Lessons from Brideshead

"Do you know last year, when I thought I was going to have a child, I'd decided to have it brought up a Catholic?  I hadn't thought about religion before; I haven't since; but just at that time, when I was waiting for the birth, I thought, 'That's one thing I can give her.  It doesn't seem to have done me much good, but my child shall have it.'  It was odd, wanting to give something one had lost oneself." 

Have you ever reflected back upon your life and, in retrospect, observed that the events and choices you've made--especially the difficult circumstances and the poor choices--weave together to create a path, a journey you never really anticipated, but in the end landed you in a destination so much more wonderful and joyful than what you had originally planned?

That line you marked on your life map, following you through your childhood, adolescence, adulthood and beyond, is the almost always imperceptible line of grace.  

It's the mark of Divine Providence upon the canvas of your life.  

And, with the eyes of faith, it creates the most stunning image...especially considering it has been formed using the poor, broken, and frail tools of fallen humanity.

The classic English novel Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh is a novel that follows the Flyte family during the 1920's and into the time immediately preceding World War II.  It contains many characters, but the main protagonist is none other than Divine Providence and through the drama of their lives, it is grace that ultimately draws the characters.

~~~~~

The novel centers around Charles Ryder, an only child raised by a distant, widowed father.  Charles is a painter and an agnostic.  His life seems to truly begin when he commences his studies at Oxford and meets Sebastian Flyte, who hails from an extremely rich and very (somewhat dysfunctional) Catholic family.  

Through Sebastian and the friendship that they share, Charles first begins to understand love.  

"In the event, that Easter vacation formed a short stretch of level road in the precipitous descent of which Jasper warned me.  Descent or ascent?  It seems to me that I grew younger daily with each adult habit that I acquired.  I had lived a lonely childhood and a boyhood straitened by war and overshadowed by bereavement; to the hard bachelordom of English adolescence, the premature dignity and authority of the school system, I had added a sad and grim strain of my own.  Now, that summer term with Sebastian, it seemed as though I was being given a brief spell of what I had never known, a happy childhood, and though its toys were silk shirts and liquers and cigars and its naughtiness high in the catalogue of grave sins, there was something of nursery freshness about us that fell little short of the joy of innocence...I could tell him [Jasper, Charles's cousin], too, that to know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom." (p. 45)

Sebastian, quite reluctantly, introduces Charles to the rest of his family: his pious and controlling mother (who is separated from his father), his distant older brother Brideshead, his ravishingly beautiful sister Julia, and Cordelia, the youngest child who is very zealous in her beliefs.

Charles stays at the grandiose Flyte estate, Brideshead, during holidays and breaks and gradually enters into the inner life of the family.  One of Waugh's greatest strengths in his novel, in my humble opinion, is the way in which he presents this family.  His characters are so very real.  Each one is broken, troubled, prodigal in one way or another.  In other words, they are just like all of us. 

And while it is clear that they are Catholic, it is simultaneously apparent that their faith is far from perfect.  In fact, it is--at times--a bit comical.  Consider, for instance, the following passage that begins with a conversation between Cordelia and Charles.

"D'you know, if you weren't an agnostic, I should ask you for five shillings to buy a black god-daughter?" 

"Nothing will surprise me about your religion."

"It's a new thing a missionary priest started last term.  You send five bob to some nuns in Africa and they christen a baby and name her after you.  I've got six black Cordelias already.  Isn't it lovely?"

When Brideshead and Sebastian returned, Cordelia was sent to bed.  Brideshead began again on our discussion.

"Of course, you are right really," he said.  "You take art as an means not as an end.  That is strict theology, but it's unusual to find an agnostic believing it."

"Cordelia has promised to pray for me," I said.

"She made a novena for her pig," said Sebastian.

"You know all this is very puzzling to me," I said.

"I think we're causing scandal," said Brideshead.  

~~~~~

Yes, they are not perfect and their faith is flawed--at times, almost nonexistent.  But grace is working through their lives, as inapparent as it might seem.  In a passage in which she relates a famous quote from G.K. Chesterton, Cordelia remarks to Charles,

"Anyhow, the family hasn't been very constant, have they?  There's him gone and Sebastian gone and Julia gone.  But God won't let them go for long, you know.  I wonder if you remember the story Mummy read us the evening Sebastian first got drunk...Father Brown said something like 'I caught him' (the thief) 'with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.'" 

~~~~~
And a twitch upon the thread does indeed occur.  For Charles, it happens gradually, through an ascent in love.  Love was first awakened in his heart through a brotherly love for Sebastian.  But then that love gradually gave way to a deeper, stronger love: a romantic love for Julia.  

But these loves, while certainly good, are only reflections of the greatest good, the deepest and most powerful love: the love that is Love Itself.

This is my favorite passage from the novel and in it, Charles first begins to wonder if his feelings for Julia are a means, not an ends--that perhaps they are meant to beckon him onto something greater.

"It's frightening," Julia once said, "to think how completely you have forgotten Sebastian."

"He was the forerunner."

"That's what you said in the storm.  I've thought since: perhaps I am only a forerunner, too."

