A Song Amid Snow-covered Graves: Easter 2013 Part 2

Holy Saturday was possibly the most fruitful day of the Easter Triduum for me this year. Usually this day always ended up being more full of baking and egg-dyeing and getting ready for Easter Vigil than actually meditating on the significance of the day itself. This year, since Easter Vigil was at 5 a.m. on Sunday, I decided to go to what was called a “Trauermetten” on Saturday morning—basically really long Morning Prayer with monks. (For those of you familiar with the Liturgy of the Hours, Nocturns and Lauds put together.) Anyway, after every Psalm, the altar server extinguished a candle in a big candelabrum in front of the altar, until there were none left. Overall a pretty somber service—it was, after all, a service of mourning.

Afterwards, in keeping the mournful spirit, I went to the cemetery. What better place to spend the day when Christ lay in the tomb? I felt very much in solidarity with Mary and the other women who would have been mourning Jesus’ death after his burial. But I realized that I couldn’t quite replicate the sorrow and despair that must have been felt by those women, because I knew about Easter. Easter changed Holy Saturday forever, from a day of utter hopelessness to a day of quiet, hidden hope. Similarly, the Resurrection changed death forever. I went around to all the graves of my relatives and told them to take courage, because Christ who rose on the third day would also raise them on the last day. (It sounds better in German: Habt Mut! Denn Christus, der am dritten Tage auferstanden ist, wird auch euch am letzten Tage auferstehen lassen!)  Anyway, nature was cooperating beautifully with my meditations. The sky was gray and a very silent snow was falling, covering all the graves like a stifling white blanket. But in the trees, the birds were singing like crazy, all ready for spring. This juxtaposition of silence and sound—of visible death and life that I couldn’t see, only hear—reflected very well the idea of hope hidden under the outward signs of death and desolation.

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As I said above, Easter Vigil was at five in the morning. Actually four, because we turned the clocks forward. Theoretically, this is very cool—it always felt a little weird that we celebrated Jesus’ death on Friday and only a little over 24 hours later, his resurrection. Celebrating Sunday morning would actually make it the third day. In practice, however, my body was not used being in church so early. Exciting though it always is for to me be up before the sun, I quickly realized that 5 (4) a.m. was really quite early to be sitting in a cold, dark church, especially without caffeine beforehand. I found myself annoyed by every little thing, like that you had to buy the candles, or that it was just impossible to heat such a huge old church. The gorgeous words of the prayers that make Easter Vigil possibly my favorite Mass of the year just seemed like far-off words, and the readings somehow managed to bring to mind nearly every major political or philosophical dispute I’d had since I got here. I was on my way to being very tired and grumpy, all alone in the darkness with only my negative political thoughts and my guilty feelings about things from the past to keep me company.

Suddenly, however, it was time for the Gloria. The lights came on, the church bells rung, the organ played. I nearly cried upon being able to see the faces of the people around me (at such hours I’m predisposed to being emotional). At that moment it hit me that there were other people there—that I wasn’t nearly as alone as I’d felt, even though I knew almost nobody. It crossed my mind that Christ is the Light of the World, the Morning Star as the Exultet proclaims, and that his light is able to free us from the prison of ourselves and our same old thoughts and guilty feelings. His light wakes us up to the fact that other people exist, helps us open our eyes to the world around us. His light helps us go outside ourselves (something I need to work on constantly). By the end of Mass, the sun had risen outside. Above the altar there is a huge golden-yellow stained glass window, which I assume depicts the sun, through which light was just pouring.

On my way home, though still tired and looking forward to some hot coffee, I stopped by the cemetery one more time, to announce to all those resting there that Christ was risen (though I’m sure they knew). I caught myself humming the Taizé song “Surrexit Christus”. At first I was worried about bothering the other people who had come to pray, but then I figured, if there was ever a day to sing in a cemetery, it was Easter Sunday! And then I hurried home to share my Easter joy (and chocolate) with my grandmother.   :)

Pope Francis at the Prison for Minors: Easter 2013 Part 1

Easter caught me feeling pretty spiritually unprepared this year…as it did last year… Fortunately, the Holy Spirit showed me once more that God, and not my preparations or lack thereof, makes these Holy Days holy and spiritually fruitful.

