The brother said to him, ‘What shall I do, then?’ The old man said, ‘Wherever you live, follow the same manner of life as everyone else and if you see devout men, whom you trust doing something, do the same and you will be at peace. For this is humility: to see yourself to be the same as the rest. When men see you do not go beyond the limits, they will consider you to be the same as everyone else and no-one will trouble you” (Motius §1)

This Desert wisdom has exerted its influence on monastic life ever since. While the Rule of St. Benedict recommends adopting special ascetic practices during Lent, everything had to be approved by the Abbot in order to avoid pride. “Whatever is undertaken without the permission of the spiritual father will be reckoned as presumption and vainglory” (RB §49). Even during exceptional times the brothers were not to “stand out” in any way. Mother Natalia (of the What God Is Not podcast) wished to forfeit coffee one year. This, however, was considered outstanding in the community and therefore she had to receive special permission to adopt that form of abstinence precisely because it was exceptional. Even when it is our holiness that sets us apart that separation becomes a danger.

This wisdom is especially pertinent amidst the perpetual “Liturgy Wars”. While many argue that the only appropriate and reverent way to receive the Host is to do so kneeling, I know another Catholic who ceased his kneeling precisely because kneeling is not common to all. The USCCB has established the “norm” that “Holy Communion is to be received standing” and that bowing “his or her head before the Sacrament” is an appropriate gesture of reverence (General Instruction of the Roman Missal, chp. IV §160). Of course no one is to be refused who desires to receive kneeling (ibid). And while his individual preference is to kneel, this Catholic gave up the practice upon learning that it was not the “norm” and, not wanting to stand out in any way, began to receive standing. If your kneeling tempts you to pride, perhaps it is better that you begin to stand. The same could be said of the Tridentine/Novus Ordo debate. If your Latin Mass causes you to look down on your neighbor, perhaps it is better that you say your prayers in English.

In the end, no form of godliness will overcome Satan if it is not accompanied with humility.

“When Abba Macarius was returning from the marsh to his cell one day carrying some palm-leaves, he met the devil on the road with a scythe. The latter struck him as much as he pleased, but in vain, and he said to him, ‘What is your power, Macarius, that makes me powerless against you? All that you do, I do, too; you fast, so do I; you keep vigil, and I do not sleep at all; in one thing only do you beat me.’ Abba Macarius asked what that was. He said, ‘Your humility. Because of that I can do nothing against you.” (Macarius the Great §11).

Spiritual discipline is an indispensable part of sanctification. We cannot expect to become Saints without saint-making practices so we do not discourage prayer and abstinence, fasting and silence; We discourage only the pride grows parasitic on piety. On the other hand, harboring humility may require an ostensible reduction in righteousness. So lose a little, “and in a few days, you will be at peace.” You need “not be too righteous … [for] why should you destroy yourself?” (Ecclesiastes 7:16).

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“Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee”—John Donne

We weren’t close, my uncle and I. So I was as shocked as any to find tears swell my eyes. Without deep affection I could not make sense of my feeling deep loss.

The thing I felt weighing on me like “an imperial affliction,” a “heavenly hurt” with “no scar,” was the onerous absence, the permanent void now agape in the universe (Dickinson). I had not seen him in over a decade. He had never met my son and my son had never met him. But he was there and I knew he was, living a simple life on the hill where all my family had lived, the quiet sentinel standing watch over the homestead.

Perhaps too there is a sense of the immense dignity which accompanies the life of every human being. A man or woman need not be a very good one, they need only be in order to loom terrible in the cosmos. Humankind is made only “a little lower than the angels” (Psalm 8:5). Each person is a bridge between the temporal and the eternal. By mere existence our neighbor is “the holiest thing presented to your senses,” short of the Blessed Sacrament Itself (Lewis, The Weight of Glory). “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship … There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal” (ibid).

Knowing my late uncle to be such a one as this means that I will his good even I am not there to share it. There are things in the world which “claim our appreciation by right” (Lewis, The Four Loves). The world is full of these gifts. Good food and wine, sunsets and gardens. “And so with a man who passes the sweet-peas. He does not simply enjoy, he feels that this fragrance somehow deserves to be enjoyed … He will be sorry when he hears that the garden past which his walk led him that day has now been swallowed up by cinemas, garages, and the new by-pass” (ibid). If we feel this way about flora, certainly we can feel this about our family. I did not have to be close to him to feel deeply that he was worthy of closeness, of appreciation, of love, of lament. And now he is gone. A permanent irreversible loss this side of eternity.

And the loss is not contained to himself; It is felt in everything. “Lamb says somewhere that if, of three friends (A, B, and C), A should die, then B loses not only A but ‘A’s part in C,’ while C loses not only A but ‘A’s part in B.’ In each of my friend there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. Now that Charles is dead, I shall never again see Ronald’s reaction to a specifically Caroline joke. Far from having more of Ronald, having him ‘to myself’ now that Charles is away, I have less of Ronald” (ibid). Without my uncle I lose whatever part he uniquely conjured in my cousins, my mother, my brother, my sisters. If ever there were anything which makes a man long for Christ’s repair, the healing of all things, it must be death. One’s dying is the death of a world, and so one’s resurrection must be the salvation of a world (adaptation of the Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a).

We were not close, my uncle and I. But I am close to myself and his dying has taken me with him. “If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were … Every man’s death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee” (John Donne).

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“The man who begins to think without the proper first principles goes mad; he begins to think at the wrong end”—G.K. Chesterton

“The Way of Love is not a subtle argument; The door there is devastation”—Rumi

Two Arguments Diverged in a Wood
If you open any social media it will not be long before you stumble upon an argument. Often each side believes the others are being irrational when, in fact, they may all be perfectly rational and still land on different sides of any issue. How can that be?

Argument aims at the discovery of Truth. We ought to be testing any claim that is made and that requires a standard against which assertions are measured. If one claims to be six feet and the other insists he is not then the only way to settle the matter is to reach for a tape measure; The two must measure the claim against an agreed upon standard.

But what happens if the standard is not agreed upon? What if each measures their height by different standards? Of course they will disagree. The problem, then, is not their rational faculty, it is the standard upon which they have based all their Reason. Now imagine that they have not simply disagreed about height. Imagine that they have each built an entire world by their own measure. Their books and recipes, their architecture and medicine, all of it would disagree, and yet each could be perfectly, methodically, even mechanically rational in every conclusion. Within their separate systems they are navigating their worlds with a radical commitment to rationality and still their lives clash, often with violent result.

This imaginary situation is not far removed from today’s moral landscape. We may proceed arguing but never come together because our most basic assumptions differ so drastically and those most basic convictions are matters of the heart. Until our hearts love the same things we cannot hope to “Reason together.”

Why do we consider certain things ethical and others unethical? And why do we disagree so sharply about these things? It is often because these most basic moral convictions are not based upon Reason; They are the things upon which Reason is based. Pascal writes, “We know the truth not only through our reason but also through our heart. It is through the latter that we know first principles … For knowledge of first principles, like space, time, motion, number, is as solid as any derived through reason, and it is on such knowledge, coming from the heart and instinct, that reason has to depend and base all its argument … Principles are felt, propositions proved” (Pensées §110).

We established that all argument appeals to a standard. But how do we know that the standard itself can be trusted? Likely because it was proved by some more basic standard. But why is that standard acceptable? Because it was rationally proved by appeal to a still more basic standard. At some point we reach a moment where Reason ends. A thing is right/wrong because it just is. We cannot reason as to why it is (im)moral because it is the conviction upon which all subsequent moral reasoning is established. If you do not agree that this or that thing is (im)moral then no argument can convince you. It “comes from the heart and instinct” and it is that upon which “reason has to depend and base all its argument.”

And so it appears as if the world has gone mad—because it has. Its reasons have begun from the wrong place and so cannot help but to end in worse ones. “The man who begins to think without the proper first principles goes mad; he begins to think at the wrong end” (G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy).

The Way of Love
If we cannot win our neighbor with Reason, what is left? A good doctor treats the diseased organ. He would be a poor physician who set your leg when you had broken your arm. Similarly, we make a grave mistake if we aim at the head when the problem is the heart. The question now becomes for us, “How can we cure the heart?”

Because the convictions of the heart are not based upon Reason, and are the things upon which all Reason is based, then we cannot hope to reach the heart by rationality. Rumi was right. “The Way of Love is not a subtle argument; The door there is devastation.” The heart is captured, not convinced. St. Francis was so effective because “his religion was not a thing like a theory but a thing like a love-affair” (Chesterton, St. Francis of Assisi, p.8). While any lover may be refused, if they are embraced then they are embraced freely. They are never coerced by argument. They are invited into a world, never forced into a box. They are wooed by love, never won by logic. The are offered flowers, not facts. So while the Way of Love does not carry the so-called “certainty” of logic, it at least pursues the right object: the heart.

