A feeling grips me tonight, and it is one of complete gratitude. God has deigned to give me a tradition of depth, fire, and delight, stretching from St. Peter the Rock to the winsome smile and deep philosophy of John Paul the Great. I can revel in the colorful visions of St. Hildegard, or read Chesterton's scathing critiques of our "modern, but really regressively pagan" world. I can lose myself in Palestrina, or be moved to tears by the intensity of the still young and thriving MacMillan. I can revel in academic freedom, charity, science and medicine, knowing its source. As a musician, I can comfortably sit in Cecilia's charge. Now we wait for Benedict's new book on Christ, something I plan to eagerly devour over the summer. What a tradition!!! -- inexhaustible.
Tonight, exhausted from studying, I turn instead to relaxing in the words of Thomas Merton. Monk, mystic, author, poet, and active cross-faith and ecumenical crusader, Merton is one of the more fascinating figures of the Christian 20th-Century. And, as I'm discovering, he was able to be a darn good poet when he tried:
For, like a grain of fire
Smouldering in the heart of every living essence
God plants his undivided power ------
Buries his thoughts too vast for worlds
In seed and root and blade and flower,
Until, in the amazing light of April,
Surcharging the religious silence of the spring,
Creation finds the pressure of his everlasting secret
To terrible to bear.
(From The Sowing of Meaning.)
For my part, I'll be setting some of these lines to song. My whole being seems to be on edge, waiting for this tedious schoolwork to be done, and the real and important work to begin. This thursday evening, then, I will begin.
While I deeply respect my Christian and Jewish brothers and sisters, I simply could not imagine another way to go about the journey of faith. For years I searched high and low, examined every faith tradition I could find, and (in the words of C.S Lewis) put the greatest energy of my mind to determining what I believe.
In the end, I accept the Christ. Not a watered down tv-jaaaayzzus of a guy, not a nice guy, not a hippie or liberal (or conservative), but a God-man who exemplified every facet of behavior derived from the infinite, linking goodness and ferocity and every contradiction into a whole even a child could understand. This God-man set a rock, and upon it, 2000 years of rich thought and tradition has been built. I accept his bride, this great Church. No matter the mood or the problem, I can plunge into the ocean of our faith, letting the wisdom of generations illuminate the word and clear the grime from my vision.
Or, as Merton might write:
What choice remains?
Well, to be ordinary is not a choice:
It is the usual freedom
Of men without visions.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Columbine, VT, and a bit of compassion...
How can you know of a quiet person's deep-seeded anguish, if you never ask? How can you see a tragedy coming, if your eyes are always closed? Can you see the treasures around you, if you can see no farther than your own socially-conditioned preferences?
Throughout this week, I've been rather deaf to all the headlines describing "a disturbed killer" and "a dark picture of a madman." All my thoughts, rather, are centered on human dignity, compassion, and patience.
Unless you've been on the other side, you don't know what it's like to be shunned, abused, and pushed away. A person who experiences such things for many years, even when suddenly faced with a positive environment, will not suddenly see the world through rose-colored glasses. Add an unstable psyche or the lack of a supportive family, and you may have the recipe for tragedy.
Nobody is perfect, and I'm sure I've missed many opportunities to help others. Throughout my time, however, I have found that the strangest, most awkward, and most "uncool" of people have become the biggest blessings in my life. I've learned to intentionally seek these people out, and help pull them out of their shells. Along the way, I can count two averted suicides. I can also count the time the burden became too much, I began to ignore the person, and they soon found themselves in a violent encounter.
It seems that lack of concern for those outside of our immediate social-circles is an inbred social characteristic of the times. To be shallow is to be hip. To be selectively uncaring seems to be part and parcel with "coolness." Even in the wonderful Church environments I've worked in, the tendency to establish exclusive cliques sometimes reminded me of high school. I can't count the amount of times attempts by others and myself to have deep conversation, inclusive social gatherings, and overall quality time were shunned or ignored. Not surprisingly, many of the most guilty are now falling like flies, leaving their faith and showing how thoughtless, spineless, shallow, and self-centered they are. These are the "cool kids", in a different guise. As soon as that guise became inconvenient, it was cast-off like an out of style garment. If you can cast-away people, why not ideas? Apparently, nothing and no-one is sacred in our culture.