It started with Pope Francis on Holy Thursday. It didn’t surprise me that he would visit a juvenile prison. What surprised me was that he prayed Mass there in place of the big Mass at St. John Lateran’s. It crossed my mind: what about all the hundreds of people who might have wanted to celebrate with the Pope? And how did these young people get so lucky? Now, these very messed-up, probably a little jealous thoughts were soon interrupted by thoughts of how annoyed the Pharisees etc. were with Jesus for eating with tax collectors and sinners, and how Jesus said he’d come to heal the sinners, since the righteous didn’t need healing. Now, I hardly mean to say that the hordes of pilgrim-tourists in Rome for Easter are more righteous than the kids in this prison. (Having been one of these pilgrim-tourists myself four years ago, I remember how un-righteous the crowds and the jostling and the long hours in line can leave you feeling, even if the overall experience is way cool, for once in a lifetime.) But the young people whose lives were literally touched by this beautiful feet-washing ceremony were probably much more in need of healing than many of the people who just wanted to see the Pope, and probably got a lot more out of the experience than a few blurry pictures. Alone the message that, yes, they are totally worth the attention of such an important personality on such an important day, is a powerful message to the young people, and maybe even more so to the rest of us.

The message of the Pope’s actions on Holy Thursday carried over to Good Friday for me, when I actually saw a clip of the Mass on the evening news. I was so surprised that, after washing the young people’s feet, he kissed them! I’d never seen any priest do that before. Apart from briefly wondering just how awkward it might feel to have my feet kissed, my thoughts immediately jumped to the Good Friday tradition of kissing the feet of Jesus on the Cross. I happen to like this gesture very much, and always manage to overcome my fear of germs to kiss those little wooden feet as a sign of love for the One hanging on the cross for me. (The last couple years I’ve had to do without, since this custom doesn’t seem as prevalent here in Germany.) But anyway, the Pope’s gesture got me wondering whether I could imagine myself kissing the feet of my fellow humans, in whom Jesus is more present than he is in a carved crucifix. Whatsoever you do for the least of my people, that you do unto me…

A Pro-Life Texan's Argument against Capital Punishment

Being a proud Texan, I never thought I’d see the day when I would be tempted to say I came from Arkansas. (I grew up in Texarkana, on the border between the two states. Naturally there was much rivalry, especially in football.) However, during my time in Munich last year, I sometimes found myself wishing that I came from that little bitty state which the rest of the world had probably never even heard of. (Sorry, Arkansas—you’re really a very nice state!) What made me feel this way was the fact that, almost every time I introduced myself to people, the first thing they’d say upon hearing that I was from Texas was: “oh yeah, the death penalty state”. And if they didn’t say it, I could see it in their eyes. After all that, I still tend to shrink back a little when Germans ask me where I’m from.

Back home for the summer, I realized how much I really do like my home state. I mean, where in Europe—cool as it is—are you going to hear Christian radio playing in a sandwich shop, or see a car wash sporting a Bible verse on its marquee? And there’s just something about cowboy boots that makes you feel about ten feet tall on the inside. One of my favorite things about Texas, though, is its strong pro-life movement. Especially in Dallas, where it all began with Roe vs. Wade.

I am opposed to abortion for any reason in any situation. My opposition to abortion is, in the end, what pushed me over to the side of those who oppose capital punishment. How? Quite simply, really. When asked why I was against abortion, I would say, “Because no human being has the right to take the life of another human being.” That’s when it hit me…How could I call myself pro-life and not also speak out against capital punishment?[1]

I do not here propose to argue my case from the standpoint of practicality. In this argument I’m not interested in whether or not capital punishment deters crime, or how much money is spent feeding and housing prisoners, or how much money is wasted on legal proceedings surrounding the issue. Human life is to be protected whether practical or not. And though it is a good point, I’m not concerned here with the fact that courts make mistakes in judgment. All that I’m saying applies to people who really are guilty. I’m also not arguing from sentimentality, saying that nobody could deserve such a cruel thing as execution. I’d even venture to say that by committing murder one forfeits one’s own life. But here’s the catch, the whole reason I’m writing this. Just because a person does something for which they might deserve to die does not mean that the right to take their life falls into the hands of their fellow humans. Only the Author of Life has the right to decide when a life should end. “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for the wrath of God; for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord’.” Romans 12:19

I said above that executing a murderer may technically be just, according to one definition of justice. A life for a life, right? But here’s one thing about cold hard justice: every sinner (that is, every human except Jesus and his mother Mary), technically deserves hell because of original sin. We certainly don’t deserve heaven, but we can go there because Jesus took our punishment on the cross and forgave us our sins. Justice without love and mercy is a cold, cruel machine. God doesn’t give us the punishment we deserve. Who are we to do differently to other humans than what God has done for us? The execution of a criminal only does further harm, depriving them of the chance to repent of their crimes and be reconciled with God, as well as tearing up the soul of the executioner, since, as automated as we have made the act of killing, someone still has to give the order, flip the switch, push the button. I call, therefore, on my fellow Texans (and fellow Americans, since Texas is not the only state with capital punishment) to take this step towards becoming more fully pro-life, by opposing capital punishment for all crimes.