If indeed “our side” really is the better Way then we ought to be able to show it. Not by any rational proof but by the robust joy of life, the power of our generous compassion. “The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the better” (Fr. Richard Rohr). The world needs those who witness to a Way, not argue about a rule. “Modern man listens more willingly to witnesses than to teachers, and if he does listen to teachers it is because they are witnesses” (Pope Paul VI, Evangelii Nuntiandi §41).

“Repentance” is addressed to the heart. God calls “return to me with all your heart” (Joel 2:12). So we must address ourselves to the hearts of the people. If we are to base all of our reasons on Love then Love itself must be irrational. We must equip ourselves with a love that “makes no sense” because a love that makes no sense is the only way to makes sense of everything else.

“Love alone is credible; nothing else can be believed, and nothing else ought to be believed. This is the achievement, the ‘work’ of faith: to recognize this absolute prius, which nothing else can surpass; to believe that there is such a thing as love, absolute love, and that there is nothing higher or greater than it; to believe against all the evidence of experience … against every ‘rational’ concept of God, which thinks of him in terms of impassibility or, at best, totally pure goodness, but not in terms of this inconceivable and senseless act of love. The first thing that must strike a non-Christian about the Christian’s faith is that it obviously presumes far too much. It is too good to be true”—Hans Urs von Balthasar, Love Alone is Credible, pp.101-102

It is because of this Way of Love that the saints have been at the center of so much change, so much daring revolution in the world. “[S]aints have always been the source and origin of renewal in the most difficult circumstances in the Church’s history” (St. Pope John Paul II, Christifideles Laici §16). They are the ones the Church has judged to most nearly fulfill the Greatest Commandments to love God and neighbor. So it is in their lives, the actual carrying out of the Way of Love, that the Truth shines through.

“The sole credibility of the Church Christ founded lies, as he himself says, in the saints, as those who sought to set all things on the love of Christ alone. It is in them that we can see what the ‘authentic’ Church is, that is, what she is in her authenticity, while she is essentially obscured by sinners (as people who do not believe seriously in God’s love) and turned into a useless enigma, which as such deservedly provokes contradiction and blasphemy (Rom 2:24). Christ’s apologetic, by contrast, can be summarized in the sentence: ‘By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another’ (Jn 13:35)”—Ibid, p.122

Why We Keep Arguing
None of this is to suggest that argument and reason have no place at all. Of course they do. But reasons usually come at the end of conversion, not the beginning. Once our hearts are softened then our ears may be open to Reason; Argument may break through. And in order to hear God must “break open [our] deafness” (St. Augustine, Confessions X.27).

St. John Henry Newman’s account of his conversion from Anglicanism to Catholicism, Apologia Pro Vita Sua, contains within it the persistent theme of a heart captured by the beauty and witness of Catholicism long before his mind made any rational commitment. He writes, “Oh that thy creed were sound! For thou dost soothe the heart, Thou Church of Rome” (p.xxiv). Those lines were written after a visit to Rome where he notes “Then, when I was abroad, the sight of so many great places, venerable shrines, and noble churches, much impressed my imagination. And my heart was touched also … Thus I learned to have tender feelings towards her; but still my reason was not affected at all. My judgment was against her, when viewed as an institution, as truly as it ever had been” (p.65). He calls this a “conflict between reason and affection” (ibid).

If the beauty and glory of our Way captures the hearts and imaginations of people, they will eventually need reasons, certainly. We are whole persons with a rational part and we cannot bear the thought that we might behave irrationally. We find it hard to live a life without some defense, so we look for arguments. If we want to adopt a new Way, we need to be able to give some sense to the new life we have chosen. As such, Reason is never discarded. There will always be a need for argument, but when argument is at its best it occupies this place, just here, at the end of conversion, not its beginning.

There is, however, a much less flattering reason why we might continue to argue, namely, because arguing is a lot easier than loving those with whom we argue. It is simpler than doing anything in the world which requires real bravery or sacrifice. Love is much too demanding. It is easier for us to memorize facts than to fast. One requires miniscule movement of grey matter while the other requires discipline of the passions. It’s much more pleasant to read our books than to build something beautiful for the community. It is safer to press “repost” on social media than to put our bodies between the poor and those who would do them harm. It is easier to chant “Change now!” at our politicians than it is to be patient with our children (and others who oppose us). All in all, arguing is easier than sainthood. As long as we are engaged in discourse we can pat ourselves on the back for having done “our part.” But if arguing becomes a shield to hide behind, a decoy to distract from responsibility, a way to avoid taking action, then it is self-congratulatory vanity and so becomes one more adornment upon our whitewashed tombs.

Fleeing to the Desert
It is just here that I am suspicious of myself. I am hyper aware of the harm being perpetuated across our country and I want to do something about it. I want to make a difference. So I speak up. I make videos. I write. I like. I share. I repost. Yet it mostly seems to get applause from friends and that is not what I’m after. Occasionally it draws insult from enemies, and that is not what I’m after either. Everything I have done so far seems, ultimately, ineffectual. I have begun to suspect that perhaps my “online activism” is merely a distraction from real action, a salve to soothe my own conscience. I am challenged by Gustavo Gutierrez who says, “So you say you love the poor? Name them.” This time last year I could name several. After my recent move I am unable to tell you the names of my neighbors. So I am taking a step back. I have decided to do something about it. I will still speak up. That will never stop. I will, however, replace much talk with more action. As a result I will limit my engagement on social media and remove myself entirely from certain apps. I have had many lament my exit and I am flattered by their compliments. They say they will miss my voice, and again I am honored. Still, I want to remember the wisdom of the Desert. “If [they are] not edified by my silence, [they] will not be edified by my speech” (Abba Pambo).

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The Heart of Jesus
“Dilexi Te” is an unfinished work of Pope Francis which was taken up and completed by Pope Leo XIV. Its title echoes the last papal document of Pope Francis, “Dilexit Nos,” and is in many ways an elaboration of that document’s conclusion. “Dilexit Nos” is a discussion of the history and theology of devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Because Jesus’ heart is given to His people, any devotion to His heart must shed abroad that same love. So Pope Francis writes, “This then challenges us to seek a deeper understanding of the communitarian, social and missionary dimension of all authentic devotion to the heart of Christ. For even as Christ’s heart leads us to the Father, it sends us forth to our brothers and sisters” (§163), most especially God’s “poor.”

So begins “Dilexi Te.” The title is a quotation from the book of Revelation 3:8-9. Jesus addresses those who “have little power” and says to them “Dilexi Te,” that is, “I have loved you.” This gives the Church a scriptural definition of “poor.” The “poor” are not only the economically poor, those with little money; They are those who “have little power.” They have no strength, whether because of disability or sickness. They have no respect, whether because of race, gender, sexuality, economic status, or moral bankruptcy (real or perceived). The have no influence, whether because of the inability to vote or any combination of the above circumstances. These are who we mean when we speak of “God’s poor.” We mean “the excluded, the marginalized and all those considered the outcast of society” (§111). These are addressed by Jesus with words which speak of tender compassion: “I have loved you.” This love which God has for the despised and afflicted is an expression of the character of the Church which is a church of the poor for the poor.

The Historical Character of the Church
The way some have reacted to Dilexi Te one might think that caring for the poor marks a definite shift in the direction of the Church, a significant alteration of her mission. Michael Cardinal Czerny was recently asked at a conference concerning the document whether it made Leo a “liberal Pope,” to which the Cardinal responded, “Is the Gospel liberal? I guess that’s my answer.” Anyone who considers commitment to the poor a deviation from the church’s mission has not been paying attention. Pope Leo takes great pains to demonstrate that this has been central to the Church’s identity throughout her history, from her founder, the Lord Jesus Himself, to the present day.

Christ came to us as one of the poor. How then can His Church, which is His body, fail to identify with them? “For Christians, the poor are not a sociological category, but the very ‘flesh’ of Christ. It is not enough to profess the doctrine of God’s Incarnation in general terms. To enter truly into this great mystery, we need to understand clearly that the Lord took on a flesh that hungers and thirsts, and experiences infirmity and imprisonment” (§110).

St. Stephen the Deacon, the Church’s first martyr, was specifically chosen by the Church as a servant to the poor. “[W]e find a clear ecclesial example of sharing goods and caring for the poor in the daily life of the first Christian community. We can recall in particular the way in which the question of the daily distribution of subsidies to widows was resolved (cf. Acts 6:1-6). This was not an easy problem, partly because some of these widows, who came from other countries, were sometimes neglected because they were foreigners. In fact, the episode recounted in the Acts of the Apostles highlights a certain discontent on the part of the Hellenists, the Jews who were culturally Greek. The Apostles do not respond with abstract words, but by placing charity towards all at the center, reorganizing assistance to widows by asking the community to seek wise and respected people to whom they could entrust food distribution, while they take care of preaching the Word” (§32).