Columbine, for instance, is a many-sided tragedy. The death and carnage was tragic, to be sure. But so was the rash of irresponsible parenting that led to it. So were the uncaring and cruel bullies who pushed these kids to the edge. Surprisingly, nothing seems to have been done -- on a large scale -- to deal with the needless phenomenon of peer-cruelty. I'm not talking about simple bullying and teasing -- I'm talking about full-fledged cruelty. It's there, everyday, stirring the pot in an easily repeatable recipe for tragedy.
In the case of VT, it's impossible to say whether such a tragedy could have been prevented. There is certainly no way that those who died deserved such an end: it was purely senseless, and completely tragic.
...But yet, I can't help but wonder if one persistently caring person could have prevented the tragedy at VT, or at least seen the warning flags that something was seriously wrong. Perhaps somebody tried... who knows? I can't help but wonder, if I were around such a situation, could I take the time out of my busy life to embrace this person? Would I gather them in and hear them out, or would I go on my oblivious way?
Throughout this week, I've been rather deaf to all the headlines describing "a disturbed killer" and "a dark picture of a madman." All my thoughts, rather, are centered on human dignity, compassion, and patience.
Unless you've been on the other side, you don't know what it's like to be shunned, abused, and pushed away. A person who experiences such things for many years, even when suddenly faced with a positive environment, will not suddenly see the world through rose-colored glasses. Add an unstable psyche or the lack of a supportive family, and you may have the recipe for tragedy.
Nobody is perfect, and I'm sure I've missed many opportunities to help others. Throughout my time, however, I have found that the strangest, most awkward, and most "uncool" of people have become the biggest blessings in my life. I've learned to intentionally seek these people out, and help pull them out of their shells. Along the way, I can count two averted suicides. I can also count the time the burden became too much, I began to ignore the person, and they soon found themselves in a violent encounter.
It seems that lack of concern for those outside of our immediate social-circles is an inbred social characteristic of the times. To be shallow is to be hip. To be selectively uncaring seems to be part and parcel with "coolness." Even in the wonderful Church environments I've worked in, the tendency to establish exclusive cliques sometimes reminded me of high school. I can't count the amount of times attempts by others and myself to have deep conversation, inclusive social gatherings, and overall quality time were shunned or ignored. Not surprisingly, many of the most guilty are now falling like flies, leaving their faith and showing how thoughtless, spineless, shallow, and self-centered they are. These are the "cool kids", in a different guise. As soon as that guise became inconvenient, it was cast-off like an out of style garment. If you can cast-away people, why not ideas? Apparently, nothing and no-one is sacred in our culture.
Columbine, for instance, is a many-sided tragedy. The death and carnage was tragic, to be sure. But so was the rash of irresponsible parenting that led to it. So were the uncaring and cruel bullies who pushed these kids to the edge. Surprisingly, nothing seems to have been done -- on a large scale -- to deal with the needless phenomenon of peer-cruelty. I'm not talking about simple bullying and teasing -- I'm talking about full-fledged cruelty. It's there, everyday, stirring the pot in an easily repeatable recipe for tragedy.
In the case of VT, it's impossible to say whether such a tragedy could have been prevented. There is certainly no way that those who died deserved such an end: it was purely senseless, and completely tragic.
...But yet, I can't help but wonder if one persistently caring person could have prevented the tragedy at VT, or at least seen the warning flags that something was seriously wrong. Perhaps somebody tried... who knows? I can't help but wonder, if I were around such a situation, could I take the time out of my busy life to embrace this person? Would I gather them in and hear them out, or would I go on my oblivious way?
Monday, April 16, 2007
The Great Silence -- A Movie from God...
Tonight I rebelled against term papers and homework and went to see "The Great Silence," a new documetary film about the Carthusian order. Sixteen years after German director Philop Groning wrote to the Carthusian monks requesting permission to film a documentary on them, they replied with an affirmative answer. The result is well worth the wait.
Groning, all by himself and without the aid of artificial lighting, follows the monks around and films them throughout four seasons of work, prayer, and play. He shoots in both high-quality digital and a grainy super-8 (film buffs, correct me), in the process getting stunning images in both formats. The film lasts for 2 1/2 hours, with only a few minutes of chanting and conversation throughout the entire movie. Most of the film is spent a silence punctuated by the sounds of nature, church bells, and the monks at work. Truth be told, it felt like the longest 2 1/2 hours of my life, and a handful of folks deserted the theater starting about the 10-minute mark. I felt the slowness of the film to be a gift -- a miniature retreat, seemingly tailor-made to calm me down during this tough time of year.
