Our Wild God

God Appears to Moses in Burning Bush. Painting from Saint Isaac’s Cathedral, Saint Petersburg, Russia. Taken from http://upload.wikimedia.org

A friend of mine shared with me a story last weekend about a malapropism that found its way into the pre-Mass announcements at a parish one Sunday morning. The opening song for that day was that wonderful hymn, written by 19th century British composer Fr. Frederick Faber, There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy. The lector, who is quite excellent, got up before Mass began and read the opening announcements. When she got to the end, she proclaimed in a loud and confident voice:

Please join us in singing our opening song, “There’s a Wilderness in God’s Mercy.”

The choir cracked up.

Felix Culpa

After chuckling a bit myself, I began, predictably, to muse on the theological possibilities found in this happy mistake. I thought of the meaning of the word “wilderness,” which comes from the Old English wild-deor, “wild deer.” It refers to lands populated by untamed, undomesticated animals that escape the control of human beings, or, more generally, to the wider natural world that is unconcerned with the orderly concerns of human culture and enterprise. It is a world fraught with danger and mystery, strangely seductive to those who loathe the sleepy comforts of an overly-controlled suburban contentment that populates our more or less gated lives. Wilderness is where the sleepy must go if they are to awaken and escape from their binding attachments that turn comfort into an idol, safety into a prison, sameness into ossifying chains that keep suburbanites from soaring into the City of God. As Thoreau said in Walden,

We need the tonic of wildness…At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.

I have a friend who loves the to engage in period forays into the wilds, to trek outdoors where he loves hiking and camping, adores the discomforts of grunge and sweat and mosquitoes and unexpected downpours. He’s been hit by lightening (via the water his boat was floating in), bitten by snakes and attacked by hawks when he ventured too near their nest. By week, he’s a professional businessman. I asked him once why he felt so drawn to such things and he said,

It’s what keeps my soul from going stale. It’s where I see God most clearly, when all the clutter and busyness of life peels away. It’s where I can drop the Type A obsession with neatness and be messy in God’s order of things. Out in nature it’s like God’s saying to me: you humans, you’re so small, and you’re part of something much bigger than yourselves, a world you just can’t control. You don’t try to control it, you just find your place in the ecosystem, in an order not of your making. It’s got a beauty that’s way too easy to forget is already all around you all the time when your surrounded all day by concrete walls and papers and virtual media. It’s like the week that grows in the sidewalk crack, defying our claim to bend all nature to our utilitarian will. After I get back from being in the forests and swamps, I can see God much better in the paper and concrete; and in the people around me.

Wild at Heart

God created the wilderness and asked man to make of it a Garden, but Man, having rebelled, was expelled from the Garden into the wilderness. But our vocation remains, a vocation to transform the wilderness into a Garden or, maybe, to discover in the wilderness the Garden God is fashioning. Something like that.

In the Scriptures God, who is himself a wandering Nomad of sorts, has a certain affection for journeying with his chosen people into the wilds of a trackless and barren desert. It’s the place where God leads Israel when they’ve become overly controlled or controlling, enslaved in pseudo-worlds of their own making. These are worlds populated by false gods, or by a domesticated God fashioned into an idol, a work of human ingenuity that strips God of all his dangerous attributes that threaten to expose humanity’s injustices, deceptions, guilt or inhuman malice.

If there’s anything that true about the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, it’s that he is essentially wild, fearfully uncontrollable, and absolutely free from all necessity save the exigencies of his own divine nature (e.g. his truth, goodness, fidelity, mercy). Every biblical character who encounters God must be at once told, “Do not be afraid!” because to meet God is to be set off balance as unclean meets the All-Holy, injustice meets the All-Just, or some such juxtaposed contrast that shatters petrified hearts, refashioning them in the Potter’s free-wheeling Hands. Even in the Christian mystical tradition, one frequently hears the mystic describe the “shock” of encountering God with the stock phrase, “of sudden!” God’s coming, without warning, comes like a sudden squall, though, unlike the natural phenomenon, the divine Storm comes to wreak havoc only in order to recreate and restore the original order.

You might say that the essence of the covenant God makes with Israel, fulfilled in Christ, can be summed up as an invitation of God to us, and our affirmative consent, to allow “God to be God” as God with us. That’s what Emmanuel means, “God with us,” but on on God’s terms, not ours. That’s who Jesus was and is, God with us on God’s terms, even (and especially) in the face of our violent resistance and rejection — and there, crucified, God-with-us reveals himself to be, beyond all our wildest imaginings, unrelentlingly merciful. And one need only think of the resurrection appearances — strange, unexpected, terrifying, bewildering, awful, inducing worship — to sense that this revelation of God is ruinous for the preconceptions of sinful men and women who wish God to be God on their terms.

There’s something gravely dangerous, disconcerting, about surrendering to God’s uncontrolled nature, especially inasmuch as our fallen nature, fashioned originally in his image, has marred the divine likeness by attempting to seize control of the divine image by fashioning idols, staging a coup to overthrow God and, ultimately, plotting to slay him. Those who choose thus set themselves at odds with God, against his Face and his wildness, suddenly discover that he appears, to the reprobate, to be wrath. As God has not changed, and cannot change, we discern that it is our posture toward him that has altered. But God, whose justice is ever-rife with prodigal mercy, reveals to us the way back, draws us by “bands of mercy” (Hosea 11:4) toward the path of life, which is life lived in concert with God’s untethered, unstrained and pity-full love. When the author of Hebrews 10:31 says, “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” we might read there not only divine wrath but, for those willing to repent of their deadly coup, God’s far more fearful mercy. It is an unyieldingly, mercilessly relentless mercy that effects in the willing a total and complete remedy that heals our sins to the deepest roots.

St. John of the Cross speaks so powerfully of this “labor of mercy” in the Dark Night. There he argues that those who consent to permit God’s unchained mercy a free reign in their deepest depths feel simultaneously out of control and absolutely secure as God, the absolutely trustworthy Divine Surgeon, sees to the death of death within us. Here, John says, prayer becomes challenging as we sense that God is remaking us within, deconstructing our sins and distortions, and recreating within us the Kingdom of God. Those who pass through this final purifying “night” discover within them the Dawn’s rising, and they themselves become wild with the folly of the Risen Christ, wise with the wisdom of the Cross, are propelled to and fro by the freely blowing Spirit, drunk with divine love’s madness and freed (as Augustine says) to love and do as they will. But none of this can be had until they have been freed from self-will, from illusions and flights of fantasy, grounded in the Commandments and the virtues, for there is no true freedom until one’s will has been chained to the divine will by obedience. Those who seek freedom without obedience worship themselves and seek a false wilderness that leads to death and the land of illusions.