As Paul went about his many missions he was charged to “remember the poor” (Gal. 2:20; Delixi Te §33).

This dedication to the poor, even to the point of death, continues unyieldingly throughout history. “A little less than two centuries later, another deacon, Saint Lawrence, will demonstrate his fidelity to Jesus Christ in a similar way by uniting martyrdom and service to the poor. From Saint Ambrose’s account, we learn that Lawrence, a deacon in Rome during the pontificate of Pope Sixtus II, was forced by the Roman authorities to turn over the treasures of the Church. ‘The following day he brought the poor with him. Questioned about where the promised treasures might be, he pointed to the poor saying, ‘“These are the treasures of the Church”’. While narrating this event, Saint Ambrose asks: ‘What treasures does Jesus have that are more precious than those in which he loves to show himself?’ And, remembering that ministers of the Church must never neglect the care of the poor, much less accumulate goods for their own benefit, he says: ‘This task must be carried out with sincere faith and wise foresight. Certainly, if anyone derives personal advantage from it, he commits a crime; but if he distributes the proceeds to the poor or redeems a prisoner, he performs a work of mercy’” (§38).

So Pope Francis was not signaling a “woke” papacy when, just days after his election, he told the media, “How I would like a Church which is poor and for the poor!” He was reminding the Church of who she is. Neither is Dilexi Te the symbol of a “liberal pope.” To be a Church of the poor and for the poor is faithfulness to her founder who “though He was rich became poor that you through His poverty might be rich” (2 Cor. 8:9).

A Church For the Poor
Pope Leo concludes his document with a word about “almsgiving” which, he laments, is “rarely practiced” and sometimes “disparaged” “even among believers” (§115). Of course helping the disadvantaged to find gainful employment is ideal. Meaningful work not only provides for the needs of the body but also offers dignity to the person. This, however, is not always possible or at least not within your power as individuals. And it is always a mistake to think that we are freed from doing something because we cannot do everything, or the best thing. So Pope Leo reminds us “we cannot risk abandoning others to the fate of lacking the necessities for a dignified life. Consequently, almsgiving remains, for the time being, a necessary means of contact, encounter and empathy with those less fortunate” (§115). And again, “For this very reason, we Christians must not abandon almsgiving. It can be done in different ways, and surely more effectively, but it must continue to be done. It is always better at least to do something rather than nothing. Whatever form it may take, almsgiving will touch and soften our hardened hearts. It will not solve the problem of world poverty, yet it must still be carried out, with intelligence, diligence and social responsibility. For our part, we need to give alms as a way of reaching out and touching the suffering flesh of the poor” (§119).

Almsgiving, which provides some small immediate relief, vital as it is, cannot be considered the whole of the work. We must also address the structural systems of sin which produce poverty in the first place. “Those inspired by true charity know full well that almsgiving does not absolve the competent authorities of their responsibilities, eliminate the duty of government institutions to care for the poor, or detract from rightful efforts to ensure justice” (§116).

This again is a continuance of a theme in Pope Francis’ twin document. “In his Encyclical Dilexit Nos, Pope Francis reminded us that social sin consolidates a ‘structure of sin’ within society, and is frequently ‘part of a dominant mindset that considers normal or reasonable what is merely selfishness and indifference. This then gives rise to social alienation.’ It then becomes normal to ignore the poor and live as if they do not exist. It then likewise seems reasonable to organize the economy in such a way that sacrifices are demanded of the masses in order to serve the needs of the powerful. Meanwhile, the poor are promised only a few ‘drops’ that trickle down, until the next global crisis brings things back to where they were. A genuine form of alienation is present when we limit ourselves to theoretical excuses instead of seeking to resolve the concrete problems of those who suffer” (§93).

So while almsgiving must be a part of Christian charity it should not be used to postpone the necessary work of striking poverty at the root. The poor require justice right now, not after a little while. “There is no shortage of theories attempting to justify the present state of affairs or to explain that economic thinking requires us to wait for invisible market forces to resolve everything. Nevertheless, the dignity of every human person must be respected today, not tomorrow, and the extreme poverty of all those to whom this dignity is denied should constantly weigh upon our consciences” (§92). “We need to be increasingly committed to resolving the structural causes of poverty. This is a pressing need that ‘cannot be delayed, not only for the pragmatic reason of its urgency for the good order of society, but because society needs to be cured of a sickness which is weakening and frustrating it, and which can only lead to new crises. Welfare projects, which meet certain urgent needs, should be considered merely provisional responses.’ I can only state once more that inequality ‘is the root of social ills.’ Indeed, ‘it frequently becomes clear that, in practice, human rights are not equal for all.’” (§94).

A Church of the Poor
The universal Church must be a Church which unwaveringly stands for the poor, but it cannot stop there. The poor are not “over there”; They are with us and we must be with them. How else can we claim the name of Christ who is Immanuel, God With Us? “No Christian can regard the poor simply as a societal problem; they are part of our ‘family.’ They are ‘one of us’” (§104). God’s poor are not merely objects of our charity, they are subjects whose dignity as such ought to be recognized.

The Aparecida Conference was the fifth episcopal conference of Latin America held in Aparecida, Brazil. Cardinal Jorge Bergoglio, known later as Pope Francis, was a significant influence on the shape of the concluding document. Pope Leo references this document saying, “[T]he Document, taking up a theme treated in earlier Conferences of the Latin American episcopate, insists on the need to consider marginalized communities as subjects capable of creating their own culture, rather than as objects of charity on the part of others. This means that such communities have the right to embrace the Gospel and to celebrate and communicate their faith in accord with the values present within their own cultures. Their experience of poverty gives them the ability to recognize aspects of reality that others cannot see; for this reason, society needs to listen to them” (§100). The powerful and privileged are often so privileged because of the structures which benefit them at the expense of the poor. Thus, seeing the world through the paradigms which benefit them, the powerful cannot be expected to offer solutions which would endanger their own way of life. The poor must be allowed to speak for themselves. Even the presumption of “allowance” is reflective of privilege, as if the poor need our permission. God’s poor are already crying out whether we would “allow” them or not. We must open our ears and listen. God hears their cry (cf. Gen. 4:10; Ex. 3:7) and if we are to be “children of our Father who is in heaven” (cf. Mt. 5:45), so must we. “A fine passage from the Aparecida Document can help us reflect on this point and our proper response: ‘Only the closeness that makes us friends enables us to appreciate deeply the values of the poor today, their legitimate desires, and their own manner of living the faith… Day by day, the poor become agents of evangelization and of comprehensive human promotion: they educate their children in the faith, engage in ongoing solidarity among relatives and neighbors, constantly seek God, and give life to the Church’s pilgrimage. In the light of the Gospel, we recognize their immense dignity and their sacred worth in the eyes of Christ, who was poor like them and excluded among them. Based on this experience of faith, we will share with them the defense of their rights.’” (§100).

“In light of this, it is evident that all of us must ‘let ourselves be evangelized’ by the poor and acknowledge ‘the mysterious wisdom which God wishes to share with us through them.’ Growing up in precarious circumstances, learning to survive in the most adverse conditions, trusting in God with the assurance that no one else takes them seriously, and helping one another in the darkest moments, the poor have learned many things that they keep hidden in their hearts. Those of us who have not had similar experiences of living this way certainly have much to gain from the source of wisdom that is the experience of the poor. Only by relating our complaints to their sufferings and privations can we experience a reproof that can challenge us to simplify our lives” (§102).

We must acknowledge both the need and the contributions of the poor. Not only what they lack but also what they have must honored among all those who claim the name of Christ .

An Apostolic Exhortation (And Rebuke)
Dilexi Te is an “apostolic exhortation.” Those familiar with the Apostles’ letters know that “exhortation” often contains more than a hint of rebuke. Whereas this radical commitment to God’s poor has always been essential to the identity of Christ’s Church, the Church does not always reflect the values it professes. Several times in Dilexi Te Pope Leo specifically and pointedly confesses the Church’s failure and by so doing calls us to self-reflection.

“Christians too, on a number of occasions, have succumbed to attitudes shaped by secular ideologies or political and economic approaches that lead to gross generalizations and mistaken conclusions. The fact that some dismiss or ridicule charitable works, as if they were an obsession on the part of a few and not the burning heart of the Church’s mission, convinces me of the need to go back and re-read the Gospel, lest we risk replacing it with the wisdom of this world. The poor cannot be neglected if we are to remain within the great current of the Church’s life that has its source in the Gospel and bears fruit in every time and place” (§15).