The end of the film is particularly moving, and the entire effort has made me want to slow my life down and spend more time in prayer. As a work of art, this documentary does exactly what great art must do: it makes an unflinching statement, it demands effort from the beholder, and it raises the dignity of the beholder and points to God. Nothing else is required.
Regardless of your beliefs, I highly suggest this film. Clevelanders can check it out at the Cedar-Lee theater. Others can look for local art-theaters. Below is the website. To quote another reviewer: "I recommend this film as an antidote to those OTHER films...."
My grade: 4 and 3/4 out of 5 Golden Marek Points.
http://www.diegrossestille.de/english/
Groning, all by himself and without the aid of artificial lighting, follows the monks around and films them throughout four seasons of work, prayer, and play. He shoots in both high-quality digital and a grainy super-8 (film buffs, correct me), in the process getting stunning images in both formats. The film lasts for 2 1/2 hours, with only a few minutes of chanting and conversation throughout the entire movie. Most of the film is spent a silence punctuated by the sounds of nature, church bells, and the monks at work. Truth be told, it felt like the longest 2 1/2 hours of my life, and a handful of folks deserted the theater starting about the 10-minute mark. I felt the slowness of the film to be a gift -- a miniature retreat, seemingly tailor-made to calm me down during this tough time of year.
The end of the film is particularly moving, and the entire effort has made me want to slow my life down and spend more time in prayer. As a work of art, this documentary does exactly what great art must do: it makes an unflinching statement, it demands effort from the beholder, and it raises the dignity of the beholder and points to God. Nothing else is required.
Regardless of your beliefs, I highly suggest this film. Clevelanders can check it out at the Cedar-Lee theater. Others can look for local art-theaters. Below is the website. To quote another reviewer: "I recommend this film as an antidote to those OTHER films...."
My grade: 4 and 3/4 out of 5 Golden Marek Points.
http://www.diegrossestille.de/english/
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Patriotism.
Around most of the nation, when the national anthem is played before a sporting event, crowds stand in silent respect, hands over their hearts.
Not in Chicago.
Growing up a Blackhawks fan, I was able to personally witness the stunning phenomenon of a Chicago Anthem, in all its goose-bump inducing patriotic glory. I still remember my first game, against the Toronto Maple-Leafs. The organ -- a real pipe organ built into the roof of the stadium -- began to play the introduction, and the roar from the crowd welled up like a mighty beast. In other cities, they stand silently. In Chicago, they yell and scream and cry until the building can contain no more sound. It was not infrequent for the anthem to be completely drowned out in a fit of patriotic bliss.
You may find this disrespectful. You'd be missing the point.
Below is the link to a youtube video that perhaps proves my point. This is the clip of the anthem from the '91 NHL All-Star game. The first Gulf-War had started two days ago, and America was certainly on edge. That war, however, had a different tone, and some believe that it was set in-part by this stunning moment. Please watch the whole thing, if you will. Revel in it, if you can...
The very sound of it would have been enough to send a terrorist-pig fleeing back to the dirty hole he crawled out of.
Chicago Stadium was torn down over a decade ago now. The Hawks are a pitiful mismanaged shell of their former selves. Such shows of Patriotism rarely happen anymore. We're now in a second gulf-war, and we don't seem to have the stomach for it.
Every soldier's death is a tragedy. These men and women didn't sign up for the Cubscouts, however, but for the Armed Forces. Combat and the risks it entails are part of the job. Our concern should be with funding Americans, finding allies, and winning the war on terror.
Militant Islam is a bloody mess, and right now, America is the wall it is breaking on... or, is it breaking America?
First, we must remember that most Americans desired this war. If they were naive enough to think that we could accomplish radical change with only 100 casualties, such naivity is not the fault of the current administration. As it stands, a five year war with around 3,000 deaths is a merciful one -- we should be glad it's gone as well as it has.
Second, we can't run. The war must be addressed in an open, bi-partisan, wholly American setting. Solutions must be found. It must be warned, however, that no solution will avoid the loss of many more lives.