Wild in Mind

A last meditation on the “Wilderness in God’s Mercy.” In our theological tradition, we affirm that human language has the capacity to reveal the truth of God’s transcendent nature (called kataphatic, or “saying” theology), but we also affirm that human language is very fragile in is capacity to comprehend God’s nature (called apophatic, or “unsaying” theology). Theologians try to balance these two in “the ascent of the mind to God,” climbing an analogical ladder that we are at-once climbing and being lifted up on. Our knowledge of God, as we grow in intimacy with him, increasingly enters into contact with this unstable tension between “saying” and “unsaying,” stammering and singing our way into the mystery of what Meister Eckhart called the “vast and silent desert of Divinity.” God is vast beyond our every capacity to “think big” about him, which, for the theologian should not stand as a reason to despair but rather as a reason to give thanks! In the words a small child in Iowa who once misspoke at Mass, miming the proper liturgical acclamation that follows the biblical readings, “Thanks to Big God.”

It’s a tension that elicits with the theologian (or any person of faith) humility, wonder, desire, longing, terror, dizziness, joy and ecstasy, widening our horizons and making us evermore capax Dei, capable of God. It’s why theologians must also be men and women of prayer, as we strive to experience the Mysteries we explore and render ourselves vulnerable to suffering the coming of the real God, the true God, the living God, and not the God of our puny imaginings or warped desires. In other words, theologians are those whose hearts, having been purified, can see God under the form of an inchoate glory and called to share our vision with the Church. Or, for those of us who know we are far from that purity, at least give voice to those who have seen thus.

Saints of God, come to our aid!

Let me end this already too-long post (which I will give you rest from tomorrow with a post-less day) with some fav quotes from two of the great Masters of God’s wilderness, St. Gregory of Nyssa and Ps-Dionysius.

St. Gregory:

The feelings that come to a man who stands on a high mountain peak and looks down onto some immense sea are the same feelings that come to me when I look out from the high mountain peak of the Lord’s words into the incomprehensible depths of his thoughts. When you look at mountains that stand next to the sea, you will often find that they seem to have been cut in half, so that on the side nearest the sea there is a sheer drop and something dropped from the summit will fall straight into the depths. Someone who looks down from such a peak will become dizzy, and so too I become dizzy when I look down from the high peak of these words of the Lord: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. These words offer the sight of God to those whose hearts have been purified and purged. But look: St John says No-one has seen God. The Apostle Paul’s sublime mind goes further still: What no man has seen and no man can see. This is the slippery and crumbling rock that seems to give the mind no support in the heights. Even the teaching of Moses declared God to be a rock that was so inaccessible that our minds could not even approach it: No-one can see the Lord.

To see God is to have eternal life – and yet the pillars of our faith, John and Paul and Moses, say that God cannot be seen. Can you understand the dizziness of a soul that contemplates their words? If God is life, whoever does not see God does not see life. If the prophets and the Apostle, inspired by the Holy Spirit, attest that God cannot be seen, does this not wreck all the hopes of those who seek his Face?

It is the Lord who sustains our floundering hope, just as he sustained Peter when he was floundering in the water, and made the waters firm beneath his feet. If the hand of the Word stretches out to us as well, and sets us firm in a new understanding when these speculations have made us lose our balance, we shall be safe from fear, held safe in the guiding hand of the Word. Blessed, he says, are those who possess a pure heart, for they shall see God.


How then can we speak of the divine names? How can we do this if the Transcendent surpasses all discourse and all knowledge, if it abides beyond the reach of mind and of being, if it encompasses and circumscribes, embraces and anticipates all thins while itself eluding their grasp and escaping from any perception, imagination, opinion, name, discourse, apprehension, or understanding? How can we enter upon this undertaking if the Godhead is superior to being and is unspeakable and unnameable?

Paschal Providence

I heard a really superb homily a number of years ago at a retreat, and it was on the mystery of suffering and evil as seen through the lens of faith in Christ. That’s a rare homily to hear anywhere, but it’s undoubtedly true that people of faith long to hear the “Gospel of Suffering,” as Bl. John Paul II dubbed it in his own post-assassination-attempt meditations published as an apostolic letter, Salvifici Doloris.

[As this post will not be a comprehensive exploration of suffering-evil's "mystery," let me recommend four readings if you want more: A. Nichols' chapter on the philosophical-theological issues at stake; R. Shaw's theological-existential reflections; Peter Kreeft's concise summary of an apology on suffering; and D. Hart's challenging musings on the deep structures of the theological problem of evil-suffering.]

It was the kind of homily that makes one search through their wallet for a piece of paper to write notes on. The quotes from the homilist I include here are all “glossed,” meaning I wrote them as an interpolation mixed with my own simultaneous insights. So it’s a hybrid homily.

The homilist made several excellent points, but I will only comment on two of them here (I’ll hit a third tomorrow).

Divine Providence, not Fate

First, he addressed the way Christians view divine Providence, or God’s wise governance of history. “Divine Providence,” he said, “is the key to finding meaning in life and history.” He noted that the Christian tradition (drawing from its Jewish heritage) rejected a pagan worldview which asserted that history, and even the gods, are governed by a universal and impersonal force called Fate, which is itself essentially blind to justice, terrifyingly capricious and ultimately unconcerned with humanity’s temporal or eternal well-being. Rather, he argued, Christianity proposed a radical Jewish view that all things and all history and under the sway of one Creator-God who is all-wise, all-powerful and all-good, and that the ultimate defining power that stands as judge and ruler over the cosmos is divine hesed-emet, “steadfast mercy.” And even more specifically for Christians, steadfast-mercy as it is revealed fully in Jesus crucified, dead and risen from the grave.

This, he said, was arguably among the greatest thought-revolutions of the ancient world, and one that, as a church history professor of mine once felicitously worded it, “elicited from pagan converts a collective sigh of relief,” i.e. so that’s what stands behind this worn and weary world. Deo gratias!

The homilist continued, saying that though the exact nature of how God governs a history marked by oscillations of good and evil without overriding creatures’ own natural freedoms is largely shrouded in mystery, there are some things we can affirm. One of them, he said, was powerfully stated by John Paul II in his superb book, Memory and Identity, where the pontiff said,

It could be said that human history is marked from the very beginning by the limit God the Creator places upon evil.