“The signs that accompany Jesus’ preaching are manifestations of the love and compassion with which God looks upon the sick, the poor and sinners who, because of their condition, were marginalized by society and even people of faith … God shows a preference for the poor: the Lord’s words of hope and liberation are addressed first of all to them. Therefore, even in their poverty or weakness, no one should feel abandoned. And the Church, if she wants to be Christ’s Church, must be a Church of the Beatitudes, one that makes room for the little ones and walks poor with the poor, a place where the poor have a privileged place (cf. Jas 2:2-4)” (§21).

“Popular movements, in fact, invite us to overcome ‘the idea of social policies being a policy for the poor, but never with the poor and never of the poor, much less part of a project which can bring people back together.’ If politicians and professionals do not listen to them, ‘democracy atrophies, turns into a slogan, a formality; it loses its representative character and becomes disembodied, since it leaves out the people in their daily struggle for dignity, in the building of their future.’ The same must be said of the institutions of the Church” (§81).

“It is important for us to realize that the story of the Good Samaritan remains timely even today. ‘If I encounter a person sleeping outdoors on a cold night, I can view him or her as an annoyance, an idler, an obstacle in my path, a troubling sight, a problem for politicians to sort out, or even a piece of refuse cluttering a public space. Or I can respond with faith and charity, and see in this person a human being with a dignity identical to my own, a creature infinitely loved by the Father, an image of God, a brother or sister redeemed by Jesus Christ. That is what it is to be a Christian! Can holiness somehow be understood apart from this lively recognition of the dignity of each human being?’ What did the Good Samaritan do? These questions become all the more urgent in light of a serious flaw present in the life of our societies, but also in our Christian communities” (§106-107).

“Nor is it a question merely of providing for welfare assistance and working to ensure social justice. Christians should also be aware of another form of inconsistency in the way they treat the poor. In reality, ‘the worst discrimination which the poor suffer is the lack of spiritual care… Our preferential option for the poor must mainly translate into a privileged and preferential religious care.’ Yet, this spiritual attentiveness to the poor is called into question, even among Christians, by certain prejudices arising from the fact that we find it easier to turn a blind eye to the poor” (§114).

“I would like to close by saying something about almsgiving, which nowadays is not looked upon favorably even among believers” (§115).

If there is rebuke in the document—and its presence cannot be denied—then it is aimed first of all at the Christians who are its assumed readers. If you are a Christian, reading this document this ought to be a cause for personal reflection, and more than that, a call from the Lord himself. Whereas we recoil at the sight of the poor, Christ looks upon them and speaks a word from the depths of His Sacred Heart: Dilexi Te, “I have loved you.”

The philosopher Major Benson Payne once said, “There gotta be somebody need some killin’.” And with that he sums up the ethics of the majority. I join the lament that Charlie Kirk was murdered, but not for the same reasons as many on The Right. Many lament Kirk’s death because he was one of their heroes. I lament his death because he died. This, of course, is not an issue unique to any party or political “side.” At other times some Democrats, or The Left, or however you would like to describe that group, have lamented the deaths of others (like George Floyd, to name one example among many). Mourning was, of course, the appropriate response. But some of them did not lament his death because he died; They lamented his death because they believe he did not deserve to die. Indisputably some believe that sometimes violence is the answer. They believe it is the only language The Right understands precisely because it is the language which many on The Right speak. And that is undoubtedly true as well. The examples of conservative calls for violence are legion. So any on the Right and Left find themselves in agreement that, in the end, “there gotta be somebody need some killin’.”

Over and over again the P.R. battle exposes this conviction. Anytime someone is murdered the circumstances of the killing are debated and most especially the character of the deceased, as has been the case with Charlie Kirk. It was also this way when George Floyd was murdered. Every imperfection of character was dug up and exposed in order to justify his murder as if to say that it was acceptable as long as he “deserved” to die. And with Charlie Kirk the battle rages on. While many expose his violent rhetoric other captions say things like, “All he did was …” as if to say, “He did not deserve death.” And that is true, without question. But while The Left is vilified by many on The Right for making light of his death (a charge which applies only to some, not all, in that group), that cannot be done from a place of innocence. I remember well the levity with which Trayvon Martin’s death was treated. Martin was shot by George Zimmerman as he walked home from the convenience store with skittles and iced tea. There was a trend (I beg you not to look it up), called Trayvonning, where folks posed dead on the ground with skittles and iced tea. They made a meme out of a 17 year old boy. Not only was his murder made into an online trend, some even lionized his killer. Zimmermon auctioned the gun he used to kill Trayvon Martin as if it were some Olympian’s gold medal or the relic of a Saint. His website addressed the bidders as “fellow patriots” and labeled the gun “an American firearm icon.” People held a meet-and-greet for Zimmerman at a gun show in Florida. All of this happened the same way it always does. We determined that the circumstances of Trayvon’s death were such that he “deserved” to die. And so, Zimmerman became a hero. The case was made that Zimmerman shot Martin in self-defense and therefore the shooting was “deserved.” Zimmerman was acquitted and found not guilty on all charges.

I could wish that the world were one wherein we see all life as precious before God, that we knew it was not our place to kill. But that is not the world we live in. Most agree that some people need killing, they deserve to die. Or, perhaps, we put it in slightly more permissive way. Some people have to die. It is nothing that we want but in the active pursuit of something “greater” or more worthy than human life, we accept these deaths as necessary. They are quite literally a sacrifice we offer up to whatever Ideals we serve. (Or perhaps whatever God we serve, insofar as His name is often invoked to justify our killing). I will not insult anyone by suggesting that they do not feel the weight of the mass shootings which happen almost daily in our corroding country. But it is the case that some accept that as a necessary (if tragic) part of the fabric of violence which binds Americans together. Of course we do not want mass shootings, but we want the Ideals which make them possible, no matter the sacrifices which follow, whether they be soldiers overseas or children in their kindergarten classes. Did they need killin’? No, of course not. But did they have to die? To protect our chosen way of life? Yes, we think so. That is a sacrifice we are willing to make.

The world is too messy to speak in absolutes. I use words like “some” and “many” because there are always exceptions. Taken as entire groups no charge of violence wholly applies to The Right or The Left. But day after day, “breaking news” after “breaking news,” my conviction grows that most of us believe that there are some people who just “need killin’.” And that is a gut-wrenching soul-sucking reality to face.

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The Bible contradicts itself. Or does it? Whatever you believe about it, you will certainly have to deal with the claim because there are passages of the Bible which at least seem to contradict each other. What follows is not a discussion about what I think you should do; It is a description of what everyone actually does. These are all of your options.

1. Ignore the Bible entirely. This is a common choice. The Bible is old. It’s outdated. It’s contradictory. It’s simply not true, so why concern yourself with it? You’re not bothered by Christians (so long as they aren’t trying to tell you what to do). So you leave them alone, you leave the Bible alone, and you go about trying to live the best life you can with a much more reliable moral map (whatever you think that is).
   

2. You study the Bible with historical/anthropological interest. You don’t believe in the Bible, you may not even believe in God, but you acknowledge the enormous influence that the Bible has had in history and continues to have today. As such, you want to be informed. You have no motivation to harmonize apparent contradictions in the Bible and so you readily accept their existence. Your only interest is to have enough familiarity with the Bible to understand people and history. If people claim to behave in such a way “because the Bible says so” you want to know where they get that idea. For you, it seems fairly obvious that the Bible is a collection of contradictory pieces which people have used in different ways throughout time, some very good and some very bad. If people do terrible things “because the Bible says so” you generally believe them. You think that the Bible does encourage terrible behavior, at least in certain places. You don’t wonder whether the offered interpretation was a valid one or not. It seems the obvious conclusion when you read it, so you go right along with it completely unsurprised that an ancient book has some barbaric ethics. Maybe they were products of their time. Or maybe they were just horrible people, either way it doesn’t matter much to you. By the same token, when someone does something good “because the Bible says so” you believe them as well. People are mixed bags. And they always have been. Of course the people who wrote the Bible were going to get some things right. The interpretation of the Bible which produces this good behavior seems like the most obvious interpretation to you so why press further? All in all, you’re probably a literalist. The plainest and simplest Biblical interpretation is the right one. What motivation do you have to seek alternate interpretations? You certainly will not be using the Bible to do anything but you want to understand the people who do.
   