Perhaps, I thought, while her words still hung in the air between us like a wisp of tobacco smoke--a thought to fade and vanish like smoke without a trace--perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; a hill of many invisible crests; doors that open as in a dream to reveal only a further stretch of carpet and another door; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of a shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.

While the themes of faith and the activity of grace are present throughout the novel, Waugh presents Divine Providence as it typically is in our own lives: working quietly, unassumingly, gradually chiseling away here and there at the hard marble of our sinfulness, slowly and methodically operating through daily events, even through one's transgressions and lapses in judgment.  

In fact, Divine Providence works so imperceptibly in the book that, without the lens of faith, one might miss it altogether...in which case, reading the novel still would be no waste: it's a wonderful step back into a time very unfamiliar to us today, a period of decadence and lavishness that the wealthiest members of society enjoyed to the fullest.  

And that's the brilliancy of it: Waugh writes a book about faith, but unless one is really looking for it, you might not even realize his intention.  

There is no "Saint Paul" moment of conversion.  But the call to conversion is there and it is heard only faintly, as though an echo at first, and gradually the door of the heart is opened to the one who stands patiently knocking.

Waugh is a brilliant, poetic author in his choice of diction and the plot he weaves is engaging, humorous, and so very relatable in many ways.  The ending, by many standards, may not be considered "happily ever after."

But I suppose that all depends on one's understanding of happiness. 

Just the Two...Three...Four of Us

It seems like most individuals and families have a special summer spot.

As a child, my favorite summer location was our grandmother's camp, located on a lake in the Berkshires.  

Later childhood, when our family bought a pool, it was our backyard where I spent hours swimming and balancing on top of our whale float.  

In college and afterward, it was the elementary school playground down the road where I would watch the sunset dip past the rolling hills--the spot where Chris would later propose to me.

Summer has always been my favorite season, by far, and perhaps it was because of these meaningful locations.  

The past couple of years, since our Mary entered our lives, we didn't really have a summer destination of choice...until this year!  Our special family summer spot is the local town beach.

Though I grew up five minutes from here, I never actually visited this particular beach (perhaps because my parents live in a different town from us, despite the close proximity).  So when Chris, Mary, and I visited Snyder's Lake, it was a new experience for all three of us.  And all three of us absolutely loved it.

Only ten minutes from our house, it's the perfect spot to go right after Sunday morning Mass.  At that time, the beach is just about empty.  The water is pristinely clear, the picnic tables where we have our lunch perfectly shaded by tall pine trees, and the slides at the playground wonderfully fast for a toddler.

That was my destination yesterday.  Chris was occupied that morning, so it was just the girls.  Mary and I packed our bags, donned our swimsuits, lathered on the sunscreen, and hit the beach.

The two of us couldn't have asked for a better morning.

I took Mary into the deep water where we swam together, her arms clasped around my neck.  The water was wonderfully cool in the hot sunshine.  Then we worked diligently with our shovels and pails to create a sand "birthday cake," complete with stick candles.  After one more dip in the water, we walked hand-in-hand to our usual picnic table, where we shared some leftover pizza and split a banana.

It was such a special morning for us, mother and daughter.  I always spend a good amount of time with Mary, but most of it is occupied with things to do--chores, cooking, gardening, errands.  But yesterday was just being together: laughing, playing, chatting.  

I think it hit me when I was holding her in the water, encouraging her to kick: things won't be like this next summer.  Even more: things won't be like this come October.

I immediately felt guilty for thinking this.  Of course, of course, of course I am supremely grateful and excited and happy for our baby boy on the way.  I cannot wait to see his face and to know which features of his come from Chris or from me.  I want to smell that singular newborn baby scent, to touch those little fingers and toes, to baby-wear and nurse once again.

But amidst all these desires and emotions was the realization that a big change is coming to our household and the relationships we know now will indeed be altered: changed for the good, but changed nevertheless.

It's so easy for me to give Mary my full attention now--to take her places we can explore together, to read her a story at her request, to have her cuddle in my arms each night and each morning before leaving bed.  And we've enjoyed so many precious times together, such as yesterday morning at Snyder's Lake, times in which we have developed such a beautiful, loving bond.

As much as I sincerely welcome the change in the form of a new family member, part of me was feeling the loss of a family of three.  

It brought to my mind the time before Mary's birth.  

I knew that the "honeymoon" phase of our marriage was going to come to a grinding halt with her entrance into the world.  I similarly felt the loss of what Chris and I had enjoyed, just the two of us.  I was concerned that the closeness and special moments we had shared as newlyweds would soon disappear.  No longer could we walk hand-in-hand as we always had: now there was a diaper bag and carseat to carry.

As I reflected upon all of this, I realized that, yes indeed, Chris and my relationship was changed by Mary's birth; it was changed for the better.  

Could we spend peaceful, uninterrupted hours gazing into each other's eyes?  Talk whenever one of us needed to?  Plan a romantic evening at a moment's notice?