God’s Providence, therefore, guides history by limiting the progress of evil, which only advances as far as God permits. The space of this divinely limited permission is, he contended, a “safe space” where we can “hide,” as the psalmist says in Psalm 91, under God’s sheltering wings in absolute trust. This is really, he said, what the sixth and seventh petitions in the Lord’s prayer are about (“lead us not…deliver us”), and is what St. Paul has in mind when he says in 1 Corinthians 10:13,

God is faithful and will not let you be tried beyond your strength; but with the trial he will also provide a way out, so that you may be able to bear it.

The idea really runs through the entire biblical narrative and stands at the epicenter of the Paschal Mystery: the Passion, death, burial and descent into hell is evil’s farthest boundary, the edge of God’s No, while the resurrection, God’s Yes, is the sealing of that boundary’s Gate by which redeemed humanity passes into the Paradise of eternal well-being.

Permitted in view of…

Then he noted, briefly but succinctly, that within those limits God permits evil and suffering only in view of the “greater good” he draws from it (again, think here Paschal Mystery as the interpretive lens). But he added an important qualifier:

We should not think of God’s permitting evil in view of some greater good as God somehow positively desiring evil things to happen to make even better things happen through them. No! Rather, God permits evil only inasmuch as He foresees greater goods can be drawn out of them by His Providential plan. While you might say God’s permission for evil is the “space” required for the evolution of finite freedom toward infinite perfection, you should not say that God wills evils in the same sense that he wills goods, or even in the same sense as He wills the goods drawn out of the permitted evils.

This is important because it means that God’s ordained will (i.e. what He directly and positively wills) and His permissive will (i.e. what He allows but does not directly/positively will) are both defined by His good-will, i.e. His love. He always and in all things desires and wills the ultimate and final good for all. That’s really important to remember if you’re going to have a place to drop your anchor in the storms of suffering; it’s where hope finds a sure hold, the rock of God’s good-will that’s backed up by an infinite power and wisdom by which He is able and willing to accomplish that good-will.

This, he said, is the rock-bottom foundation of our absolute trust in God’s provident care for us, and is what St. Paul meant when he said in Romans 8:28,

We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.

And it’s for those “who love God” not because God is some sycophant who benefits only His devotees, but because such “lovers” alone are able to pattern their lives in harmonious accord with the patterns of Providence, which are the patterns of love. And that love looks like Christ, who is “the revelation of the mystery of the Father and His love, fully [revealing] man to man himself and [making] his supreme calling clear” (Gaudium et Spes 22).

Divine Providence, I.N.R.I.

I’ll try to keep this short for fear of excessive length). The second point he made (alluded to above) flowed from the first, and that is that God’s Providence, the divine care we entrust ourselves to unconditionally, is to be understood only through the lens of the Paschal Mystery, the death and resurrection of Jesus. God’s Providence is a “paschal providence.”

He quoted the Latin dictum, per cucem ad lucem, “through the cross to the light,” and said that we simply cannot comprehend the divine-human meaning of evil and suffering as a Christian unless we saturate our own “linguistic universe” with the “word of the cross” (1 Cor. 1:18) refracted through Christ’s traditional seven last words. This was a wonderfully new thought for me! He said,

The Seven Last Words of Jesus sum up, you might say, a Christian grammar of faith in the night of suffering; a faith that engages both a sinful, fallen world and a silent God in a very specific manner. This vision of faith is only intelligible, you might say, from the vantage of a dying God who, though struck down, looks up in trust and dies in the hope of “the joy that was set before him.” But the fact is that this language, these 7 words, apart from faith, are folly, absurdity, madness, scandalous. Those who make that language their native tongue will be seen as fools, even as they become capable of a hope and a love that are truly otherworldly; supra-human.

In case you are not familiar with the tradition list of those seven last words, let me share them in summary for here:

  1. Luke 23:34: Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.
  2. Luke 23:43: Truly, I say to you, this day you will be with me in Paradise.
  3. John 19:26–27: Woman, behold your son. Behold your mother.
  4. Matthew 27:46 & Mark 15:34 My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
  5. John 19:28: I thirst.
  6. John 19:29-30: It is finished.
  7. Luke 23:46: Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.


For me, those insights were earth-shaking, horizon-stretching ones that pulled together things I knew already in one way or another, but joined them into a new and fresh portrait. Seeing my whole life, my own (weak and fitful!) personal trust in God’s provision for my welfare through the translucent icon of a Crucified Christ through whom all of history finds its meaning, judgment and fulfillment, was, let’s say unsettlingly comforting. It also gave me a new theological lens through which to read a saying my very first spiritual director shared with me when I would fret about the twists and turns of my life,

Trusting God only means something when you’re suspended naked above Golgotha. No need for trust when you’re building tents on Tabor.

[These references, if they are not clear, are to the sites of Jesus' crucifixion (Golgotha) and transfiguration (Tabor).]

When Divine Providence becomes our vision

I will end this unwieldy reflection with a quote I have shared before. It’s by the Russian saint-martyr, the eldest daughter of Czar Nicholas II, Grand Duchess St. Olga. Shortly before her murder by the Bolsheviks in 1917, she penned a prayer that reflects this brash trust in God’s “paschal providence,” and bears within it the refracted grammar of the dying Christ:

Send us, Lord, the patience, in this year of stormy, gloom-filled days, to suffer popular oppression, and the tortures of our hangmen. Give us strength, oh Lord of justice, our neighbor’s evil to forgive; and the Cross so heavy and bloody, with Your humility to meet.  In days when enemies rob us: to bear the shame and humiliation, O Christ our Savior, help us. Ruler of the world, God of the universe, bless us with prayer and give our humble souls rest in this unbearable, dreadful hour. At the threshold of the grave, breathe into the lips of Your slaves inhuman strength — to pray meekly for our enemies.

St. Olga Nikolaevna Romanova from http://upload.wikimedia.org

Theological Tapestry

Unknown Weaver, Flemish (active 1470-1490 in Tournai) Source: wikipedia

I view my work as a theologian largely as a work of weaving, creating a colorful tapestry composed of others’ insights, experiences and stories that, taken together and arranged according to ordo caritatis, the “order of charity,” displays more fully the beauty of Christ “come to full stature” (Ephesians 4:13). Everything I say, I have stolen. I’m a legit thief, I guess you could say. So every day I try hard to listen carefully and watch attentively for the colorful threads that are everywhere, all around us, and try later, in a prayerful moment, to worthily stitch them into a work of art.