3. You’re an antitheist. An atheist? No, an anti-theist. All anti-theists are atheists but not all atheists are anti-theists. There are plenty of atheists in the world who—while not religious themselves—have no personal quarrel with religion, they just happen not to believe (like type #1 in this list). Anti-theists, on the other hand, are as militant as they come. They believe all religion poisons society and is the source of every modern problem. They believe the Bible is not merely nonsensical, but dangerous. They do not acknowledge any good that has ever come from religion, or they consider the good to be so little as to be entirely negligible. If any religious person has ever done anything good it was in spite of their religion, not because of it. As an anti-theist, you interpret the Bible in all of the worst ways. The Bible has no good parts. There are all of the obvious terrible parts, Noah’s flood, the killing of Egypt’s firstborn, the Conquest of Canaan, and so on. Those are your favorite bits to trot out given half a chance. But even the so-called good parts are still insidious. “Love your neighbor as yourself” is terrible. Why? Because its motivation is in service to a fictional God. Anything which rests on belief in an imaginary being spoils Reason and corrupts rational thinking. You don’t need the Bible to tell you to be good to other people, or else you’re not a good person; You’re a mercenary. You’re only good for hire. You only treat your neighbor well because you believe God will give you something if you do, and that makes you a bad person. So even the seemingly compassionate parts are tainted with selfishness and greed. You are not good for goodness sake. This means that the Bible isn’t a collection of good parts and bad parts: they are all bad parts. When you interpret the Bible the entire point is to show how horrible (and frankly idiotic) religious faith is. You’re probably also a literalist.
   

4. You’re believe in the Bible and you believe the Bible contradicts itself. You believe that certain parts of the Bible say X while others say Y and still others may say Z. Whatever it means for the Bible to be inspired it does not mean that it is entirely free of contradiction. If someone points out to you that some part of the Bible seems to contradict your ethics and/or theology, it doesn’t necessarily bother you. It is always an option to simply say, “The Bible is wrong about that.” Whether it’s war or abortion or homosexuality or socialism, it doesn’t really matter. Of course, just because disagreeing with the Bible is an interpretive option doesn’t mean it’s the one that you always pick—but it is an option. This makes the Bible available to prop up good ethics and bad ones. You can do horrible things with the Bible and if someone contradicts you with the Bible you can just say, “They got that part wrong” and go on following the parts of the Bible that, in your opinion, they got right. You can be a terrible person and no appeal to your faith will stop you. Similarly, you can do great things with the Bible. And if horrible folks come along and want to mock your faith or ethics and point out that “your God” (as they so often like to put it) commands xyz horrible thing, you can ignore them with no trouble at all. You just tell them that you know the writers of the Bible say some horrible things. You also know they were wrong to say them. Your God is good and you know it so you’ll go right on believing in the goodness of God, thank you very much. It is likely that you think the “correct” interpretation of the Bible is whatever the human author originally intended (whether they were right or wrong to intend it). Your faith, however, is not based only on the Bible. The Bible is your foundation but you grant some level of authority to living tradition, insofar as it is the product of the Holy Spirit working through His people to lead us on to greater holiness. According to you, your authority is God and you do not confine God to the Bible.
   

5. You believe in the Bible and you do not believe that the Bible contradicts itself. You acknowledge that the Bible appears to contradict itself in several places but you believe that rightly interpreted there are no real contradictions in the Bible. This belief produces biblical interpretation in two different directions but the mechanism is the same. Whatever way you go about it, when you are presented with seemingly contradictory passages, you have to show why at least one of those passages does not mean what it appears to mean. This happens with more theological passages as well as ethical ones. For example, the Bible says that God does not “repent” or “change his mind.” “God is not man, that he should lie, or a son of man, that he should repent” (Numbers 23:19). The Bible also says that God does “repent” or “change his mind.” “When God saw what they did, how they turned from their evil way, God repented of the evil which he had said he would do to them; and he did not do it” (Jonah 3:10). Now either you believe that God does change His mind or that He doesn’t. Which of these two passages you take to be the “plain” or “clear” or “obvious” one will depend upon what you already believe. Do you believe that God changes his mind, or not? If you believe that God does change His mind then Jonah 3:10 will be the clear passage for you and you will have to give some sort of explanation as to why Numbers 23:19 doesn’t mean what it appears to mean. If you believe that God does not change His mind then the interpretation of Numbers 23:19 will be obvious to you. It is not a problem passage. For you, Jonah is the problem passage. Now you have the responsibility of explaining why Jonah 3:10 doesn’t mean what it plainly says. This is an example of a theological problem. There are also ethical problems. The Bible says that Christians are to honor their father and mother (Exodus 20:12; Ephesians 6:20). They are supposed to love their wives (Ephesians 5:25). It also says that followers of Jesus must hate their father and mother, as well as their wives and children. “If any one comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, even his own life, he cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:26). Now if you believe that honoring your parents and loving your wife and children are “obviously” the right things to do, then you have the difficulty of explaining why Luke 14:26 does not mean what is explicitly says. If, however, you believe that hating your family is appropriate then you have to explain how it is that we are suppose to hate them while obeying the command to love and honor them. No matter what you believe you will be required at some point to explain why the Bible does not mean what it says. “Well, obviously we aren’t supposed to hate anybody.” Is that obvious? It does not seem to be, at least not to everyone. Joel Webbon, pastor of Covenant Bible Church in Georgetown, TX recently said that “Christians must recover the lost virtue of hatred.” You might think that sounds silly and barbaric but you would have to admit that it appears to have at least some biblical basis. The psalmist wrote, “Do I not hate them that hate you, O LORD? And do I not loathe them that rise up against you? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them my enemies” (Psalm 139:21-22). And this provides us with an ethical and interpretive problem. The Bible also says that we are supposed to love our enemies. “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. But I say to you, ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you …’” (Matthew 5:44). Those who think it is appropriate to hate your enemies have the difficulty of explain how we are supposed to love our enemies as Jesus commanded. No matter what the case, no matter where your starting point, if you believe that the Bible does not contradict itself then you will be required to explain, over and over again, why the Bible does not mean exactly what it says. You are not a literalist, although you might claim to be. You simply cannot take the Bible literally all the time or else contradictions abound. (Though you may want to argue about what we mean by “literally”). Whatever you mean, the Bible cannot always mean what it seems to mean.
   
   These are you options. Choose wisely.

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The election of a new Pope, the Bishop of Rome, Servant of the Servants of God, is always a cultural moment of curiosity, excitement, anxiety, and criticism.

Already folks are naming Pope Leo XIV both liberal and conservative, “Right” and “Left,” progressive and traditional. This lays before our eyes the essence of the papacy which is, in some sense, an extension of the ministry of Jesus Christ who is “a sign to be contradicted” (cf. Lk. 2:34).

When St. Peter was reinstated as Shepherd of the Church by a thrice confession of love (cf. Jn. 21:15-17), after his three-fold denial, Christ foretold his death. St. Peter is to “stretch out his hands” and be carried where he would not go. This, Scripture says, described “by what death he was to glorify God” (Jn. 21:18-19). Tradition hands down to us that it came to pass just as Jesus had said. St. Peter did indeed “stretch out his hands” when he was crucified in Rome. This image of the crucified pope stands as a symbol of the very nature of the papacy.

Hans Urs von Balthasar writes in The Office of Peter and the Structure of the Church, “[T]he structure of ecclesiastical ministry can be made comprehensible only in terms of Christ’s salvific work on the Cross, and thus shares most intimately in the mysterious character of the Cross” (p.xv).

This is, in some sense, a great consequence of the unique visibility of the Pope. “If from the very beginning of a theology of the papacy it was understood as the representative and the delegated guarantor of Church unity, then the Bishop of Rome as the Successor to Peter forms the point of reference around which everything concerning Church unity can orient itself.” (ibid, xviii). Because he is the visible head of the Church then he can be addressed uniquely among all Christian groups. “[O]utside of the Catholic Church not one of the Christian denominations possesses a unity by which it can be addressed. If in dialogue a more than merely verbal agreement is reached with a non-Catholic group or person, which is entirely possible, it is certain that one or more other groups will contradict that agreement, because the group in question that was partner to the dialogue did not represent the theological opinion or the opinion of the other group” (ibid, xix). You can never address the Lutheran Church as a whole. Certainly the ELCA is the largest group but they do not represent the NALC or the Missouri Synod. You cannot address the Methodist Church because the Global Methodist Church does not see itself represented by her largest body, the United Methodist Church. One might address the largest Anglican communion, the Anglican/Episcopal Church, but the ACNA does not see itself represented by her. You could never address all of the Baptists of the world even if you addressed the Southern Baptist Convention, or all of the Churches of Christ because they have no governance beyond the individual congregation. If, however, you want to address the Catholic Church, you know where to lodge your grievance, the Successor of Peter and Bishop of Rome.