No.  But when we did gaze into each other's eyes, it was with a deeper understanding of the other.  When we did talk, it was to share the excitement of our child, the incarnation of our married love.  And those moments of conversation were so much more treasured and valued, never taken for granted as they once were before Mary's birth.  As for the spark of romance, seeing Chris not only as my husband, but as the father of our child, only increased my esteem for him and deepened my love and attraction.

Our Lord says, "Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit" (John 12: 24).

When Chris and I welcomed Mary into our family, something did die: there was no longer two.  "Two" alone had died; we were now three.  

But that death brought forth so much life, so much love--much more than Chris and I ever could have produced on our own, without Mary.  Mary helped us to love in ways we never knew before.  And while there are times I miss those newlywed moments, I would never exchange them for even a moment spent with Mary.

And so last night this is how I reassured myself.  Yes, something in my relationship with Mary will die when our baby boy arrives on the scene.  No longer can I give her my undivided attention and the times when we can spend together--just mother and daughter--will be much fewer.  And that will be sad and an adjustment, to be certain.

But our baby boy will give her something I never, ever could give her, as hard as I might try.  He will teach her even more how to love: that love isn't receiving, but giving of oneself.  That there is someone beside her who needs our attention and care.  He will teach her selflessness and responsibility; no longer is she the neediest member of the family.  Now she, with us, will need to care for our little boy.

This is what love does.  Love is never content to be as is--it must always grow.  

So the love of husband and wife doesn't rest between the two of them, gazing upon each other.  That love shifts from each other to the new life produced from their self-giving union of one flesh. 

And then love isn't content simply to gaze upon the eldest child as he or she grows from newborn to baby to toddler to child.  It brings forth another incarnation of marital love, another little soul to raise and to care for.  

Together, these relationships of giving and receiving, teach the family about the deepest meaning of love, revealing He who is Love itself.

When our little boy arrives outside the womb, he will change our family.  He will help each one of us give a little more selflessly, to love a little more generously.  In that way, we will sanctify each other and bring each other closer to our true homeland that is heaven.  

It will be a challenge, as is all change.  And I will have to be very cognizant about passing the newborn off to Chris to still give Mary some special mother-daughter time--time I will be in need of, too.  

But, as Blessed (soon-to-be Saint!) Pope John Paul II said, the greatest thing that parents can give their child is another sibling.  I thank God for giving this gift--the gift of our baby-in-the-womb--to our family, and to Mary.

Last night, as I kissed her goodnight, Mary said, "I had fun playing at the beach with you."  It will always be a precious memory to me, too...and--God-willing--how many more memories lie ahead for the four of us!

Lessons from the Scarlet Pimpernel

This week we celebrate our nation's independence, which was secured through the American Revolution.

But not all revolutions are cause to celebrate and not all have such happy endings.

"...that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society, in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which none had the power to establish."

It's France in 1792.  The French Revolution is in full-swing and will soon develop into the Reign of Terror, a period from 1793-1794 in which the radical, secular republic became more and more militaristic and authoritarian.  

In an effort to rid France of all traces of traditional aristocracy, anyone with relation to an aristocratic family of old was subject to the guillotine.  Bloodline alone made one guilty of a deadly crime.

In the name of "liberty, equality, and fraternity," somewhere between 16,000 and 40,000 people were killed, including as many as 2,000 priests--in an effort to de-Christianize the nation.

This is the setting of the fast-paced page-turner The Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Orczy.  

A scarlet pimpernel is a small flower native to Britain.  It is also the alias adopted by a daring, crafty, and courageous Brit who, with his small comrade of devoted followers, helps those condemned to the guillotine to escape.

The central question of the novel is: Who is the Scarlet Pimpernel?  Who is this brave hero?  As one of the main characters quaintly puts it:

"We seek him here, we seek him there.  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.  Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?  That demmed, elusive Pimpernel."

A scarlet pimpernel

I will be very careful not to disclose the big reveal.  But it seems the shadowy figure of this gallant man and his enigmatic identity point to one of the main themes running through the novel: blindness.

It is indeed a blindness that leads a nation to condemn thousands of citizens--"guilty" only of their birth name--to death in the name of freedom.  But the blindness is even deeper: this bloodbath became a kind of sport and a crowd gathered daily for the great fun of watching the aristocrats sent to death.

"And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many victims--old men, young women, tiny children, even until the day when it would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young Queen.  But this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of France?"


It is a blindness, too, to believe that man can be perfectly free by eliminating traditional authority.  In this world, man will never be fully free--man's freedom is naturally limited due to original sin and no amount of revolution or bloodshed will be able to overthrow those bonds.  

As Pope Pius VI wrote at the time of the French Revolution, "...what could be more insane than to establish among men this unbridled reason..."

It is the blindness that we are all prone to, due to our pride and prejudices, that allows the Scarlet Pimpernel to be successful.  Often his disguises are so unassuming and disparate to the popular notion of "hero," that he goes undetected by the authorities of the French Revolution...and even to those closest to him.

I highly recommend this book!  It was a short read and has history, romance, suspense, and action, all packed into one.

In recognizing the blindness rampant in the leaders of the French Revolution, as well as the main characters who fail to see the Scarlet Pimpernel right before them, one is compelled to examine the areas and relationships in one's own life that might need the light of truth.