Today, I want to share two of the more lovely threads I have come across.

Relentless Love

First, I want to tell you the story of two women I have come to know. They don’t work anywhere associated with my work and I will slightly alter the details to ensure anonymity. They both serve in a diner and over the last year I have come to know their stories because, let’s just say, they’re very chatty.

The first woman is in her late 50′s. She’s a widow and has several adult children. One of her daughters has three children of her own, fathered by two different men, is not married and is not interested in raising those children. In fact, she moved away and left them with her mother. So this grandmother now cares for her three grandchildren in her tiny apartment, works two nearly full-time jobs and is putting the children through school.

The other woman is in her 60′s. She has an adult brother in his 50′s who is severely handicapped and lives in an assisted care facility. She was once married but her husband died young. She presently lives with her boyfriend of 20 years, who does not work and is on disability, and she visits her handicapped brother every morning of every day, before going to work at one of her two jobs, just to make sure he takes his medicine. She has adult children as well who don’t help her financially at all, but amazingly she does not hold it against them but blames only herself for not being a good enough mother. To top it all off, one of her sons was killed in a gruesome accident, leaving his wife and children without support.

They are two tragic figures in a morally messy place who, in spite of it all, are filled with an irrepressible zest for life and a steely resolve to live each day so focused on others’ welfare that they simply don’t have time to feel sorry for themselves. In fact, they’ve never voiced a single complaint about their own plight, only about the plight of others. They’re both Catholics and have serious faith, but it’s very understated and homely faith, truly the embodiment of 1 John 3:18,

Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth.

That’s all amazing to me, and makes me never want to complain about any of my piddly woes. But here’s the part that, for me, is the scarlet thread of rarest beauty. Before Christmas, the first woman came to work crying because she simply did not have the money to buy gifts she so desperately wanted for her grandchildren. The second woman, a woman of meager means, grabbed her shoulders with obvious affection and said, giving her a wad of money, “Here, take this for them.” Both of them now crying, the grandmother resisting the gift but at last overcome by the force of her coworker’s no-nonsense insistence, the whole scene was just otherworldly; like watching a movie. Extraordinary, humbling, an epiphany of God, a sacrifice of two bodies offered up pro multis, “for many,” That what fuels the liturgy of heaven on earth, a worthy offering that, brought to the Eucharistic Sacrifice, saves the world.

Ferocious Love

The second “colored thread” I wish to share with you is from a dear friend of mine in Tallahassee, Florida, named Kathy Behm. I had the privilege of walking with her, as a sponsor, through the RCIA process into the Catholic Church. Kathy’s “a brand plucked out of the fire” (Zechariah 3:2). She came on the retreat I led a few weeks ago in Tallahassee and shared with me on the last day of the retreat a poem that she had penned during the retreat. I was so moved by it’s beauty, I asked if I could post it anonymously and she said yes. But she allowed me to say that it was hers. I’ve left it exactly as she gave it to me, and am certain you will feel blessed to be allowed to listen to her heart sing to God. Truly, this is the greatest gift of my work as a theologian: that I get to receive the beauty of human language offered to God in sacrifice and then I get to give it all away.


O Ferocious Love of the Lord
who hunts me down relentlessly
You tear and rend
My heart——-until I bleed
Stains of sin.
Precious Blood—–Fount of Life
Course through my veins
Until you are the beat of my heart

O Jealous Lover of my soul
Your Passions will not rest
Til you have all of me.
Such ruthless love
Shatters me,
All that I thought I was
All that I thought you were
Is but dust.
Breathe life into this clay
Call forth out of this dark void—-
So that all I am not –will become
all that we will be.
The Lord says,
“At the end of you is Me,”

O my Beloved OBSESSION
Ravished by love I sought you
But I can not find you.
Pierced with distress I stumble upon you
But is this truly you or is it me.
Is this my Beloved Lord?
Shattered and blood stained.
I can not recognize you
Help me to see you in
The messiness of the slaughter
I see you now you gaze at me
And I dissolve.

Ferocious, Relentless, Jealous God
You spent yourself for me.
I am the handmaiden
Of the Lord,
Be unto me
according to your Passions.

By Kathy Behm
Lenten Retreat with Tom Neal 3/8/14


Saved by Love, for Love

alessandro serenelli

An aged Alessandro Serenelli praying in front of St. Maria Goretti’s image.

I recall my theology professor, during a class I had on soteriology (the study of salvation) back in 1992, going on a tangent as he spoke about concupiscence, that disorder in the soul left by sin that inclines us to evil. As I recall, he was making a point he loved to emphasize, that God’s ordinary manner of saving human beings from the rubble of a fallen world is by eliciting their free and costly cooperation with His saving grace. He said (thank God I kept my notes!),

Like a good parent, God doesn’t simply do for us what we can do for ourselves. His grace aids us by enlivening our own capacity to do His will. Were He to do it all for us, we would be rendered helpless, salvation would not be truly human and we would inevitably become spoiled children of God. Rather, God preserves the nobility of our humanity, made in His image, by saving us with us and allowing us to share in His work and accrue merit. God created secondary causes — creation with its own ability to act — because He loves communion and not fusion; persons not puppets…and this saving comes to us in the form of Jesus crucified, the supreme sign of the divine-human intersection ordered to salvation. Salvation is costly, cross-borne, because its healing has one goal: to birth in us the capacity to love with the very love with which God loved us in Christ crucified. For us, this means the whole life of virtue. The Council of Trent argued that the reason God left concupiscence behind in us even after Baptism — how easy it would have been if he had simply removed it all! — was “for the sake of the battle.” The nobility of sharing with God in the re-creation of all things, beginning with my own soul! What a noblesse oblige, what a terrible glory He has given to us! Only in a Eucharist celebrating the brutal and bloody death of a God who is love could we ever give fitting thanks for this unspeakable honor!

I thought of this mind-blowing insight as I came across a wonderful quote from Catherine de Hueck Doherty in this week’s Magnificat:

Lent is here to remind us that the mercy of God is ours provided we embrace his law of love; provided we realize that it’s going to hurt, and hurt plenty, but that the very hurting will be the healing. That is the paradox of God, that while you hurt, you heal. That’s true healing.