Being the visible head of the unified Church brings with it a kind of crucifixion, from without and within. “Every pope, however saintly he may be, will always have his human side in terms of which he can be criticized. It is only regrettable that within the Catholic Church, which is made up of sinners, someone who advances to the position of a superior almost always forfeits the sympathies that he once enjoyed and comes into the firing line of more or less malicious criticism” (ibid, xxi). The Pope cannot satisfy all. This, again, is to further participate in the witness of Jesus Christ. Christ—who could satisfy everyone’s need—was not allowed to do so. It was His goodness which was often found so offensive. Our Pope, whoever he may be, and however holy he may be, of course, can never rise to the place of Christ. If Jesus, then, was not free of criticism, then why should his servants be? “A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master, it is enough for the disciple to be like his teacher, and the servant like his master. If they have called the master of the house Be-el-zebul, how much more will they malign those of his household” (Mat. 10:24-25). So it continues with the papacy. Even matters of style and personality fall under fire. “Every governing style is personal and thus limited; one can always criticize it in terms of the opposite characteristics. If a pope travels among his flock so as to foster personal contacts, then the Curia or the Italian Bishops Conference will accuse him of caring too little about pending matters back home. If he devotes his attention to the latter, he will be accused of being ignorant of the world; whatever course he takes, he’s doing it wrong” (ibid, p.xxiii).

It is no mistake that the room which the newly elected Pope enters to don his papal vestments is called The Room of Tears. The new Bishop of Rome is given time after his election to collect himself. It is not uncommon for the man to cry. It would be conceivable for a pope to cry of joy, but just as understandable (perhaps more so) that he might weep from the overwhelming responsibility, or even in prospect of the inevitable slander and vitriol.

Whatever the case may be, whoever the man to take the mitre, he follows a crucified Lord and will, in a sense, always be a crucified Pope.

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“Hope must be an inherent part of our present commitment in history”—Gustavo Gutiérrez

Now days one of the commonest confessions I hear from friends and family is their feeling of helplessness. Whether it’s because things really are “that bad” or we’re more conscious of it than before, we feel as if we are watching the world collapse in front of our eyes. We watch children die in 4K. We see parents wail over their babies. We read of our neighbors being deported. We hear of another school shooting. So we cry. We pray. We call our representatives. And nothing changes. We want to do something but all of our doing seems to make no difference and so we end up calling or texting and we lament to each other, “I feel so helpless.” We confess, “I’m struggling with despair.” “Despair” seems like an old word now, one conjured from fairy tales and folklore, but it seems the best word to sum up the collective feeling of so many.

It’s interesting that the Catechism connects despair with a violation of the First Commandment: “You shall have no other gods before me” (Ex. 20:3). When we forget God, whether in actuality or merely in practice, then all that is left is us. We are the only “gods there be” (Invictus). We must depend wholly and entirely upon ourselves. In such a situation, when all that we do is ineffectual and all that we do is all that can be done, what is left but despair? And that is why despair is a violation of the first commandment. “Despair is contrary to God’s goodness, to his justice—for the Lord is faithful to his promises—and to his mercy” (CCC §2091). We are helpless so long as there is no God to help us. But Christian people believe in God, or we say we do. “I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth” (Ps. 121:1-2).

This is why when the task was overwhelming, when there were more to feed than could ever be fed, Jesus turns to his helpless disciples and says, “You give them something to eat” (Mk. 6:37). Not because they could do it themselves but precisely because they could not. They have God as their “refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble” (Ps. 46:1). They could bring their meager offering of five loaves and two fish (and that borrowed from others) and it would be enough.

So, take heart, dear Christian. We are not alone. The effect of what we do extends beyond our ability to do it. Gustavo Gutiérrez reminds us that “hope must be an inherent part of our present commitment to history.” I share the disappointment that our actions do not effect more and effect it right now. We cannot, however, give in to the temptation of believing that we have done nothing. That way lies defeat. That way lies despair. Gandalf is a prophet of our time, a voice of hope for all who fear. “Some believe it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”

So please, “Never lose hope in the mercy of God” (St. Benedict).

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“It is very easy to be servants of the word without disturbing the world: a very spiritualized word, a word without any commitment to history, a word that can sound in any part of the world because it belongs to no part of the world. A word like that creates no problems, starts no conflicts”—St. Oscar Romero

“In the most sublime homily ever given, Christ closes the book and says, ‘These things have been fulfilled today.’ That is what a homily is: saying that God’s word is not a reading about times past, but a living and spiritual word that today is being fulfilled here. Hence our effort to apply God’s eternal message to the people’s concrete circumstances”—St. Oscar Romero

Working With Words
Working with words is difficult because no one knows what they mean. Yet, priests, pastors, and preachers the world around stand every Sunday to deliver a word to those who would learn. As a result, each Sunday is an education in the meaning of words and for Christians, especially, that education is a serious matter.

Learning what words mean is fairly easy when the words are concrete. We can point to what we can see and say “ball,” “cup,” “cat,” and so on. This becomes more and more difficult, however, as the abstraction increases, like with verbs or ideas. You can point to someone who is running but what you are pointing to is a person, not a verb. So how do we teach someone what it means to run? What do you point to when you say “hurt”? Or “worry”? “Beauty” does not exist in the same way that a rock exists, neither does “peace” or “love.” What in heaven’s name will we say about the word “God”? In order to learn what these words mean we need people in our lives who already know how to use those words, who can narrate for us sequences of events. “When [points to person] does this [observes action] we call that running.” Then we need to see others do the same thing over and over again in different ways so that we can determine what all of those things have in common. Without multiple examples we may make the mistake of thinking that the one example was an example of large steps, not fast ones, or maybe the swaying of the arms instead of the quick motion of the feet. Or maybe even the particular grimace of the face which, we think, was the important thing, not the running which caused it. We repeat this process on and on with more of the world to see and more stories to tell. “When x happens and then y happens we call that anger.” Or “When x does this and then y does this we call that courage.” In other words, we need people and communities who can tell us Stories which best exemplify our ideals and our crimes, our vices and virtues, our policies and taboos, our sins and our service, our religion and our idolatry. And we need these Stories told over and over again, by different people, in different ways, so that we can learn what these examples have in common.

Learning to Say “God”
But what can we do with the word “God”? We cannot assume we know what we mean when we say “God” (Hauerwas, p.79). Not all theists are monotheists. We do not mean the same thing. For the Christian, God is not one god among a series of gods. He does not have anything in common with anything else called by that name. According to St. Thomas Aquinas God is “sui generis” (“a class of His own”). So how can we learn what it means to say “God”?

St. Irenaeus of Lyons says, “God cannot be known without God” (Against Heresies IV.6.4). We need the revelation of God’s self to learn what we mean by that name. This idea, I believe, is behind Robert Jenson’s sentence in his Systematic Theology. “God is whoever raised Jesus from the dead, having before raised Israel from Egypt” (p.63).

Jenson points to God as He has arrived in history. This is a definition grounded in act, not abstraction. It is the revelation of God’s self. And this particularity is not as “slippery” as an abstraction might be. It is an easy thing to say “God is love” when we understand neither love nor God. “God is love” can as easily become “Love is god” or maybe “God is tolerant.” It is a much more Christian thing to say, “Love means Jesus crucified for the world.”

God Incarnate
A similar commitment to the God of history, the incarnate God, lies behind the preaching of St. Oscar Romero. This manner of preaching, Romero tells us, he learned from Christ himself.

“In the most sublime homily ever given, Christ closes the book and says, ‘These things have been fulfilled today.’ That is what a homily is: saying that God’s word is not a reading about times past, but a living and spiritual word that today is being fulfilled here. Hence our effort to apply God’s eternal message to the people’s concrete circumstances” (Violence of Love, p.181)

The reference is to Jesus’ reading of the Isaiah scroll in Luke 4. It is one thing to read Isaiah 61 and to speak about the Servant of the LORD and his mission. It had been read countless times before in countless synagogues over the course of hundreds of years. The text was made concrete by the declaration, “These things have been fulfilled today.”

It is Christ who teaches us what the words mean. If there is any question about who these poor are, who are the oppressed, who are the captives, and what it means to be free, one need only to point to the life of Christ. Who are the poor to whom he preaches? It is those poor that Isaiah means. Who are the oppressed and how are they free? Point to Jesus. Those are the oppressed. That is freedom. The ambiguity is taken out of the question. The argument has ceased. And that is why it is so disturbing.

To say that the Servant would preach good news to “the poor” is easy so long as no one knows who they are. Each of us is free to define “the poor” however we like and there is no one to tell us we should define it otherwise. The stir comes precisely when someone ventures to do just that. When the good news comes to these poor, the ones who are poor because they are “devoured” by the religious elite (cf. Mt. 23:14), there is no more mistaking its meaning, and the devourers are none too happy about it.

That the Servant might proclaim “release to the captives” or that the “oppressed go free” is a popular sermon so long as no one knows what it means to be “captive” or “oppressed,” or what it might mean to be “released” and “free.” When Jesus refuses any definition of “releasing captives” which entails violent revolution, when the abstract becomes concrete, then what was thought patriotism becomes treason. When Jesus frees those oppressed under burdensome religion the ones who benefit from burdens no longer think “freeing the oppressed” a thing they should support. Piety becomes blasphemy.