This includes running.
In a day and age where politics trump considerations for troop morale, I can't help but think how much our troops could use the support they had back in '91. I can't help but wonder: have we lost the stomach and the spine to be what America needs to be? Can we still cheer with such fervor for our country?
Not in Chicago.
Growing up a Blackhawks fan, I was able to personally witness the stunning phenomenon of a Chicago Anthem, in all its goose-bump inducing patriotic glory. I still remember my first game, against the Toronto Maple-Leafs. The organ -- a real pipe organ built into the roof of the stadium -- began to play the introduction, and the roar from the crowd welled up like a mighty beast. In other cities, they stand silently. In Chicago, they yell and scream and cry until the building can contain no more sound. It was not infrequent for the anthem to be completely drowned out in a fit of patriotic bliss.
You may find this disrespectful. You'd be missing the point.
Below is the link to a youtube video that perhaps proves my point. This is the clip of the anthem from the '91 NHL All-Star game. The first Gulf-War had started two days ago, and America was certainly on edge. That war, however, had a different tone, and some believe that it was set in-part by this stunning moment. Please watch the whole thing, if you will. Revel in it, if you can...
The very sound of it would have been enough to send a terrorist-pig fleeing back to the dirty hole he crawled out of.
Chicago Stadium was torn down over a decade ago now. The Hawks are a pitiful mismanaged shell of their former selves. Such shows of Patriotism rarely happen anymore. We're now in a second gulf-war, and we don't seem to have the stomach for it.
Every soldier's death is a tragedy. These men and women didn't sign up for the Cubscouts, however, but for the Armed Forces. Combat and the risks it entails are part of the job. Our concern should be with funding Americans, finding allies, and winning the war on terror.
Militant Islam is a bloody mess, and right now, America is the wall it is breaking on... or, is it breaking America?
First, we must remember that most Americans desired this war. If they were naive enough to think that we could accomplish radical change with only 100 casualties, such naivity is not the fault of the current administration. As it stands, a five year war with around 3,000 deaths is a merciful one -- we should be glad it's gone as well as it has.
Second, we can't run. The war must be addressed in an open, bi-partisan, wholly American setting. Solutions must be found. It must be warned, however, that no solution will avoid the loss of many more lives.
This includes running.
In a day and age where politics trump considerations for troop morale, I can't help but think how much our troops could use the support they had back in '91. I can't help but wonder: have we lost the stomach and the spine to be what America needs to be? Can we still cheer with such fervor for our country?
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Pilgrimage, as promised.
So as promised, the tale of my fortune-filled pilgrimage...
In her book "The Artist's Way", author Julia Cameron describes the phenomenon of getting "marching orders" from God. Sometimes, you have hunches. Other times, you are confused. There are those rare (and sometimes wonderful) times where you simply KNOW, however. That was my experience: I had longed to visit Rome for a long time... one morning, I woke up, and knew I had to go. No matter what.
The first step was getting around being a broke graduate student. In a fit of heady irresponsibility, I made a budget, saw that I was short, and went to requisition more money from Uncle Sam. A few days later I visited the travel agent -- the STA girl had to literally trick the computer into giving me the trip I wanted at the price I could afford. Still, it happened.
The day before leaving I went to confession with a very charismatic Priest -- it was cleansing, and he pointed out all of my hidden points of pride. He suggested I make my pilgrimage in the spirit of humility, and I did my best to listen.
My first flight left Denver at 3am. Then, Philadelphia with an hour long wait. Then, Washington, with a four hour wait. Then, Frankfurt, with a four hour wait. Needl
ess to say, upon arriving in Frankfurt, I was completely beat. All the chairs were taken, so after not sleeping for over 35 hours, I took an unsatisfying nap on the cold airport tiles. Later I woke up and began to pace around with my baggage, in order not to fall asleep and miss my connecting flight. It was here that my first sign occurred: I was praying while walking, asking God to grant me the good fortune he had always shown me during travel. I ended my prayer by saying: "Please help me to meet interesting people on this trip." I looked up right away, and four feet away from me was somebody I knew. Monsigneur Swetland, a brilliant Priest (formerly) from the University of Illinois, was standing there with a group of people. We had spoken several times at conferences, and I really admired him. He looked up, did a double take, and seemed to recognize me. I snapped a picture with us immediately, knowing that nobody at home -- especially my numerous Swetland-fan friends -- would ever believe me.