Salvation, which is a healing of the whole person, comes principally through the daily labor of learning to love God and neighbor under the blazing sun of life’s many hardships; of learning patience and trust, mercy and sacrifice, repentance and forgiveness, prayer in the dark and in the light; of learning how to be loved by God so that I might love like God, forgiven by God that I might forgive like God, nourished by God that I might nourish like God. If we look for healing in hidden rooms away from the rest of humanity, we will find only ourselves; not God. And if we look for salvation to come to us in a moment, to free us from the burden apart from “the battle,” it is not Christ’s grace that we seek. Christian healing seeks the Spirit to transform pain into mercy’s sacrifice, grief into joy-bearing love, wounds into grace-filled portals, as when the deceased St. Maria Goretti appeared to her murderer, Alessandro Serenelli, while he was in prison and handed him 14 pure white lilies that bloomed from her 14 stab wounds and brought him to immediate and total conversion. She had been healed by Christ in Paradise only to love her enemy back into life.

Is this not, rather, the fast that I choose: releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yoke; Setting free the oppressed, breaking off every yoke? Is it not sharing your bread with the hungry, bringing the afflicted and the homeless into your house; Clothing the naked when you see them, and not turning your back on your own flesh? Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your wound shall quickly be healed… — Isaiah 58:6-8

The Gospel of Math

[As I am still recovering from an intensive retreat I recently gave, I am thin on words. But here's a fun and fleeting thought for today.]

As I once collapsed under the weight of advanced calculus in college, this Blog post title strikes terror in my soul.

I used to have a t-shirt back in college (that I took off on the spot and gave to a complete stranger who said she thought it was ‘so cool’ — something you do when you’re an undergrad) that had this on the back:

I wish I had it again.

I recall my physics professor in a lecture back in 1988 at Florida State said,

If there is a God, his first language is math.

Thank God my own theological work does not require this language, though if I were a real theologian like Augustine, I would be more committed to learning:

God’s infinity would still be of a higher magnitude, an infinity of different kind. His infinity is above all possible temporal (and spatial) infinity; it is an infinity of infinities, whose magnitude can be dimly imagined by means of mathematical infinity. It is an infinity of infinities also in that, As St. Augustine said in City of God, “all infinity is in some ineffable way made finite to God,” since no infinity is incomprehensible to God, he can count numbers without succession of thought. God is even able to count without numbers, which assumes that there is no number equal to the quantity of all numbers, that is, no number, to use modern parlance, expressing cardinality of integers (which is aleph zero). This is no hindrance to God who is able to see the entire sequence of numbers without looking at these numbers one by one. Infinity of these numbers can be grasped in one act of comprehension. – Adam Drozdek, “Beyond Infinity: Augustine and Cantor”

Reading Drozdek’s book, as a friend of mine words it, often feels like a dog watching TV: captivated but uncomprehending.

On that note, let me encourage you to watch this ~9 minute video on “falling in love with math,” and then apply its principles to evangelization and catechesis. My son shared it with me and said: “This is how the Church should approach making the faith attractive.” Yes.

Here it is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yexc19j3TjE

Happy Feast, O.P.!

St. Thomas Aquinas, O.P.
1225 – 7 March 1274

On this feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, whom I was named after by my parents, I want to steal a few quotes from Denys Turner’s excellent introduction to Aquinas’ life and thought, Thomas Aquinas: A Portrait, and roundly affirm what Turner argues is the saint’s greatest quality: his radically self-effacing humility.

Contrasting Aquinas with Augustine, who wrote “himself prominently into nearly every work of theology he composed,” Turner contends that St. Thomas “doesn’t really have a personal style; you have the feeling that for him nothing he writes is his.” His genius, Turner says, is his refusal to be scintillating or spotlight himself. As Turner puts it,

Everyone loves to quote the Thomas who says that it is better to cast light for others than merely to shine for oneself, and truly the Dominican motto, contemplata aliis tradere, the passing on to others what one has encountered in contemplation, is nearly as good as it gets as a précis of Thomas’s holiness.

Pro vobis et pro multis, “For you and for many”

That Dominican motto has served as my personal examination of conscience for years — In what sense have I, or have I not, placed all that I possess and all that I am at the service of God’s glory and the betterment/salvation of others? When I first read St. Augustine’s comment in grad school — “What I learn, I learn that I might give it away” — I suddenly saw my life’s work in a new light. What should motivate me in my studies is not just what I find interesting or pleasing, but what will best serve the needs of those I have been called to serve in the future I am preparing for. It’s the message I ardently desire to share with the seminarians who are preparing to be sealed by the sacramental mark of Christus Magister, “Christ the Teacher” –Your love for those you will one day serve as priests, allow it to open in your mind a ravenous hunger to learn all you can for them.

Thinking with Thomas

To read St. Thomas is to find yourself accosted by order, clarity, precision, breadth, depth. To think with him is to find yourself immersed in a wildly diverse intellectual communion, other minds in quest of the one Truth — Jews, Muslims, Pagans, Heretics, Saints. Aquinas was willing to give anyone a hearing, to welcome them into the ambit of his faith’s quest for understanding. To enter his mind is to enter into a vast, complex yet unified cathedral, and feel your own mind at once dwarfed. As Turner says,

The main danger is that of supposing that the thing to do is get a mind on the scale of Thomas’s into your head, a task of compression that will be achieved only at your head’s peril. The only safe thing to do is to find a way of getting your mind into his, wherein yours has room to expand and grow, and explore the worlds his contains.

For those who choose to enter, there joy awaits; joy that emanates from the disarmingly pure heart of this giant of our Catholic tradition. And once God seduces you into the mind of the Angelic Doctor, you’ll fall in love. But if by chance you don’t believe me, let me permit that self-proclaimed “Hillbilly Thomist,” Flannery O’Connor, argue my case:

So I couldn’t make any judgment on the Summa, except to say this: I read it every night before I go to bed. If my mother were to come in during the process and say, ‘Turn off that light. It’s late,’ I with lifted finger and broad bland beatific expression, would reply, ‘On the contrary, I answer that the light, being eternal and limitless, cannot be turned off. Shut your eyes,’ or some such thing. In any case, I feel I can personally guarantee that St. Thomas loved God because for the life of me I cannot help loving St. Thomas.

Happy Feast, O.P.!

With St. Thomas now, let us pray:

Lay geniuses

Vatican II’s vision of lay sanctity needs a new St. Francis of Assisi, stripped of a religious habit and re-clothed in a secular baptismal garb. His 13th century mendicant revolution transformed cloistered monastic life into an outwardly focused, mobile, mission-minded movement.