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[1] The question of self-defense may come up here. Self-defense is permitted because the intention is to preserve one’s own life, and not to kill the attacker (Catechism of the Catholic Church 2263). I do realize that this could prove problematic/confusing in cases where a pregnancy threatens the life of the mother. I’m sure there’s much written on that subject, but one thing at a time. As far as capital punishment is concerned, there is a difference between an unarmed prisoner locked up and isolated in a cell and an assassin coming at you with a loaded pistol and the intent to use it. See CCC 2267.

Spreading the Gospel of Joy by Playing in the Snow

In honor of St. Francis de Sales, whose feast was yesterday (Jan. 24), and St. John Bosco, whose feast is next week (Jan. 31).

A week ago we had our first real snow of the year here in Regensburg. I was of course thrilled, singing “Winter Wonderland” and the like at the bus stop before dawn. On the way to my classes (which all started late because of the weather), I was positively frolicking, kicking up snow just to watch it glitter in the sunlight. I got a few smiles from fellow students, and I wondered whether my professors would be more likely to roll their eyes or be amused if they saw me.

Of course snow is normal here. And it’s not like I’ve never seen snow in my life. But I’ve never seen this particular snow here and now. Of course snow is no fun if you’re driving. But just because it comes every year is no reason to write it off as boring. I feel like such a phenomenon occurs often in literary scholarship. If you read enough books, you realize that there are only a few basic plots and that most books follow one of a few general patterns. Everything’s been said already—do we really need new books? Modern literature tends to be full of this thing called ennui. I define this word as existential boredom.  The inability to take joy in life because everything has already been done by someone else. I started thinking about all of this a few months ago when I heard in a class that there were really no new stories, just the same old ones rearranged. I then started to argue that with every new person comes a source of new stories. Every person is a new and unique instance in this world, no matter how many billions of us there are. Every person is a different meeting point of experiences, characteristics and perspectives. No one has ever seen the world through your eyes or mine, and no one ever will again.

“I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,” says one of my favorite country songs[1]. Taking time to play in the snow, sliding screamingly down a hill in a trash bag, or even just pausing to look twice at the tiny frost crystals covering a twig, can help us keep alive that sense of wonder that is so essential to faith, and maybe even help someone else find it again.

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[1] “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack

Swords and Ploughshares

So, as I mentioned in my last post, I’ve been watching The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, the first of the recent film versions of C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. So often during Advent we read the passage from Isaiah (2:4) about how we should beat our swords into ploughshares—i.e. make peace, not war. Of course I agree with this. But as I heard this line, I could only think of the brilliant, shining sword that Father Christmas gives Peter in the movie. I thought to myself—no! don’t beat that one up into a ploughshare! It’s too pretty! …See what being a fan of fantasy literature does to you? This Bible passage works better for me if I substitute bombshells for swords…

But to the point. Swords. Not everywhere in the Bible are they portrayed negatively. Take this passage, a favorite in American Christian culture: “Indeed, the word of God is living and active, sharper than a two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge intentions and thoughts of the heart.” Hebrews 4:12 Here I want to mention Narnia again. When Father Christmas gives Peter his sword, he warns him, “This is a tool, not a toy.” Toys are for fun, tools are for getting a job done. When seen as a sword, the job of the word of God is to defeat evil. Under no circumstances is its job to prove the biblical knowledge of the person wielding it, or to cut people down. The word of God is sharp, sharp enough even to separate the sin from the sinner. Cutting down the sinner instead of the sin would be like killing on the battlefield all those whom the White Witch had led astray, instead of killing the Witch herself and giving the others the opportunity to come over to Aslan’s side.

But how does one effectively wield such a sword, especially today? Absolutely not in blind anger, hacking away at everything and everyone we feel might threaten our precious truths. Tools cannot be used effectively under the influence of rage; rather, we must be calm and guided by reason, and motivated only by love of God and our fellow man. The sword of truth is a brilliant light in the darkness of evil, when in the hands of a Christian with the courage to use it and the love to use it correctly.