...And it is a sobering reminder that, while our dear United States was founded on principles of inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, we must always safeguard and protect the precious freedoms enumerated in the Bill of Rights--especially in the current times when certain, pivotal freedoms are in danger: the right to life for all, especially the unborn and the elderly, and religious freedom.

The Essence of God

This past Saturday I was blessed to attend two talks by the prominent Catholic theologian Dr. Scott Hahn, professor at the Franciscan University of Steubenville and well-known convert to Catholicism.

I'd like to share with you my notes from these two talks, as I have some friends who were unable to attend in person...and because it helps me process what he presented when I review my notes once again!

So just to reiterate: I am simply reiterating!  The below theological insights belong exclusively to the gifted Dr. Hahn; I am merely passing them along for your benefit!

Dr. Hahn's talk focused on the very nature of God.  What is the essence of God?  Who is God?  How do you even begin to define or explain God's nature?

The answer is the highest of all the mysteries of faith: the mystery of the Trinity--one God in three divine persons.  The Trinity is a mystery that goes beyond human logic and reason. However, it is not opposed to logic and reason.

Consider the natural world.  There are natural mysteries.  Take, for example, light.  What is light?  What is the essence or nature of light?  It's a mystery!

So as there are natural mysteries, so there are supernatural mysteries--the greatest of these being the mystery of the Trinity.

Blessed Pope John Paul II told the faithful that we must discover God for who He is.  Instead of always asking God for things (something I need to work on!), we should be praying: God, help me to know you!

The dogma of the Blessed Trinity sheds some light on this and helps us understand a little clearer who God is.  

Because God is one in three, we know that the essence of God is not solitude.  

Given that, what could we say is the very essence of God?  Any guesses?

Dr. Hahn's response: family.  The essence of God, of the Holy Trinity, is family.

God has fatherhood.  God has sonship.  And God has the central part of the family, which is interpersonal love--so much so, in fact, that it is the third divine person of the Trinity: the Holy Spirit.

God is a family.  God is definitional family.

All earthly families, by contrast, are shadows or figures of the true, perfect family that is God.  Chris, Mary, and I are like a family; God is a family.

"But wait," some might protest.  Fatherhood is earthly and finite.  Same with sonship.  Isn't it blasphemous to attribute to God these human titles and relationships?

Well, consider this, Dr. Hahn encourages.  God is omniscient, or all-knowing.  We humans know, too, just not perfectly.  God is omnipotent, or all-powerful.  God delegates some of this power, to a much lesser extent, to us humans.  God is also omnibenevolent, or all-loving.  We love, just not perfectly.  So, working analogously, God's fatherhood is perfect and we humans share in this fatherhood, though imperfectly.

It's amazing to think how radical and extreme a change Jesus launched in world religion when He called God, "Abba" or, "Daddy."  And yet, God is the perfect Father.  He is "our Father."

Dr. Hahn then related an experience he had while at Mass one Sunday morning.  There was a religious sister who began Mass (right there you know there's trouble brewing) by praying the Sign of the Cross.  However, instead of praying in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, she said, "In the name of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier."

Well, these titles are okay.  They are accurate.  But these names describe what God does, not who God is.  The purpose of Mass is to worship God and we worship Him for who He is--Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The word "Father" is more than just a noun; it is a verb.  The Father is eternally generating.  The Son is eternally begotten and is forever returning everything back that the Father has bestowed upon Him.  The Son images the Father by returning the same gift of life and love given to Him--the gift of life and love, which is the Holy Spirit.

Dr. Hahn then spent some time reflecting on those names that describe what God does: Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.

Let's take "Creator" first.  In Genesis 1:26 God says, "Let us make man in our image."  (Note the plural use of "us" and "our"!)  And how was it that God made man in "our image?"  As male and female.

Remember: God is not solitude.  So when He made man in the image and likeness of God, He made man as a family--as man and woman, husband and wife.

The primordial image of God is this marital convenant.  Just as God is one in three, in marriage two become one.  And that one flesh union of husband and wife brings forth a third person, a child, who is the incarnation of their marital love.  

It's amazing to consider that the essence of God as family unveils the mystery of marital love.  This one line was perhaps what struck me most during Dr. Hahn's talk: "There is nothing I can do with my body that makes me more like God than by renewing the covenant of marital love."  

In other words, every time husband and wife join together as one flesh, they are doing with their bodies the act that makes them most like God.  

And if that's true, if the sexual act is the act that makes husband and wife most like God, then it's clear how holy and sacred that physical action truly is.  By extension, we can sadly state in all honesty that this holy act is frequently desecrated in our culture and society.

So what about "Redeemer?"

Dr. Hahn made a striking contrast that illuminated a frequent misunderstanding about Christ's redemption (one, I must admit, I have fallen to as well).  He stated that Christ didn't just "buy us back."  It was something more than just broken laws and forgiving the sin committed from those transgressions.

Here are two short examples revealing the difference, excellently narrated by Dr. Hahn.