Someone asked me to re-post this post I wrote 16 months ago. I reworked it a bit over last Fall, and it likely needs more editing, but as I have only received 2 requests in 4 years to re-post a specific post, how could I resist? It recapitulates some of the points I made a few weeks ago on the lay vocation, but for what it’s worth, here it is…

This post began with a hope to simply offer a few brief thoughts on a radio interview I heard last week, but as you’ll see my meandering mind got the best of me. Pardon its length and its ragged edges.

I was listening to a radio show featuring a convert to Catholicism whose radical conversion to Christ had led him from a life of moral corruption and spiritual aimlessness to a profound and lively faith in Christ. It was a beautiful and moving story. This sudden life-rocking roundabout eventually led him to quit his highly successful job in the business world and start a Catholic company that distributes religious goods.

It was indeed inspiring, and I admired the man for his courage. But there was a moment in the interview when I found myself really perturbed. After the man recounted for the interviewer the moment he felt Jesus was asking him to abandon his secular career and turn to selling religious goods, the interviewer said,

That’s really great. How inspiring for our listeners to hear that you abandoned your worldly pursuits, like St. Matthew, in order to serve God and his holy Church. We need more of you.

Out of my visceral reaction, I thought, “Oh, yes, as opposed to the uninspiring choice of remaining in a secular career to serve God in his Church!”


A clarification aside here. The word “secular,” which comes from the Latin word saecula, meaning “age” or “span of a lifetime,” refers in theology to this present time-bound world, the “temporal order,” in contradistinction to the “Age to Come,” the heaven of God’s eternity. Also, in the New Testament, the phrase “the world” (in Greek, ho kosmos) can refer to those elements of creation opposed to God, to creation as made good by God, or to creation as a “theater of redemption” loved by God even in its rebellion.

Though the word “secular” has come to refer in pop Catholic-speak to hostile cultural forces that sideline and demonize religion, here I will use the word secular (and worldly) in a more complex theological sense. However, in addition to the senses I just mentioned, I will also use secular/worldly to refer to those dimensions of our life in the world that are not explicitly religious or related to church institutional structures, liturgical worship, acts of piety, etc., i.e. all that is not directly related to the virtue of religion. In this positive sense, secular refers not to what is irreligious (which implies disdain or hostility) but to what is non-religious. For a person of faith, it’s important to affirm that there’s lots to talk about, think about and do that’s not religious.

For Catholics, the “religious” and the “secular” are seen to each possess a certain rightful autonomy relative to one another, and are understood to be each distinct but integrally related to the other. Such a view would reject any notion that the secular is somehow is absorbed into the religious or that the religious is absorbed into the secular, just as it would reject the idea that religious and secular dimensions of this world are either unrelated or opposed (which represent the growing consensus of Western culture). It was this necessary distinction that Pope Paul VI was thinking of when he said,

Here is the answer; and here is the new concept, of great importance in the practical field, the Church agrees to recognize the world as such, that is, free, autonomous, sovereign, and in a certain sense, self-sufficient. She does not try to make it an instrument for her religious purposes, far less for power of the temporal order. The Church also admits a certain emancipation for her faithful of the Catholic laity, when they act in the domain of temporal reality. She attributes to them freedom of action and a responsibility of their own, and she trusts them.

The Lay Call

Now, it may be that this Catholic businessman felt after his radical conversion that he was unable to maintain his new-found integrity within the matrix of the morally compromised business relationships he had previously established, and that Jesus was indeed calling him away into a religious-goods business. That’s not my judgment to make. And though I don’t know what the interviewer really meant by his comment, here’s the underlying message that I find detestable: when it comes to radically serving God, secular careers constitute a form of “settling for less,” while ecclesial, religious or even non-profit careers are the higher, more-radical way. Likely, I would not have been so attentive to this point had I not, since I came back to my faith in 1987, seen this mindset at work so many times. Though it is rarely blatant, and mostly latent, it lurks in the shadows as a sort of pious concession to contemporary culture’s secular-sacred schism.

Such an approach implies that coming near to Christ forces the faithful into an option crisis: secular or sacred, godly religious/churchy careers or godless secular/worldly careers. And flowing from that logic, those who convert and leave their secular careers to work for the church, engage in ministry, or to do overtly religious things are valorized and championed as the truly radical witnesses of real discipleship, superseding the choice of their still-secular counterparts to muddle along in the shadows.

Ordinary and Extra-

I cannot tell you the number of times I have been told by secular-career Catholics, “I wish I could work for God like you.” Though many years ago I would have probably agreed in some way, after reading the Pope’s magna carta on the laity, Christifidelis laici, for the first time back in 1997 my whole worldview was upturned. Not long after reading CL, I had a university math professor (I’ll call him Frank) express his regret that he could not be more involved in parish activities and ministries, and say to me that he really envied my job working so close to God every day. I said something like this back to him,

Yes it’s a privilege to work as a layman for the church, but you have to know that the church’s teaching is that I am an abnormal layman, an exception to the universal call of the laity to be secular like you. And my vocational abnormality exists to serve your vocational normality. As a man with a secular career, as a family man, you are exactly what the church says the laity are called to be, and being there where God wants you makes you very close to Him. The truth is, God has called me into the church’s employ for one single core purpose: to support what you are about in the world. That’s the real privilege for me.

I recall him saying, “I feel like a thousand pound weight of guilt has been lifted from my shoulders.”

As a man long employed by the Church, I obviously am a firm believer in the lay ecclesial ministry/career path as a genuine calling from God. In fact, for those laity who believe themselves called to serve in voluntary or employed ministries, the Bishops have spelled out a program and vision for their rightful place in the Church Institutional. But the fact remains, mine is not the ordinary or even preferred career path for the vast majority of lay men and women. It’s extra-ordinary, non-normative. The orthodox Catholic vision is that the essential character of the lay vocation is secular, meaning that the vocation of the laity is to primarily live, play and work in the temporal world, to be fully engaged citizens of the City of Man, engaging in the ordinary circumstances of secular affairs or domestic life.

St. Gianna Beretta Molla

From whence the temptation?

Last summer a priest friend of mine and I were talking about the many possible reasons that people who have radical conversions immediately want to abandon all-things-secular. Among the many points we shared, I found this particular point made by the priest to be very powerful,

For those who suddenly “get” Christ, living in the secular world while not being “of the world” becomes a great challenge, with lots of dissonance between what’s in you and what’s out there. Being called to love the world God’s way and remain in the world to consecrate the world to God, while not shunning or fleeing or disdaining the world, is as at times like a crucifixion. Working and living outside the ecclesial safe-zone is filled with ambiguities and ragged edges. We need to help people see the “church institutional” as a mother who makes a safe place to come to and be filled with strength, but to see the “church missionary” as a mother that thrusts them out the door to become saints.