This rule of Incarnation, of making the principle a practice, is carried on by Romero. He considers it a necessary corollary of preaching.

“Evangelizing is not just saying words. Preaching is relatively easy, but to live out what is preached—as I told the Holy Father in Rome, to respect the teachings of the Holy See, of the magisterium, to praise them, extol them, defend them theoretically is very easy; but when one tries to incarnate that teaching and give it life in a diocese, in a community, and point out concrete events that are against that teaching, then the conflicts arise. And this is the life of our archdiocese, dear friends, because not all are willing to live a commitment to witness, not all suffer persecution, and it is easy to say there is no persecution. But every priest, religious, or lay person who wants to announce Christ’s gospel in truth must suffer persecution. The witness of life is necessary. Here I make an appeal that all your lives and mine be in truth a silent preaching. Thus is the gospel lived, not just by preaching pretty sermons and not living them” (ibid, p.61)

We will not know what our language means without Christian examples, otherwise we have nowhere to point, or worse (and more likely), we point to the wrong place. We point to Empire (another abstraction which concretely means the U.S.A.). We point to politicians (an abstraction which concretely means folks like President Donald Trump and Congresswoman Marjorie Taylor Greene). These are all the wrong examples. This is why we must tell stories of the Saints and why we imitate them as they imitate Christ. Their actions give definition to what otherwise are “words, words, words” (Hamlet). They incarnate the idea; They put principle into practice.

Settling a Crisis
Dietrich Bonhoeffer tells us, “If we are to believe, we must obey a concrete command” (Discipleship, p.64). Someone may counter the above by saying that Romero’s preaching sounds very like meddling in worldy affairs. “Certainly that is not the Church’s business,” one might say. “Ours is to call people to faith in Jesus.” But how can we claim to believe in Christ if we are not willing to obey him? And how will we know we have obeyed him without a concrete command?

Jesus always forces a crisis which can only be settled by obedience. This crisis is the only thing which really makes faith possible. Until we are called to a clear choice between obedience and disobedience then we have not been called to have faith because we have not been confronted by the One who makes the call.

An expert in the Law asked what to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus commanded him to love the Lord and his neighbor as himself. These are easy commands so long as we do not know what neighbor means. So comes the question, “And who is my neighbor?” We are told that the man asked this question “to justify himself” (Lk. 10:29). Jesus would not leave him justified. Rather, he called him into the conditions wherein justification might finally become possible. Until this moment the man might have claimed to love his neighbor with little contradiction. He may have convinced himself that he was loving. Others may have been convinced as well and corroborated his story. Jesus tells the Story which exposes the truth. The neighbor is the nearest one who needs us, even if he is one who disgusts us. “Would you be a neighbor to that one?” Jesus asks. Here is the moment of decision. Would he love the Samaritan or not? There would be no mistaking his decision. He would know whether he had chosen obedience or disobedience, and so would everyone else.

Another would-be disciple promised to follow Christ if only he were permitted to bury his father first. This seems to us a completely reasonable demand. And it is exactly “reasonable demands” that make faith impossible. Faith is not required so long as everything is “reasonable” and “acceptable,” as long as it is “practical” and “productive,” as long as it is “legal” and “in order.” “The disciple places himself at the Master’s disposal, but at the same time retains the right to dictate his own terms. But then discipleship is no longer discipleship, but a programme of our own to be arranged to suit ourselves, and to be judged in accordance with the standards of a rational ethic” (Discipleship, p.61). Instead, Jesus forces a crisis of faith which can only be settled by obedience. Whether the man had faith could no longer be questioned. Whether he chose to leave his family and follow Christ would be evident to all. Jesus gave a concrete command and there would be no mistaking his response. “Unless a definite step is demanded, the call vanishes into thin air” (ibid, p.63).

This is the Incarnational preaching that St. Oscar Romero knew.

“It is very easy to be servants of the word without disturbing the world: a very spiritualized word, a word without any commitment to history, a word that can sound in any part of the world because it belongs to no part of the world. A word like that creates no problems, starts no conflicts” (Violence of Love, p.18).

We can go on and on talking about loving our neighbors and serving the poor so long as no one knows what “poor” and “neighbor” mean, or what it takes to “love” and “serve” them. Pick any church in all of the world and such a generic and abstract sermon would be heartily welcome. Even the most nationalist, racist, prejudiced, greediest, smarmiest church can sit through a sermon about “Loving our neighbors” or “serving the poor.” And it could be done in any country at any time in history. These abstractions have no concrete steps; These “spiritualized” words have no body. They have no feet, no hands. That is not the preaching the Romero believed in.

“Let’s not meditate on a word that is disincarnated from reality. It’s very easy to preach a gospel that’s the same here in El Salvador as it would be in Guatemala, or in Africa … Preaching the gospel without getting involved with reality doesn’t bring on any problems, and it’s very easy to fulfill the preacher’s mission that way” (ibid, p.53)

But there is no easy way for the preacher of the Gospel. There is no Way of Christ without an Incarnate Christ and a crucified One.

“Some want to keep a gospel so disembodied that it doesn’t get involved at all in the world it must save. Christ is now in history. Christ is in the womb of the people. Christ is now bringing about the new heavens and the new earth” (ibid, p.102).

“Christianity … has to be the leaven of the present time. It must point out not the sins of the time of Moses and Egypt nor of the times of Christ and Pilate and Herod and the Roman Empire, but the sins of today, here in El Salvador, the ones you must live among in these historical surroundings” (ibid, p.138)

St. Oscar Romero was not content to leave Christ in Judea, nor to abstract him into the world of Ideas, a heaven of pure grammar. He insisted upon bringing him to El Salvador. If Jesus wore tallit, he would wear a guayabera. What good would it do to say that Jesus’ died for Romans if he did not die for the Salvadorian military? What good is it to say that Jesus denounced the Pharisees if he would not denounce the priests who betrayed Him to the Salvadorian government? What good would it do to say that St. Stephen was martyred for Jesus if we cannot say that Father Rutilio Grande was martyred for that same Jesus?

Every Sunday Romero addressed the events of the week (ibid, p.117).

“Let me explain what my office is and how I am fulfilling it. I study the word of God to be read on Sunday. I look around me, at my people. I use this word to shed light on my surroundings, and I make a synthesis so as to be able to convey the word to the people and make them light of the world, a people who allow themselves to be guided by principles and not by the earth’s idolatries. Naturally, the idols and idolatries of the earth are irritated by this word, and they would like very much to remove it, to silence it, to kill it. Let happen what God wills” (ibid, p.81)

His was not a gospel which “creates no problems” and “starts no conflicts.” His was a gospel with boots on. Every Sunday his hearers would be confronted by Jesus in the details of their own lives. There would be no hiding behind terms like “love" and “neighbor,” no leveraging “patience” and “law,” no weaponizing “truth” and “peace.” Each person’s life would be on display and it would be evident to the world whether they had chosen obedience or disobedience.

“The church is the vineyard where God’s kingdom is ever in crisis. Blessed are those who feel and live the crisis and who settle it with a commitment to the Lord” (ibid, p.93).

Preaching Today
The conclusion is, I hope, obvious. Working with words is difficult because no one knows what they mean. Every Sunday we must be taught. We cannot hide behind “neighbor” so that the bigots in our churches (including ourselves) can go about thinking we get to choose who qualifies and who doesn’t. We need to be told in the most specific and concrete ways possible that our neighbors are the women and children, the unborn, the queer and the transgender, the Haitian, the Mexican, the undocumented and unhoused. We need to know that “love” never includes violence. We need to be told that I cannot love the neighbor I want to starve. I cannot love the neighbor I want to go without healthcare. We need a crisis of faith. We need to know it can only be settled by obedience and we need to know what obedience looks like.

“A church that doesn’t provoke any crises, a gospel that doesn’t unsettle, a word of God that doesn’t get under anyone’s skin, a word of God that doesn’t touch the real sin of the society in which it is being proclaimed—what gospel is that?” (ibid, p.44)

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Works Cited

Bonhoeffer, Dietrich. The Cost of Discipleship. Simon and Schuster, 1995.

Hauerwas, Stanley. Working With Words. Cascade Books, 2011.

Irenaeus. Against Heresies. Ex Fontibus Co., 2015.

Jenson, Robert. Systematic Theology. Oxford University Press, 1997.

Romero, Oscar. The Violence of Love. Orbis Books, 2004.

Whether it’s Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Josh Groban, or others, it is not uncommon to hear “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” this time of year. All it takes is stepping into the grocery store or attending your child’s choir concert to hear the words of “Silent Night.” But why is it midnight? And why is it silent? Are those just poetic devices to give us the impression of peace and serenity? Not at all. They are both more significant than that.