Let's say we have a prisoner in jail.  He is suffering from a severe illness, sentenced to a life-term, and is millions of dollars in debt.  One day the mayor of town approaches him and says that he is pardoned of his crime and is set free.  

This is good, of course, but doesn't change the fact that the gentleman is still sick and is hardly free due to his crippling debt.  The man is technically forgiven and he is released from prison, but this isn't necessarily the best-case scenario for him.

On the other hand, let's say the mayor comes to the prisoner with this announcement: the man is pardoned of his crime and when he leaves the prison, there will be a doctor waiting for him who has a healing remedy that will cure his illness.  Furthermore, the mayor has paid all his outstanding debts.  Lastly, there will be a limo awaiting the prisoner, which will transport him to the mayor's own house where the prisoner will now live, as the mayor has adopted him as his very son.

Jesus indeed paid our debt, a debt He did not owe.  But He did more than this: He gave us a spirit of love to heal us and to bring us home.  He made us part of His family.  We weren't merely brought out of hell, the eternal prison; we were brought home.

Finally, the Sanctifier.  How does the Holy Spirit sanctify, or make holy?  Through the Catholic Church.  To be apart from the Church is to apart from the family of God.  

This family is most evident at Mass.  Every time we gather for Mass as a family, heaven comes to earth.  The Holy Spirit unites us as one in the Eucharist, which is a share in Christ's own sonship.  Through Baptism and receiving the Body and Blood of Christ, we become adopted sons and daughters of the Father.

When we call a priest "father," we are reminded that fatherhood isn't--at its core--earthly.  Fatherhood is spiritual, is heavenly.  The priests who give their life in service to the Church are truly "breadwinners": they give us the supersubstantial bread that is the Eucharist.

Dr. Hahn concluded his talk on the Trinity by relating an experience with one of his newborn children and how, one night while rocking his son, he was overwhelmed with the love he had for this child of his.  

It's a feeling to which, if you are a parent, I'm sure you can relate.  I, too, remember nursing and rocking Mary and being astounded by the depth and power of love I had for this child, who was so powerless and so needy.

Analogously, that's what we are in the arms of our Father.  The love that we can have, as parents for our children, is just a mere shadow of the love the perfect Father has for His children.  

It's humbling and astounding.  And it's the kind of thought that makes a prayer rise out from one's soul: "God, help me to know who you are."

What's In There?

"What's in there?"

Lately, Mary's curiosity has dominated just about every family conversation or activity.  Only a few sentences will go by before Chris and I hear interjected, "What are you talking about?"  Should we begin laughing, Mary chimes in, "What's so funny?"

While it tends to create rather long conversations around the dinner table, I am pleased to see her inquisitive mind at work.  And frankly, I don't blame her one bit for wanting to be part of the joke or discussion.  

However, there are times when her questions take me completely off-guard.  Take today, for example.

Mary and I went to a local nursing home to visit a priest friend whose life is nearing an end.  Before we went to visit him upstairs, we first went to attend the daily Mass held in the nursing home's chapel.

I had a funny feeling it wasn't a regular Mass when, as we crossed the parking lot to enter the nursing home, I spotted a hearse parked outside.  My suspicions were confirmed as we passed the coffin making its way into the chapel.

My first thought was that I hoped it wouldn't be an especially long funeral Mass.  Mary is extremely well-behaved in church, but I didn't want to push her limits.  

But then I reminded myself what a blessing it was, in actuality, to be attending this Mass.  After all, it is a corporal work of mercy to bury the dead.  And I always find it spiritually sobering to reflect on the Last Things (death, judgment, heaven, & hell).  

Funerals have an especially powerful way of reminding you that death is inevitable...but our eternal fate is not and how we love or fail to love in this life will be the criteria for our judgment before the Lord in the next life.

Naturally, Mary was particularly curious as the coffin was brought up the aisle.  Since the chapel was especially full, we had claimed one of the few remaining seats, which happened to be immediately adjacent to the aisle.  So, in other words, the coffin was basically next to us for the course of the Mass.

"What's in there?" Mary whispered, pointing to the coffin.

Oh, boy.  I was absolutely not ready for this discussion.  It would have been helpful to have done some reading for such a conversation. Maybe leaf through a nice, solid book on the topic of "Talking About Death with Your Toddler."

But alas there was no preparing.  Well, in a way.  I suppose the best preparation for such a conversation is to have a good understanding of death and eternal life oneself.  And, thanks be to God, through my faith, I have been given that gift.

Here's, more or less, how our conversation went:

Mary: "What's in there?"

Me: "Well, that's for a man who died."

Pause.  I listen to the first reading.  Mary ponders.

Mary: "I want to see the man."

Me: "We can't see him.  He's not here anymore.  We're praying at Mass that he is with Jesus in heaven."

I begin wondering if I need to explain this a bit further.

Me: "Remember how Jesus died on the Cross?"  <Mary nods>  "After Jesus died, they buried him in the tomb.  But then Jesus didn't stay dead.  He was alive again, on Easter.  Remember how wonderful that is?  And then, after that, Jesus went into heaven.  This man died, too, like Jesus and now we're praying that he is with Jesus in heaven."

Mary: "The man go in the tomb?"