Considering prayers were being answered in under a second, I knew I was off to a good start.
****
I arrived in Rome in the early afternoon. I was to be picked up by a nun from the Polish pilgrim house at which I would be staying. Sister Sabina found me right away, welcoming me with her nearly overwhelming energy. I was picked up with two older people. One, a veteran journalist from Warsaw, was quick to regale me with incredible tales of her fight against Communism back in the "old days." The other, an ancient but incredibly sharp priest named Father Piekarski, was a tour guide in Rome... he became one of my best friends that week, being a man that seemed to know the story of every brick in the city.
I checked in and was exhausted, but even more hungry. The pilgrim house was a lovely, polished, and quiet mix of c
oncrete and marble, a converted old building with a particular Roman charm. My room was wonderful, having a stone wall, high ceiling, and window looking over a typical Roman street. I spent my evening listening to Roman kids play soccer in the street below. It was picturesque, to say the least. I made a trip onto the house balcony, realizing then that I was on one of the seven legendary hills of Rome. I went out then, taking my chances with no map and only three phrases of memorized Italian. I found an ATM, and then a typical Roman corner bistro. I purchased dinner, and the sly owner gave me back only half the change I needed. He smiled at me, knowing that I had not the language available to me to argue such a deal. It would be the only misfortune of my trip.
The following morning I rose early for breakfast, which was set down precisely at 7am by the nuns. It was typical Polish fare with a bit of Italian character on the side, and I ate to filling. I met the only other two people staying at the pilgrim house then -- an older couple -- who promptly offered to come with me and get me oriented. They showed me the train, how to get into the city center, and where to find both the Vatican and the old city. The first thing we encountered was a road-block. The Police checked all of our passports then, and when the young officer saw mine, he giggled back to his friends and said "heh heh... American!" It turns out we were being led into the grips of a mounting anti-War communist demonstration. It would grow to almost a million people. Throughout the day, I would frequently have to join the march in order to get to my destinations, as it took up all the major streets in the city.
Nothing can describe what I felt when I rounded a street-corner and saw the Colloseum in the distance. The words "well, I'm really in Rome!" came into my mind, along with (I will admit) the Gladiator soundtrack. I spent most of the day in
the old city, touring the Colloseum and surrounding old city, and walking through the senatorial gardens. Aside from the constant presence of Police helicopters monitoring the journey, it was like going back in time.
I made it to the Vatican an hour before it closed. As I entered St. Peter's, I was underwhelmed at first. It simply didn't seem that big. Then I walked, and walked, and walked, and slowly realized the perfect design and sheer imensity of the place. Just as I neared the mai
n altar, a long line of Cardinals came from a side portico. It turned out that I had wandered in on the Vespers service. Not only was it my first Vespers, but it was at the Vatican. The music was incredible, and the mood truly international.
Coming home that night, I ran into a beautiful gypsy girl. She tried to make conversation (much to my delight), and the
n pulled a baby seemingly out of nowhere. She extended her hands for a gift, and I snapped back to reality, remembering the warnings I was given about Gypsy thieves.
I walked away then, and ran into old Father Piekarski. He invited me to stay out later with his friends, and I soon found myself drinking lemon Vodka with an old Priest and his cadre of international friends, in a Chinese restaurant in the middle of Rome. Already, things were getting surreal....
In her book "The Artist's Way", author Julia Cameron describes the phenomenon of getting "marching orders" from God. Sometimes, you have hunches. Other times, you are confused. There are those rare (and sometimes wonderful) times where you simply KNOW, however. That was my experience: I had longed to visit Rome for a long time... one morning, I woke up, and knew I had to go. No matter what.
The first step was getting around being a broke graduate student. In a fit of heady irresponsibility, I made a budget, saw that I was short, and went to requisition more money from Uncle Sam. A few days later I visited the travel agent -- the STA girl had to literally trick the computer into giving me the trip I wanted at the price I could afford. Still, it happened.
The day before leaving I went to confession with a very charismatic Priest -- it was cleansing, and he pointed out all of my hidden points of pride. He suggested I make my pilgrimage in the spirit of humility, and I did my best to listen.