At least as far back as the 4th century a passage from the Wisdom of Solomon was considered to pre-figure the Incarnation of Jesus Christ.

“And while gentle silence enveloped all things, and night in its swift course was now half gone [i.e. midnight] your all powerful word lept from heaven from the royal throne into the midst of the land that was doomed” (Wisdom 18:14-15).

Despite the tenuous relationship of Protestants with the books called “Apocryphal,” they remained in their Bibles (even in the beloved King James Bible) until the 19th century when the British and Foreign Bible Society stopped printing them. As such, Christians the world over were familiar with the tradition that Jesus’ birth took place on a silent midnight. Despite the short historic memory which has forgotten these things in 150 years’ time, midnight Masses everywhere celebrate the Good News of the Silent Night when the Eternal Word entered a world that was doomed, Jesus Christ, Lord at His birth.

Merry Christmas.

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Hans Urs von Balthasar said,

“The meaning of the world is love.”

It is right, then, that our journey through Advent moves from Hope through Peace and Joy to end with the lighting of the fourth candle which symbolizes Love. Love is the culmination of everything.

The Gospel reading for the fourth Sunday of Advent was The Visitation which is also the Second of the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, the fruit of which is love of neighbor. The moment that Holy Mary knew she bore Christ within her she went out in haste to visit her cousin, Elizabeth. Our love, like Mary’s, should begin and end in Love. God so loved the world that He gave us His Son and chose Mary as the mediator of that Gift. Being loved into Motherhood she loved her Son and then went out and loved her neighbor, also a mother. Small deeds like these, deeds of neighborliness and motherhood, are the ones that will save the world for they are the most abundant sources of love. Great heroes come along but they are rare. Mothers and fathers, friends and neighbors are with us every day, loving, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, stocking our shelves, changing the oil in our cars, giving us their recipes, buying our children diapers, smiling at us in the checkout.

As Gandalf says in the film adaptation of The Hobbit,

“Some believe it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”

A small mustard seed becomes a great tree and that becomes a home (cf. Mk. 4:30-32).

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“Consider how Mary, who belonged to an oppressed people under Roman rule, spoke out with holy optimism and blessed joy”—St. Oscar Romero, homily, Third Sunday of Advent, 1979

In the dark of Roman rule the light of joy began to shine. An angel spoke to a peasant girl, the Handmaid of the Lord. “Hail, Mary, full of grace.” She went with haste to her cousin, Elizabeth, whose own child lept at Mary’s coming because Mary bore within her the Savior of the world. Together, in the hills of Judea, two women rejoiced together and one of them began to sing. “My soul magnifies the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God, my Savior!” The season of waiting was not over. There would be nine more months of waiting and 33 years after that. But there was joy to be had now. And though we are waiting, joy cannot.

Gaudete Sunday teaches us that joy need not be delayed. When God begins a work He is faithful to His promise. Mary had only the promise but she knew to Whom she sang her psalms.

“Who is like the LORD our God, who is seated on high, who looks far down on the heavens and the earth? He raises the poor from the dust, and lifts the needy from the ash heap, to make them sit with princes, with the princes of his people. He gives the barren woman a home, making her the joyous mother of children. Praise the LORD!” (Ps. 113:5-9).

In the midst of a world that benefits from our despair, joy is rebellion because it keeps the hope of peace alive. We can sing and dance! Right now! And when we do we shine a light on the oppressive faces that would steal our joy. We can rejoice in the midst of our waiting because we have the promise and when the promise is God’s, that is enough. “I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ” (Php. 1:6).

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The Gospel reading for the second Sunday of Advent tells us about the ministry of St. John the Baptist (Lk. 3:1-6) while the canticle of his father, Zechariah (Luke 1:68-79), is prayed every morning in the Daily Office and describes for us the destiny of St. John.

“[He would] go before the Lord to prepare his way … in the tender compassion of our God the dawn from on high shall break upon us to shine on those who dwell in darkness and to guide our feet into the way of peace.”

Peace is symbolized for us by the lighting of the second candle. But this is no easy peace, no easy way free of bumps in the road. This peace requires the hard work of filling valleys and leveling mountains (cf. Lk. 3:5). This is not the negative peace characterized by the absence of conflict; It is the positive peace which requires the presence of justice (to paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.).

Preaching “the gospel of peace” (cf. Eph. 6:15) is not apart from conflict. The very phrase concludes a passage calling us to battle and war. The gospel of peace, paradoxically, provokes a crisis because it calls us to repentance. It does this, or else it is no gospel.

“[A] gospel that doesn’t unsettle, a word of God that doesn’t get under anyone’s skin, a word of God that doesn’t touch the real sin of the society in which it is being proclaimed—what gospel is that?” (St. Oscar Romero, homily, April 16, 1978)

We are called to “depart from evil, and do good, to seek peace and pursue it” (Ps. 34:14). These belong together. There is not peace without abandoning evil. There is no peace without doing good. When Christ comes to make peace on earth as it is in heaven He will make all things right. “Justice and peace will kiss” (Ps. 85:10).

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“The entire Holy Scripture is a teacher of virtues and of the truths of faith, while the Book of Psalms possesses somehow the perfect image for the souls’ course of life”—St. Athanasius

I carry the Psalms with me. Here’s what I noticed:

“Transgression speaks to the wicked deep in their hearts. For they flatter themselves in their own eyes that their iniquity cannot be found out and hated … They plot mischief while on their beds; they are set on a way that is not good; they do not reject evil”—Ps. 36:1-4

St. Augustine’s description of sin as the human person adclinatus ad se, or “turned towards himself,” was adapted by Martin Luther as the better known incurvatus in se, “curved in on itself.” In this psalm the sinner does not break out of his own world. He lies on his bed and speaks to himself, much like the more public (but still very isolated) Pharisee who “prayed towards himself” (Lk. 18:11). These opening words feel almost claustrophobic when compared with the expansive world that follows.

“Your steadfast love, O LORD, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your judgments like the great deep; you save humans and animals alike, O LORD”—36:5-6

Those giving an ear to wickedness are confined to the prison of their own darkened hearts while those abiding in the love of God stretch “to the heavens”, ascend “to the clouds” and over “the mighty mountains.” They likewise descend “to the great deep.” They break out of themselves and in God’s light they “see light” (36:9). This expansion (or contraction) of the soul is the result of holiness and sin respectively.

C.S. Lewis reminds us,

“When a man is getting better he understands more and more clearly the evil that is still left in him. When a man is getting worse he understands his own badness less and less. A moderately bad man knows he is not very good: a thoroughly bad man thinks he is all right. This is common sense, really. You understand sleep when you are awake, not while you are sleeping … Good people know about both good and evil: bad people do not know about either”—Mere Christianity, III.4

If Christ is the eternal Logos, and He is, then to turn away from Him towards ourselves is, in a sense, to turn away from Reason. The mind and the soul become narrowly focused upon ourselves. We interpret every accident of nature as being about us; The entire world is concerned with us. The stray glance of our neighbor is interpreted by us as an insult, the mistake becomes and intentional obstruction, the inconvenience becomes a willful attempt to keep us from sating our pleasures. Everyone and everything is about us.

G.K. Chesterton describes the state of one who has lost his Reason this way:

“[T]he strongest and most unmistakable mark of madness is this combination between a logical completeness and a spiritual contraction. The lunatic’s theory explains a large number of things, but it does not explain them in a large way … [S]uppose it were the case of a man who accused everybody of conspiring against him … I suppose we should say something like this: ‘Oh, I admit that you have your case and have it by heart, and that many things do fit into other things as you say. I admit that your explanation explains a great deal; but what a great deal it leaves out! Are there no other stories in the world except yours; and are all men busy with your business?”—Orthodoxy, chp.2

There is a kind of Reason to Sin. We can convince ourselves of its goodness, of its “practicality,” of its suitability. Only time and again we find that these explanations are too small. They are too narrow, often inconsiderate of the wider community, especially the marginalized. Our reasons are too selfish. Our world is too small. It is claustrophobic, turned in on itself. Chesterton says again:

“[I]f you or I were dealing with a mind that was growing morbid, we should be chiefly concerned not so much to give it argument as to give it air, to convince it that there was something cleaner and cooler outside the suffocation of a single argument”—ibid

God calls us to turn from the chatter of our own selfish hearts to clearer air, to the “mountains” and the “clouds” (Ps. 36:5-6) where we can breathe His love and the love of our neighbor. It is as if God speaks the words of Hamlet to each sinner, “There are more things in heaven and earth … than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Come out! Come out of yourself! Breathe the open air. Bask in the sun! It is in only in God’s light that we “see light” (36:9).

This is the perfect image for the soul’s course of life. Pray.

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