Me: "Yes, they will put him in the tomb after Mass, just like they buried Jesus in the tomb after He died."

Mary: "The man come out of there?" (gesturing to the coffin)

Me: "No, the man isn't here anymore.  He might have been very old or very sick, and that's why he died.  It was time for him to go see Jesus.  It's so good that we can be here to pray for him."

And then there were repetitions and variations on the above dialogue.  Mary was very quiet (aside from the whispered questions) for the whole Mass, except at the end when the family of the deceased man stood up and gathered around the coffin while the priest incensed it.  Then Mary continued exclaiming, "I want to see!  I want to see!" until I finally stood up with the family (hoping they didn't mind that two total strangers were with them).

Then tonight, as I tucked Mary into bed, she asked me once again about "that man."  So I reiterated how wonderful it was we could pray for him and how much I hope he is in heaven.  

"Maybe one day, if we love people very much and love Jesus & try to be very good, we can be in heaven, too.  Wouldn't it be wonderful to see Jesus?  And to see Mother Mary and all the saints and all the angels, too?"

And Mary, a smile on her face, agreed: "Yes."

My heart swelled: what a joy, what a privilege to help her long for her eternal homeland, to help her envision her whole purpose and goal for this life...to prepare for that true life in heaven with God.

It was the first somewhat deep theological conversation I've had with our daughter and it really struck me.  

One of my first thoughts was: how in the world do parents even approach the topic of death, without faith?  

I said I wasn't fully prepared for Mary's questions, but in a way, I absolutely was.  I have heard the answers to her questions over and over and over again in the Church's liturgy, in the Word of God, in my experience of the sacraments.  From death to life.  Life is changed, not ended.  Eye has not seen what God has prepared for those who love Him.

But without that faith...without that hope...without those answers, what do you say to your child?  It makes me so much more cherish the faith we have been given.  

The gift of faith made death so much more understandable, too.  In trying to explain what happened to the man in the coffin, I could make the comparison to Our Lord.  I helped Mary remember Jesus on the cross and His death--and His subsequent Resurrection and Ascension.  As Jesus did, so has this man.

I thought maybe it was too young for Mary to be attending a funeral Mass.  But then I reasoned that she has been seeing death ever since she was an infant, every time she looked upon a crucifix.  Every crucifix seems to cry out to us, to remind us that here is Our Lord, who has loved us to the very point of death.  

I didn't realize it, but death isn't a foreign concept for Mary.  She knows Jesus died.  And she also knows that's not the end of the story.  

The other thought from this whole exchange with Mary was the point of honesty.  There was a split second after Mary asked me what was in the coffin when I considered telling her something other than the truth.  I'm not sure what I would have said...maybe evaded the question...but ultimately I decided the truth was best.

Death is part of our life here on earth.  It's inevitable.  And while it is usually scary, it need not be so through the eyes of faith.  St. Francis referred to "sister death."  While Mary obviously cannot understand everything, I think it's good for her to understanding something about death.  That understanding can help lessen fear.  As a Christian, death is part of our story--even more so, it is part of our salvation.  

Telling the truth regarding death is the realization that, while we hope the man who died is in heaven, we don't know for sure.  It's not our job to canonize someone and it's certainly in the deceased individual's best interest that we don't do so and, instead, pray for his or her salvation & for God's mercy.  So I tried to be very careful in my explanations to say that we hope and pray that the man is in heaven--and not just reassure Mary that he is indeed there, when his eternal fate is actually unknown to us.  

Maybe I could have explained things a little better or maybe I left something important out of my response.  But I hope that the Holy Spirit helped me say what was needed at the time.  In either case, I'm sure there will be many other opportunities to answer Mary's questions on this topic--maybe even as early as tomorrow morning! 

Lessons from The Brothers

Finally, finally, finally I have finished Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov!

After several months and special permission to renew the book for a sixth or seventh time from the local library--it is finished!  Hooray!

Dostoevsky

Contrary to this initial impression, I actually did enjoy the book.  It's just that it wasn't the kind of book I am accustomed to reading.  It is a narrative, this is true, but it's also a tremendous work of philosophy.  If it wasn't for my consulting with spark notes, I'm sure I wouldn't have understood the nuanced layers of meaning behind the characters' dialogue and actions.

This classical work of literature is whopping in its size and its themes.  All the big questions of life seem to be in there.  Is there a God?  If so, why is there suffering?  Why are we free...and is freedom even good for us?  Is there life after death?  And if this life is all that there is, then isn't anything morally permissible?  Who truly acquits or condemns a person: a jury or one's conscience?  

Understandably, given the vast scope of philosophical questions addressed within the book, it's difficult for me to pick just one particular theme I would like to highlight.  But here goes nothing... 

The theme that touched me the most through this book is the concept that we are all responsible for all.  

This idea originates in the elder monk, Zosima, who functions as the mentor and spiritual guide for Alyosha, the youngest of the three Karamazov brothers.  Here is what Zosima says:

"There is only one salvation for you: take yourself up, and make yourself responsible for all the sins of men. For indeed it is so, my friend, and the moment you make yourself sincerely responsible for everything and everyone, you will see at once that it is really so, that it is you who are guilty on behalf of all and for all. Whereas by shifting your own laziness and powerlessness onto others, you will end by sharing in Satan's pride and murmuring against God."