My first flight left Denver at 3am. Then, Philadelphia with an hour long wait. Then, Washington, with a four hour wait. Then, Frankfurt, with a four hour wait. Needl
ess to say, upon arriving in Frankfurt, I was completely beat. All the chairs were taken, so after not sleeping for over 35 hours, I took an unsatisfying nap on the cold airport tiles. Later I woke up and began to pace around with my baggage, in order not to fall asleep and miss my connecting flight. It was here that my first sign occurred: I was praying while walking, asking God to grant me the good fortune he had always shown me during travel. I ended my prayer by saying: "Please help me to meet interesting people on this trip." I looked up right away, and four feet away from me was somebody I knew. Monsigneur Swetland, a brilliant Priest (formerly) from the University of Illinois, was standing there with a group of people. We had spoken several times at conferences, and I really admired him. He looked up, did a double take, and seemed to recognize me. I snapped a picture with us immediately, knowing that nobody at home -- especially my numerous Swetland-fan friends -- would ever believe me.Considering prayers were being answered in under a second, I knew I was off to a good start.
****
I arrived in Rome in the early afternoon. I was to be picked up by a nun from the Polish pilgrim house at which I would be staying. Sister Sabina found me right away, welcoming me with her nearly overwhelming energy. I was picked up with two older people. One, a veteran journalist from Warsaw, was quick to regale me with incredible tales of her fight against Communism back in the "old days." The other, an ancient but incredibly sharp priest named Father Piekarski, was a tour guide in Rome... he became one of my best friends that week, being a man that seemed to know the story of every brick in the city.
I checked in and was exhausted, but even more hungry. The pilgrim house was a lovely, polished, and quiet mix of c
oncrete and marble, a converted old building with a particular Roman charm. My room was wonderful, having a stone wall, high ceiling, and window looking over a typical Roman street. I spent my evening listening to Roman kids play soccer in the street below. It was picturesque, to say the least. I made a trip onto the house balcony, realizing then that I was on one of the seven legendary hills of Rome. I went out then, taking my chances with no map and only three phrases of memorized Italian. I found an ATM, and then a typical Roman corner bistro. I purchased dinner, and the sly owner gave me back only half the change I needed. He smiled at me, knowing that I had not the language available to me to argue such a deal. It would be the only misfortune of my trip.The following morning I rose early for breakfast, which was set down precisely at 7am by the nuns. It was typical Polish fare with a bit of Italian character on the side, and I ate to filling. I met the only other two people staying at the pilgrim house then -- an older couple -- who promptly offered to come with me and get me oriented. They showed me the train, how to get into the city center, and where to find both the Vatican and the old city. The first thing we encountered was a road-block. The Police checked all of our passports then, and when the young officer saw mine, he giggled back to his friends and said "heh heh... American!" It turns out we were being led into the grips of a mounting anti-War communist demonstration. It would grow to almost a million people. Throughout the day, I would frequently have to join the march in order to get to my destinations, as it took up all the major streets in the city.
Nothing can describe what I felt when I rounded a street-corner and saw the Colloseum in the distance. The words "well, I'm really in Rome!" came into my mind, along with (I will admit) the Gladiator soundtrack. I spent most of the day in
the old city, touring the Colloseum and surrounding old city, and walking through the senatorial gardens. Aside from the constant presence of Police helicopters monitoring the journey, it was like going back in time.I made it to the Vatican an hour before it closed. As I entered St. Peter's, I was underwhelmed at first. It simply didn't seem that big. Then I walked, and walked, and walked, and slowly realized the perfect design and sheer imensity of the place. Just as I neared the mai
n altar, a long line of Cardinals came from a side portico. It turned out that I had wandered in on the Vespers service. Not only was it my first Vespers, but it was at the Vatican. The music was incredible, and the mood truly international.Coming home that night, I ran into a beautiful gypsy girl. She tried to make conversation (much to my delight), and the
n pulled a baby seemingly out of nowhere. She extended her hands for a gift, and I snapped back to reality, remembering the warnings I was given about Gypsy thieves.I walked away then, and ran into old Father Piekarski. He invited me to stay out later with his friends, and I soon found myself drinking lemon Vodka with an old Priest and his cadre of international friends, in a Chinese restaurant in the middle of Rome. Already, things were getting surreal....
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