It’s risky business to bear the mind of Christ into the City of Man, and in a post-Christian culture that increasingly judges Christ’s mind to be mentally ill, it’s even harder. But Christians, martyrs at heart, have always been risk-takers who are willing to chance being labeled a madman or fool for love of Christ. They’re on the Church’s front lines, engaging in God’s risky business as God’s foolish geniuses.

Personally, I have always been far more inspired by Christian men and women who live their faith outside the walls of the Church, fighting the good fight on the front lines, bringing the light of Christ to life’s darkest corners, revealing the goodness of creation and culture. For these lay saints, all forms of work, civic involvement, cultural activities, marriage and family life serve as their personal altar of sacrifice set up in the midst of a cosmic Colosseum.

And we must never forget that it was the Colosseum that offered Roman Christians in antiquity the very best PR for Christ.

Staying Power

So, what we really need hold up in the Church are the lay witnesses who encounter Christ in a life-altering way and subsequently heroically choose to remain in their secular careers, retain their “worldly” friends and acquaintances as befits their own personal limitations, embrace more fully their spousal and domestic duties, uphold more vigorously their civic responsibilities, feeling wholly at home in non-church environments among friends, co-workers and strangers of all persuasions and ways of life. In a word, the Church needs secular saints whose vibrant religious-church life naturally thrusts them back out into the secular world as their natural habitat and place of flourishing. We need secular saints who see that the leaven of the Gospel needs to exit the security of the leaven-jar in order to be kneaded deep into the heart of an unleavened world.

We especially need young people who fall in love with Jesus only to find their passion for future secular careers set aflame, allowing them to become a new “creative minority” in our society. And the Church ministers, lay and ordained, must help them in their discernment and encourage them in their vocation and mission to take on secular careers. They alone will serve as the wellsprings of a new culture, creating new economists, new artists, new politicians, new journalists, new educators, new students, new spouses and parents, new car mechanics, new salespeople, new justice advocates, new janitors, new business leaders, new lawyers, new doctors, new technologists who each excel in their respective field, being thoroughly imbued with the spirit of the Gospel while being at home in the midst of the world.

The Church must help them acquire what Vatican II called the “lay genius,” that they might become adept at doing the world in Christ, speaking all languages, living in all states of life, and mastering all cultures in order to offer all humanity the chance to think with them. These world-wise Catholics are ever-ready to speak with anyone about “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, or anything worthy of praise” (cf. Phil 4:8). Nothing that is genuinely human is foreign to them.

But such lay geniuses will never be unleashed into the public square as long as we continue to think that the radical, converted and faithful Catholic is only “working for God” if they work for the church, do ministry, abandon their careers or secular interests or at least view their secular ties as necessary evils. For the secular saint, church activities, ecclesial ministries or religious practices are essential servants to their core vocation and mission: to do the world God’s way. And let me note here that doing the world God’s way is the very purpose of the magnificent social teaching of our church. God’s gift of this magisterial teaching at this time in history is meant to give birth to a fresh flowering of holiness in the communion of saints: secular lay saints. And it’s primarily through such godly secular saints, in whom sacred and secular are reconciled, that God will heal the ills of godless secularism.

They are mistaken who, knowing that we have here no abiding city but seek one which is to come, think that they may therefore shirk their earthly responsibilities. For they are forgetting that by the faith itself they are more obliged than ever to measure up to these duties, each according to his proper vocation. Nor, on the contrary, are they any less wide of the mark who think that religion consists in acts of worship alone and in the discharge of certain moral obligations, and who imagine they can plunge themselves into earthly affairs in such a way as to imply that these are altogether divorced from the religious life. This split between the faith which many profess and their daily lives deserves to be counted among the more serious errors of our age. — Gauduim et Spes #43

A final “unsettling” anecdote

A young Catholic man I knew at Florida State University once mentioned to me that, after his conversion to Christ, he felt “guilty” every time he did anything secular. He said,

I feel like I always have to be doing church things, or talking about God, to feel like I’m close to God. And I feel like every time I do something outside of that religious world, like if I listen to non-religious music or hang with non-religious friends, I’m somehow settling. Even if I’m not really doing anything wrong, I always feel compromised. I hate it, but I can’t shake it! I guess I feel that religious and secular things are like oil and water. There’s God-stuff and there’s worldly stuff, and never the two shall meet.

The message I tried to convey to him was that he really radical lay Catholic finds him/herself in love with all that is genuinely human, and sees that every aspect of life, if carried out in the spirit of Christ, is an integral part of your path to holiness. Though it was clear that his experiments with sex, alcohol and drugs before his conversion had left him with a long and hard journey ahead to integrate his new-found faith with his moral character, ensuring his restlessness would be around for a while, I wanted him to understand clearly the positive vision of a reconciled religious faith and secular life that should inform and motivate his desire to be a saint. If he continued to drink in the toxic “split of faith and life” model that Gaudium et Spes describes so well, he would always feel caught in an irresolvable conflict between God-church-religion and the rest of life in the world. And anyone caught in such a conflict for too long will either abandon the faith or abandon the world.

Integrated Holiness

Going to Mass, praying the rosary, going on pilgrimages, spending a holy hour, talking about God are all part of growing in lay holiness. Reading the local newspaper with a cup of coffee, going to a movie with a friend, playing cards with your kids, tinkering with your car, going hunting, playing pool with co-workers, learning to dance, enjoying sports, reading a good novel, making love to your spouse, or sipping a glass of Chianti with your bride while listening to some good jazz music in the French Quarter, all the while talking about the world, is likewise part of growing in lay holiness.

Post-resurrection breakfast
John 21:12-13

O Lay saints, end the schism that sin had driven between God and the secular Garden He made for you to labor to cultivate and to celebrate with joy as a sacrifice of thanksgiving. Remind the world that all that nothing is good in the world is strange to you, and that nothing broken in the world, when purified and transfigured by God through our lives, is lost. Remind the world that the riot of beauty that is our worldly pilgrim home will be caught up into the beatific happiness in the next world. The vision of God and the goodness of creation do, and will, both constitute our eternal happiness. As my moral theology professor in grad school pithily put it, “The Risen Jesus still loves fish sandwiches (cf Luke 24:41-43; John 21:12).”