At first, this idea of being responsible for all--including sharing the guilt of another's wrongdoing--seems unjust.  How can I be guilty if another person commits a murder, if I am not even present for the act or help perpetrate it?

As the novel unfolds, however, you begin to see that a crime does not have only one criminal.

The oldest Karamazov brother, Dimitri, is a passionate, intemperate man driven by his desire for a proud woman named Grushenka.  Unfortunately for him, his father also lusts after this same woman.  When his father is found murdered one night, all evidence points to Dimitri as the murderer.

While one of the major questions of the book is whether Dimitri has actually committed this act (a question I will not answer!), it is evident that--if he is the criminal--he has not acted alone.

Take, for instance, the father himself.  Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov is a brute of a man.  He is entirely selfish, unabashedly unchaste, and regularly intoxicated.  He more or less abandoned his three sons when they were children.  Dimitri's little interaction with him as an adult was to try to secure his proper inheritance, which he was certain his father had swindled him of.  With a deceased mother and this character of a father, what kind of upbringing and direction could Dimitri have received?

Then there is the woman of interest.  Grushenka consciously plays the father and son against each other, aware of their passions and fiery tempers.  She does so merely for the attention and for her own amusement, never considering the feelings of those involved and the deadly consequences her game may produce.

Ivan Karamazov is the middle brother and, while it seems at first glance that he is entirely removed from the murder case, it develops that it might be he who is most culpable.  While Ivan did not brandish any weapon, his religious skepticism and rejection of God provided the mental reasoning the murderer needed to rationalize his dark deed.  

Ivan, in his very intellectual manner, looks at the suffering in the world (specifically, the suffering of innocent children) and deduces that, either there must be no God at all or, if there is a God, He must be terribly cruel.  If God does not exist, then there is no immortality and, thus, in this life "everything is permissible"--even patricide.

It is the youngest Karamazov brother, Aloysha, who takes Zosima's message to heart.  Throughout the novel, there is example after example of Aloysha being "of all and for all."  

While Ivan coldly isolates himself from others and stonily rejects the idea of a God who permits children to suffer, Aloysha--moved by his faith--reaches out to help the child directly before him in need of love.  And in this way, Aloysha becomes the hands and face of Christ present in the world.  Ivan's response to suffering is isolation; Aloysha's response is to love.  

It is this offering of love, as well as the gift of forgiveness, that demonstrates that this "of all and for all" works in both directions.  I play my part in the sinfulness of others, but I can also cooperate in helping others to do what is right and just.

I suppose you could say that the damnation of one soul is the result of many hands, as is the salvation of one soul.  

It calls to my mind the scene in Matthew 25 when, at the Last Judgment, Christ questions: when I was hungry, did you feed me?  When I was thirsty, did you give me drink?  In other words, how did you love and serve the people immediately around you?  How were you the face and hands of Christ to them?

And who is more immediately around us than our own family members?  Perhaps this is why Dostoevsky used a family unit for his central characters.  It is very easy to judge others, and how much more so when the subject involved is a relative.  

We look at our siblings, parents, grandparents, in-laws, children, cousins, aunts & uncles and think: "Can you believe he or she did that?"  "Did you hear what's going on with him or her?"  "How can he or she support that?"  "What was he or she thinking?"

She's getting a divorce...he's moving in with his girlfriend...she stopped speaking to her parents...he's got himself into drugs...she dropped out of school...

But then we have to stop to ask ourselves: what did I do to help this family member of mine?  Did I try to offer some advice?  Was I fully present, to listen and to love?  Did I show love by refusing to condone a wrongful action?  Was I willing to forgive?  What kind of example have I provided?

In other words, what is my responsibility in this sin or wrongdoing that is happening?  Because--to the extent we didn't love--we are indeed responsible.

Lessons from Kristin (Part III)

"She had been a servant of God--a stubborn, defiant maid, most often an eye-servant in her prayers and unfaithful in her heart, indolent and neglectful, impatient toward admonishments, inconstant in her deeds.  And yet He had held her firmly in His service, and under the glittering gold ring a mark had been secretly impressed upon her, showing that she was His servant, owned by the Lord and King who would now come, borne on the consecrated hands of the priest, to give her release and salvation."

As she lay on her deathbed, her life slowly sapping from her as the bubonic plague ravaged her body, Kristin Lavransdatter realized that there were only two possessions she retained in these final hours of life.  One was the golden cross given to her by her beloved father, Lavrans.  The other was her wedding ring.

As Kristin removed her wedding ring, to give away as a donation for Masses for the dead, she saw that the ring had left a mark on her finger: a white band and the faint sketch of an M, from the center of the ring which bore a symbol of the Blessed Mother.

God had indeed marked Kristin as His own through her vocation of marriage.  It was more than an impression on her skin; it was an impression upon her very soul.  It was through her marital union with Erlend that God had indeed claimed her for His own, despite her sins and failings.  And He claimed her specifically through the crosses her marriage brought upon her.

How very fitting, then, that the final book in Sigrid Undset's series about Kristin is entitled The Cross.  For Kristin, marriage most of all came in the form of the cross.  But, in the end, it is this cross that most humbles her and grants her self-knowledge to realize her own transgressions and, thus, her need for a Savior.

It in in their marriage that Kristin and Erlend's worse traits become most obvious.  

Erlend, found guilty of treason, has been stripped of any royal dignity and all property.  He and Kristin and their seven sons must move to Kristin's ancestral property, where Erlend is most definitely the outsider.  Despite his repeated blunders and their subsequent grave consequences upon his family, Erlend doesn't seem remotely concerned.  

On the contrary, he effuses a constant, carefree youthfulness. The past and its ghosts seem to have no hold on Erlend.  As Simon, Erlend's brother-in-law who had originally been betrothed to Kristin, remarked, 

He [Simon] had revealed to Erlend something that he found more bitter than death to recall whenever it entered his thoughts.  And yet Erlend behaved toward him as if he had understood nothing and remembered nothing.  It didn't seem to trouble the fellow at all that he had wreaked havoc with another man's life.

Kristin, in sharp contrast, cannot seem to stop worrying about her family and the dubious future of her sons, given their father's fall from reputable society.  She, perhaps in reaction to Erlend's nonchalance, is overly protective and cautious of their growing boys.  

She joins the servants in toiling hard on their manor and she prides herself on her diligence, in contrast to her relaxed husband.  Meanwhile, the bitterness in her heart toward Erlend grows.

But he hadn't betrayed her; he had merely failed her again and again and made her life full of anguish and uncertainty.  No, he had never betrayed her, nor had he ever made her feel secure.  And she could see no end to it all.  Here she stood now, about to beg him to come back, to fill her goblet each day with uncertainty and unrest, with expectations, with longings and fear and hope that would be shattered.

Erlend seems most to blame for the troubles in their marriage and certainly it seems so in the eyes of Kristin.  However, the latter has similarly played her role in the weakening of their union.

To outward appearances, Kristin appears the more pious and virtuous of the two.  She attends Mass regularly, visits with priests, goes on pilgrimages, and prayers daily.  

But it in in the heart that God will judge one and it is here that Kristin's sin lies.

But deep in her heart Kristin felt that she had not forgiven Erlend.  She could not, because she would not.  She held on to her bowl of love, refusing to let it go, even though it now contained only these last, bitter dregs.  The moment when she left Erlend behind, no longer thinking of him even with this corrosive bitterness, then everything that had been between them would be over.

Erlend's sins are very much exterior.  They are quite obvious, sometimes painfully so.  But in many ways, perhaps they are even excusable.  He was poorly raised, with few good examples set before him.  When he betrays Kristin, it is he who suffers the most with great remorse and regret.  Though his actions are wrong, his heart is actually quite pure.  As Kristin eventually realizes:

He never held on to anger or injustice any more than he held on to anything else...I'm certain that God the Almighty knows that Erlend never harbored rancor toward any man, for any reason.

But Kristin's heart is cold and hardened toward her husband.  
It is only on his deathbed that Erlend and Kristin reconcile after a long period of separation. 

 It is in the cross of their marriage that Kristin's eyes are eventually open to a deep truth: it is only through self-knowledge and an honest evaluation of one's personal defects, faults, and transgressions that one can look upon one's neighbor.

Kristin perceives that her father, a pious, gentle, and forgiving man, was able to react in the charitable and generous manner in which he consistently did--not because he couldn't see other's faults--but because he had searched his own heart and had seen the darkness lying within himself.  

Her father's marvelous gentleness was not because he lacked a keen enough perception of faults and wretchedness of others; it came from his constant searching of his own heart before God, crushing it in repentance over his own failings.

For most of her marriage, it was Erlend's transgressions and failings that brought Kristin sorrow.  But as she ages and reflects upon her life, she simultaneously sees that it is also Erlend and their marriage that brought her the most joy.  She realizes, too, that he had always been a part of her--in days of sorrow and strife, as well as days of peace and happiness.  She knew that she belonged to him and this knowledge never left her.

Marriage is a cross.  It is a daily dying to self, in order to live for, to serve, and to sanctify the other.  Marriage requires humility: deferring out of patience and respect to one's spouse--sacrificing one's personal preferences, goals, and desires for the good of the other.

Marriage is a cross in bearing the other's vices and faults, but simultaneously never excusing or accepting them; instead, it is the goal of each spouse to sanctify the other, to challenge each other to rid the soul of sin and to grow each day in holiness.

Kristin claimed Erlend for her own--against reason, against her morals, against the honor and wishes of her parents.  Their marriage, founded in sin, was bound to produce the fruits of sin.  

She had grumbled because the father of her children was such an unreliable man, who gave so little thought to the descendants who would come after him.  She always forgot that he had been no different when she broke God's commandments and trampled on her own family in order to win him.

But God uses these misjudgments and sins to teach us and the days of her marriage became to Kristin daily lessons in suffering and sanctification, fall and redemption.