Gaudete Sunday: Can We Rejoice in Times of Tragedy?

The irony is unmistakable, even painful perhaps. After hearing of the school shooting in Connecticut, we now hear in Mass that we are to rejoice. Is this a case of the church calendar being in on a completely different planet from ours, blithely going its way without a care for what happens in “real life”? Or is it rather a reminder of what Christian joy really means?

Warning: this post may start to sound like it’s more about Easter than Advent. But could this be because the two are inseparably linked to each other? Without having been born, Jesus couldn’t have died and risen. Without having become human in the Incarnation, he couldn’t have paid the debt of our sins. Gaudete Sunday in Advent is paralleled by Laetare Sunday in Lent—the only two days of the year where the liturgical color is rose. (Gaudete and laetare both mean “Rejoice! Be joyful!” in Latin).

For me personally, today is also difficult. My uncle and godfather recently died, and today is the rosary for him, tomorrow the funeral. My aunt’s dedication to the rosary during this difficult time left me with a renewed appreciation of this beautiful prayer. I would like to interpret today’s message of rejoicing in terms of the glorious mysteries of the rosary, which are always prayed on Sunday.

The glorious mysteries can be seen as a meditation on our own mortality and immortality. They begin with a climax: the Resurrection. Christ conquered death. We hear this all the time. But this is the single most hope-giving truth of the Christian faith. Christ didn’t just passively wake back up again after having been dead for three days. He looked death in the face and said, “Give me your best shot.” He didn’t just defeat death. He accepted the worst that death could do to him, and proved it wasn’t really all that much. He’s been there, done that. And that’s just the beginning.

After his Resurrection, Christ spent some time on Earth with his disciples, and then he ascended into Heaven (the second glorious mystery). Here begins the long period of physical separation, in which we are still living today. Christ ascended so that he could send the Holy Spirit to be with us (the third mystery) in a much more intimate way than he could have done given the constraints of a physical body. These two mysteries show us that physical separation is not complete separation. Those we love still exist—we just can’t perceive them anymore with our five senses.

But even this is not the end of the story. We don’t have to “settle” for a “merely spiritual” union, true as this union may be. The fourth glorious mystery tells of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven, an event long held as true by church Tradition. After her death/dormission, Mary was immediately taken into Heaven, body and soul. Christ is the “first fruits of the dead (1 Cor. 15:20),” but Mary’s Assumption makes clear that the resurrection of the body is for all of us. Yes, we too will one day be in Heaven, soul and new, glorified body, with Jesus and Mary and all those who have gone before us.

The final glorious mystery, the Coronation of Mary as Queen of Heaven (hinted at in Revelation 12:1: “a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and on her head a crown of twelve stars”), prefigures the grand finale of salvation history. In the Gospel of John, one of Jesus’s last prayers before being arrested on the night of his Passion is this: “Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world.” (John 17:24) When we get to Heaven, we, along with all our loved ones, will see Christ face to face and share in his glory, and his joy and ours will be complete.

This is why, as Christians, we can rejoice, even with horror in our guts and tears in our eyes. This darkness is not the end.

Always Winter and Never Christmas?

Lately I’ve taken to watching the Chronicles of Narnia when I’m too tired to concentrate on homework. In today’s gray world, these stories are like a breath of fresh air to me. Re-watching The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (2005), I was struck by how well the beginning fits to the season of Advent. For as long as the White Witch has ruled Narnia, the land has been plunged in perpetual winter. Always winter and never Christmas. It’s almost impossible for me to imagine winter without the warming glow of candles and Christmas tree lights, carols and cookies and cider.

When Peter, Susan, Edmond and Lucy arrive in Narnia, things begin to turn around. There is even a rumor that “Aslan is on the move”—Aslan, the real king of Narnia. The hope of the Narnians that the four siblings will defeat the witch, along with the news of Aslan’s coming, begins to break the spell of winter. Father Christmas even appears, a concrete sign that Narnia once more has hope. The snow begins to melt, and the ice in the river begins to break (a sign of coming change even in the Soviet silent films that I’ve been watching for class).

As overjoyed as the furry Narnian beavers are to finally witness the arrival of the kings and queens who will conquer the witch and restore peace to Narnia, how much more joyful should we be during Advent, as we await the coming of our King? What is the particular darkness threatening each of us, the ice inside, paralyzing us, waiting to be warmed and illuminated by the Light of the World? The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was (is!) coming into the world! (John 1:5,9)