There are two words that frame the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass: Venite, “Come!” and Ite, “Go!”  These two words encompass the entire spirituality and mission of the lay vocation: to come to the Eucharist with all the “material” of your worldy labors, to give them over to Christ, and to receive them back transformed in the reconciling fire of His God-Man heart. O laity, made priests of the world in baptism, go out and labor in the world, making of it new bread and new wine susceptible to Christ’s consecrating power. Then, at the end of the day, bring it to Christ in his Eucharist that He might multiply it for the nourishment of many and keep it safe in His joyous Paradise for the everlasting Day of God and man’s immortal wedding Feast!

“For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard” — Matthew 20:1-2

Why Ineffably Precious?

Moses Receives the God-written Tablets of the Law
painting by João Zeferino da Costa, 1868

Here are two “fun” quotes that I wish to share today from one of my favorite quotable authors, David Bentley Hart. As I’ve said, his writing celebrates the beauty of words. Reading him makes me re-appreciate again and again the intimate link between the Word and the feast. Those who love God’s Word also love language itself for its luminous capacity to unveil the God-inscribed nature of things. Whether that script be carved into the Book of Nature, in history or on the human face of God, Jesus Christ, deciphering its meaning by engaging the linguistic arts transforms life into a perpetual feast on the Word that falls from the heavens and springs up from the earth anew each day.

There’s a German saying that enriches this view of language as celebration, “Bach gave us God’s Word, Mozart gave us God’s Laughter, Beethoven gave us God’s Fire. God gave us Music that we might pray without words.” And if we can say that Liturgy is the highest expression of language, we can understand better the essential role of music in Liturgy (and music’s daughter, joy) in worthily lifting human speech back to the uncreated Fire under the form of adoring beauty.

Related to this, Hart said in his theological masterpiece, The Beauty of the Infinite,

What Christian thought offers the world is not a set of “rational” arguments that (suppressing certain of their premises) force assent from others by leaving them, like the interlocutors of Socrates, at a loss for words; rather, it stands before the world principally with the story it tells concerning God and creation, the form of Christ, the loveliness of the practice of Christian charity — and the rhetorical richness of its idiom. Making its appeal first to the eye and heart, as the only way it may “command” assent, the church cannot separate truth from rhetoric, or from beauty.

In my judgment, Hart never separates truth from rhetoric, or thought from beauty. Nor does he, as he engages his opponent’s arguments with ironic jabs and subtle skewers, ever resort to crass vulgarity as he ably engages in what George Weigel aptly calls the the gentlemanly art of the insult. In this he demonstrates what my grandfather taught me many years ago in a letter he sent me when I was a Freshman in college: “Those who resort to profanity in emphasizing their point demonstrate both their lexical poverty and the shallow character of their trivial souls.”

But I digress within my digression.

The Quotes

The first quote is from Atheist Delusions, and makes brief mention of modernity’s  indebtedness to the Christian Gospel for its “unnatural” reverence for the inalienable dignity of the human person, while the second quote, from his bracing article in First Things, Christ and Nothing, makes reference to some consequences that flow from the cultural abandonment of Christianity that is nearing completion in the West. If you want the full argument, I highly recommend both the book and the article — though be warned, they are not quick reads, and will require a Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary by your side. At least it does for me.



The ultimate  power and meaning of the Christian movement within the ancient world  cannot be measured simply by the richness of later Christian culture’s art or architecture, the relative humanity or inhumanity of its societies and  laws, the creativity of its economic or scientific institutions, or the perdurability of its religious institutions through the ages. “Christendom” was  only the outward, sometimes majestic, but always defective form of the  interaction between the gospel and the intractable stuff of human habit.  The more vital and essential victory of Christianity lay in the strange,  impractical, altogether unworldly tenderness of the moral intuitions it succeeded in sowing in human consciences. If we find ourselves occasionally shocked by how casually ancient men and women destroyed or ignored  lives we would think ineffably precious, we would do well to reflect that theirs was-in purely pragmatic terms-a more “natural” disposition toward  reality. It required an extraordinary moment of awakening in a few  privileged souls, and then centuries of the relentless and total immersion  of culture in the Christian story, to make even the best of us conscious of  (or at least able to believe in) the moral claim of all other persons upon us, the splendor and irreducible dignity of the divine humanity within  them, that depth within each of them that potentially touches upon the  eternal.


Modern persons will never find rest for their restless hearts without Christ, for modern culture is nothing but the wasteland from which the gods have departed, and so this restlessness has become its own deity; and, deprived of the shelter of the sacred and the consoling myths of sacrifice, the modern person must wander or drift, vainly attempting one or another accommodation with death, never escaping anxiety or ennui, and driven as a result to a ceaseless labor of distraction, or acquisition, or willful idiocy. And, where it works its sublimest magic, our culture of empty spectacle can so stupefy the intellect as to blind it to its own disquiet, and induce a spiritual torpor more deplorable than mere despair.

Per crucem ad lucem

I wrote a poem 3 years ago for a friend of mine who has lived as a hermit in a pine forest for over 25 years, and who wrote about some intense physical suffering he has undergone – and about what a gift that pain was to him to come to know Christ in such an intimately physical way.  He referenced in his letter that the crib-wood and cross-wood both opened to him access to the same Tree of Life.

This reminded me of a number of medieval women-theologians who spoke so vividly of their own bodily suffering as, far beyond intellectual knowledge, a supreme form of knowing Christ-crucified. In our highly anesthetized cultural approach to suffering, this insight is hard to access.

Hand me that Ibuprofen.

I was so flabbergasted by this hermit’s capacity to be transparent to this vantage, I had to poeticize my thoughts for safe viewing; so I wanted to share here his white-hot wisdom seen through my safely scattered refraction.  As with everything I write, it is merely an extrapolation on the Cross and its life-giving sap.  What else is there?

Here’s the poem:

Solitude, lonely God-flesh

hid mid pines and wood,

bled of slivers, silver doves

flutter above; silently stars

light-bathe a blazing Cowl.

Solitude, lonely God-flesh

hung on Oak, stolid Post,

bled of iron, crimson love

streams down; shamèd sun,

tenebrous day, soiled Face.

Solitude, lonely God-flesh

entombed by Stone-sealing,

bled dry, gray; lifeless air

hushing Sabbath, linen corpse

resting Sheol, nay, Unshackling.

God, why can’t I see you?

If you’ve ever asked a form of the question, “Why does God seem to hide?” this brief (5 minute) snippet of a Peter Kreeft lecture (referenced on StrangeNotions) is well worth your time. Really, anything Kreeft says or does is worth your time. It’s embedded in my post, so you have to visit NealObstat to see it here: