Lessons from The Two Towers

...Here he was a little halfling from the Shire, a simple hobbit of the quiet countryside, expected to find a way where the great ones could not go, or dared not go.  It was an evil fate...This was an evil choice.  Which way should he choose?  And if both led to terror and death, what good lay in choice?

My college theology professor once said that there is one thing in theology that requires little to no argument to prove: original sin.  Just by opening the newspaper or listening to the nightly news, one is convinced pretty quickly that something is definitely wrong with human nature.  

When Adam and Eve disobeyed God, evil occurred, an evil that intrinsically changed all of creation.  The order that God had designed within the soul of man was broken: no longer did reason govern and guide the will and the passions; now the passions seized control if not held in careful check.  

But creation itself also became disordered.  Death came to man; death came to the world, too.  Enmity arose between the man and the woman; enmity now also existed between the various kinds of animals. And creation itself was no longer peaceful.  

Consider Hurricanes Sandy & Irene, as well as the devastating tornadoes that affected the midwest a couple of years ago: all these horrific examples of nature become deadly, severe, destructive.  Where did this come from?  It comes from the fact that evil exists now in this world.

We see the same parallel in JRR Tolkien's world.  The battle of good and evil encompasses everything, including creation.  Thus one of the major contenders in the Two Towers is the natural world.  Sometimes creation works for the good, such as the ancient forest that avenges the orcs for their needless destruction of the trees and ultimately destroys evil Isengard.  

As with all things, however, sometimes creation is a force for evil.  Creation is also polluted and corrupted (literally and figuratively)--and thus, becomes an agent of iniquity.  Consider the great mountain Caradhras that battled against the fellowship in the first book of the trilogy.  In the Two Towers, the evil of Sauron's Mordor seeps into the very landscape and erases all that is good within it:

Frodo looked around in horror...here neither spring nor summer would ever come again.  Here nothing lived, not even the leprous growths that feed on rottenness.  The gasping pools were chocked with ash and crawling muds, sickly white and grey, as if the mountains had vomited the filth of their entrails upon the lands about.  High mounds of crushed and powdered rock, great cones of earth fire-blasted and poison-stained, stood like an obscene graveyard in endless rows, slowly revealed in the reluctant light.  They had come to the desolation of Mordor...a land defiled, diseased beyond all healing...The sun was up, walking among clouds and long flags of smoke, but even the sunlight was defiled.

Indeed, the world and every part of it is at war.  There is no middle ground: either one is for good or for evil.  The same, by the way, holds true for us.  As Our Lord says, "Whoever is not with me is against me, and whoever does not gather with me scatters" (Luke 11:23).  

In this second part of the trilogy, the state of war escalates--the Two Towers contains some of the fiercest battle scenes yet, notably the battles at Helm's Deep and Isengard.  

Yet, as epic as these battles certainly are, I would argue that the warfare is most brutal, demanding, and costly on another front: that is within, in the interior of one's soul.  It is within the heart of man that the choice is made between good and evil.  All actions flow from that critical choice.

That is the lesson I took most from the Two Towers: the power of choice.  It is the freedom God has given to each one of us.  That battle between choosing good or choosing evil is one we constantly face.  

Consider these three potent example.

First, Gollum whose dual identity symbolizes these dueling forces.  On the one hand, there is Smeagol, who genuinely respects and has affection for his master, Frodo.  

"Then he [Gollum] came back, and slowly putting out a trembling hand, very cautiously he touched Frodo's knee--but almost the touch was a caress.  For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit...Gollum withdrew himself and a green glint flickered under his heavy lids...The fleeting moment had passed, beyond recall."

Smeagol does not wish Sauron to obtain the one Ring and thus wants to aid Frodo in his quest for the good.  Simultaneously, however, there is Gollum who lusts for the Ring that he once possessed and is willing to betray and kill to possess it yet again.

Gollum leads Frodo and Sam through dangerous, deadly territory as their guide, but the personal struggle he faces within is more critical and formidable.  Gollum's spoken dialogue with himself makes this interior war painfully clear.

"But Smeagol said he would be very very good.  Nice hobbit!  He took cruel rope off Smeagol's leg.  He speaks nicely to me."

"Very very good, eh, my precious?  Let's be good, good as fish, sweet one, but to ourselfs..."

One of the most suspenseful aspects of the Two Towers is the ongoing question of who will be the victor: Smeagol or Gollum?  And if Gollum, what will be the consequences for Frodo, Sam, and the Ring?

Then there is Saruman: once the greatest of all wizards, the head of the White Council.  He has wisdom, power, and influence.  All of these could be used for the good, which Gandalf aptly points out to him.  

However, instead of becoming an ally with the good, Saruman seeks to wield the one Ring himself.  Thus it is his tower of Orthanc that is one of the towers of evil.  

When Saruman is faced with defeat, Gandalf offers him an avenue of escape and redemption.  The decision is one that will determine Saruman's fate.  Unfortunately, this is Saruman's second, and most costly, defeat.

"But listen, Saruman, for the last time!  Will you not come down?  Isengard has proved less strong than your hope and fancy made it.  So may other things in which you still have trust.  Would it not be well to leave it for a while?  To turn to new things, perhaps?  Thing well, Saruman!  Will you not come down?"

A shadow passed over Saruman's face; then it went deathly white.  Before he could conceal it, they saw through the mask the anguish of a mind in doubt, loathing to stay and dreading to leave its refuge.  For a second he hesitated, and no one breathed.  Then he spoke, and his voice was shrill and cold.  Pride and hate were conquering him.

Finally, there is the Ring-bearer himself, Frodo.  The Ring and the evil it possesses literally weigh upon him and the hobbit must struggle to will what is good in light of the darkness surrounding him.

"...he [Frodo] felt only the beating upon him of a great power from outside.  It took his hand, and as Frodo watched with his mind, not willing it but in suspense (as if he looked on some old story far away), it moved the hand inch by inch toward the chain upon his neck.  Then his own will stirred; slowly it forced the hand back..."

Thus, evil occurs first in the heart of man when he chooses a lesser good.  The idiom "the devil made me do it" is misleading, as it is the free will of man put to ill-use that is the origin of evil.

However, this does not rule out the influence of the devil in the interior struggle, as the previous quote illustrates: the great power from outside is the power all of us sometimes encounter when Satan directs his attack against us.  One's temptation toward sin is influenced by outside forces: the lure and seductive voice of the devil.

As such, the closer Frodo approaches Mordor and its chief occupant, Sauron, the heavier the Ring feels around his neck.

Saruman makes his choice toward evil, but he does so under the persuasion and guidance of the Enemy working through the palantir, an orb that allows the viewer to see things across vast distances of space and time, and to communicate with others.  Saruman possessed one of the few remaining palantir and it was his curiosity that became the means by which the Enemy ensnared him.

"...alone it [the palantir] could do nothing but see small images of things far off and days remote.  Very useful, no doubt, that was to Saruman; yet it seems that he was not content.  Further and further abroad he gazed, until he cast his gaze upon Barad-dur.  Then he was caught!...Easy it is now to guess how quickly the roving eye of Saruman was trapped and held; and how ever since he has been persuaded from afar, and daunted when persuasion would not serve..."

Pippin becomes captive in a similar manner.  Inadvertently, in an effort to help Gandalf, he picks up the palantir.  (An episode that is a reminder to us, perhaps, to avoid people, places, and things that tempt us or are a near occasion of sin.)  
This physical proximity to evil has a decided effect upon Pippin, who later that night cannot stop his thoughts from returning to it.  He finally succumbs to the temptation when he stealthily steals the palantir from a sleeping Gandalf and slips away to look within it.

Pippin knows he is doing wrong, but proceeds anyway.  "For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do--this I keep on doing" (Romans 7:19). 

This brings me to a final point about evil and sin.  It is precisely because the battle of evil is waged on the interior that we cannot judge the culpability of another, or the state of his or her soul.

What do I mean by this?

Only God knows what is at work within a person: the potency of the attack of the Enemy, the knowledge the individual possesses, the full freedom of the will in a decision, the gravity of the offense.  

Observing another person's actions or decisions, I can certainly say, "That is the matter...the stuff...of great evil."  Yet, I cannot say, "That person is in a state of sin," simply because I don't know all the factors and details of the interior battle being waged.

I was particularly struck by a reflection made by Sam as he observed the death of one of Sauron's soldiers:

It was Sam's first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much.  He was glad that he could not see the dead face.  He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace...

Aragorn echoes a similar sentiment when Merry criticizes Pippin's misdeed concerning the palantir:

"If you had been the first to lift the Orthanc-stone, and not he [Pippin], how would it be now?" said Aragorn.  "You might have done worse.  Who can say?"

The truth of the matter is that we are all in battle, every day of of our lives.  We ourselves are the culprits when evil is done, through our willful decision to pursue a lesser good.  But our Enemy is at work, too, relentless striving to convince us his way--not God's--is the best way.  

To whose voice will we choose to listen?  What choices will we make today?

Lessons from The Fellowship

"It is very necessary to reconfirm in our own time the existence of the Devil which has been put in doubt by a culture of humanism, rationalism and materialism.  The Church has never had a doubt that the Devil exists.  Our language may be more discreet today, but the idea remains the same." 

~ Fr. Gabriele Amorth, Chief Exorcist of Rome

Author JRR Tolkien was very clear that his Lord of the Rings trilogy was not meant to be an allegory.  

That being said, Tolkien was a devout Catholic and it is clear to see that his formation in the Faith shaped and influenced what he wrote.

Frodo Baggins and the Fellowship formed around him face a quest against a very specific, very powerful enemy.  

His name is Sauron, but he is often referred to as the Dark Lord, the Shadow, the Enemy.  And from Tolkien's narrative about Middle Earth, we can come to understand a great deal about our own battle here on our earth.

We, too, like Frodo and his company face an Enemy.  The parallels between our Enemy and the Enemy in the Fellowship of the Ring are many.

"Then all listened while Elrond in his clear voice spoke of Sauron and the Rings of Power, and their forging...he told of the Elven-smiths of Eregion and their friendship with Moria, and their eagerness for knowledge, by which Sauron ensnared them.  For in that time he was not yet evil to behold..."

Sauron was not originally evil, nor was Satan.

The Fourth Lateran Council explains that, "The devil and the other demons were indeed created good, but they became evil by their own doing."

God, being All Good, can only create that which is good.  St. Hildegard, in one of her visions, describes how a large group of angels became conceited and pompous by their glory and thus attempted to assert their own authority.  Infatuated with their grandeur, they disregarded God and rather desired to be superior to the Almighty.  Recognizing this ambition as futile, they turned to their only other recourse: to reject God.  

St. Hildegard writes of Satan, "On this account they plunged downward into darkness, reduced to such a state of impotence...For God adorned the first of all the angels, Lucifer, with so much of the beauty granted to all creation that the whole heavenly host of angels was illuminated by Lucifer.  But now that he has turned toward contradiction, Lucifer has become uglier than ugliness itself."

In his discussion of evil, Augustine points to the Book of Genesis and the creation of the world when God divided light from darkness.  Augustine does not interpret this as the creation of night and day, but instead the separation of good and evil angels after Satan sinned.  Augustine explains that when God first created light, He created the angels (personified light).  There were angels, however, who turned away from good.  Light freely became darkness with this first sin.

Augustine asserts that, once the devil freely sinned, this marked the beginning of evil.  Evil was an historic event. 

Sauron succeeded in betraying the Elves because their desire for knowledge was so great.  Similarly, we read in Genesis that the serpent tricked Adam and Eve by offering them knowledge: the knowledge of good and evil.

"...I told you of Sauron the Great, the Dark Lord.  The rumors that you have heard are true: he has indeed arisen again and left his hold in Mirkwood and returned to his ancient vastness in the Dark Tower of Mordor.  That name even you hobbits have heard of, like a shadow on the borders of old stories.  Always after a defeat and a respite, the Shadow takes another shape and grows again."

What is the Dark Lord?  He doesn't seem to be an elf, man, dwarf, or hobbit.  He is amorphous...a shadow.

This idea of a "Shadow" strongly coincides with the Church's understanding of evil.

A shadow isn't something you can touch or hold.  It isn't really something at all--it is a privation of something...in this case, light.  

The same is true of evil: it is the absence of good.  Origen wrote, "...to depart from the good mean just this, to be established in evil.  For it is certain that evil is the lack of good."

Satan is persistent.  Though cast out of heaven, he roams about the earth, taking many shapes to tempt and ensnare us.

In the black abyss there appeared a single Eye that slowly grew, until it filled all the Mirror.  So terrible was it that Frodo stood rooted, unable to cry out or to withdraw his gaze.  The Eye was rimmed with fire, but was itself glazed, yellow as a cat's, watchful and intent, and the black slit of its pupil opened on a pit, a window into nothing. 

And that is what Satan, like Sauron, has to offer us: nothing.  They are ultimately empty because they lack God, who is everything for us.  When we turn from what is the greatest good (God) for a lesser good, we tread the path of evil and enter into a darkness.  

As Sauron gazed watchful and intent, so are we cautioned: "Be sober, be watchful.  Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking some one to devour" (1 Peter 5:8).  

Our battle, like that in the Fellowship, demands constant vigilance.  We need not live in fear, but we do need to be always wary of the direction of our thoughts, words, and actions.

While on their journey, Frodo and his companions are on constant look-out for the Black Riders, ominous black horses driven by foreboding, cloaked figures.  

"For the black horses can see, and the Riders can use men and other creatures as spies...They themselves do not see the world of light as we do, but our shapes cast shadows in their minds, which only the noon sun destroys; and in the dark they perceive many signs and forms that are hidden from us: then they are most to be feared.  And at all times they smell the blood of living things, desiring and hating it.  Senses, too, there are other than sight or smell.  We can feel their presence--it troubled our hearts, as soon as we came here, and before we saw them; they feel ours more keenly." 

These Dark Riders are "shadows under his [Sauron's] great Shadow."  They are under the dominion of Sauron and operate as his servants.

Similarly, Satan has legions of demons at his command in his effort to snare the people of God.  The demons, like Satan, possess great knowledge--though fallen, they are still angels, which means they are pure intellect.  They use this knowledge to pursue our downfall, tempting us with that which we struggle the most.  And as the Fellowship could sense the presence of the Black Riders, so can we sometimes sense the demons...in others, in certain physical places, even in our own thoughts.

Thankfully, the light of Christ banishes these evil shadows, if we stay close to Him.  He is the Sun that destroys them.

“Wickedness turns out to be the pursuit of something good in the wrong way.” (CS Lewis, Mere Christianity)

In The Fellowship, the Dark Lord is clearly evil and there are those who are his evil accomplices--orcs, wolves, trolls, etc.  

Yet, those who are presented as good in the narrative are not immune to evil; in fact, they can even become agents of it.

That is often where Satan snares us the most.  We always desire what is good, but often fall into sin and darkness by pursuing the good in the wrong way. 

Thus, Boromir (a member of the Fellowship aiding Frodo in his quest to destroy Sauron's Ring) becomes an agent of evil.  

His intention is good: to help his fellow men in Gondor in their battle and thus vanquish Sauron.  However, he ultimately decides the only way to do this is by wielding the One Ring himself.  What he doesn't understand is that anyone who cooperates with this evil, even with the desire to do good, will inevitably become evil himself.

It is a classic case of the end not justifying the mean.  We cannot cooperate with evil and hope to do good at the same time.

"Frodo rose to his feet.  A great weariness was on him, but his will was firm and his heart lighter.  He spoke aloud to himself. 'I will do now what I must,' he said.  'This at least is plain: the evil of the Ring is already at work even in the Company, and the Ring must leave them before it does more harm...'...So Frodo and Sam set off on the last stage of the Quest together."

Frodo is determined, by the end of the first part of the trilogy, to destroy the Ring because it is a tool of the Enemy.  

Perhaps we, on the eve of Ash Wednesday, can consider in what ways we may cooperate with the Enemy.  Are there ways in our life that we seek good things in the wrong way?  Do we carry with us power or pleasure--"precious" things--that ultimately draw us closer to darkness than to the light?  

If so, may this Lent be a time for our own journey to cast what is evil into the fire.

Lessons from The Secret Garden

"The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and placed there the man whom he had formed...to cultivate and care for it" (Genesis 2: 8, 15).

There is something very spiritual about gardening.  Cooperating with creation, one can produce new life: plants of tremendous variety and uses.

From the silent, dark earth comes a tiny sprout.  With the right conditions and care, the plant grows and develops--producing its flowers and fruit.  And then, when the plant has grown and lived its span of life, it withers and dies...shedding its seeds, which will then create new life once again.

How many countless Scripture passages refer to gardening? 

The mustard seed, the sower, the parable of the weeds and the wheat--just a few examples.  Where does Our Lord go when He desires to pray?  A garden (Gethsemane).  When Mary Magdalene is seeking Our Lord's body after finding the tomb empty, she sees Jesus, but does not recognize Him; instead, she believes Him to be the gardener.  

Gardening has been part of my family for a long time.  My great uncles owned a dairy farm, on which they grew many crops.  My father has a greenhouse and sells his produce to local restaurants.  Though quite humble in size, we have our own little garden and tending it is one of my favorite past times.

There is just something about digging in the earth...watching things grow...admiring and appreciating the beauty of creation.  

When you are on your hands and knees, pulling weeds or cultivating the plants, you notice things: the earthworm making its way along, the small bud about to burst open, and the footprint of some little critter that has found its way into your garden.

The feel of damp, cool soil...the smell of basil leaves warm in the sun...the array of colors on the silky petals of petunia plants...gardening touches all of our senses.  It is, in a very real way, part of us: we were, after all, taken from the dust of the earth.

Perhaps it is my love of gardening, or my longing for spring, or simply the need to read something shorter than The Count of Monte Cristo, that my latest read has been The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Mary Lennox is a spoiled, sourpuss ten-year-old who finds herself an orphan when her parents die from cholera.  Mary isn't particularly devastated: she didn't have much a relationship with them, or with anyone really.  She is sent to live with her uncle at Misselthwaite Manor in Yorkshire, England.  

A mysterious, gloomy place, Mary learns about a secret garden, which has been locked up for ten years following her aunt's death.  With the help of a friendly robin, Mary finds the garden.  Together with a boy named Dickon--who has a penchant for gardens and animals--she commits herself to helping the garden come back to life.  Mary also uncovers another secret: she has a cousin, Colin, who also lives at Misselthwaite.  He is bedridden, convinced that he will become a hunchback and die.  

As the book progresses, it is not just the garden that comes alive and transforms; a springtime comes into the heart of the main characters, too.

This is one of my mother's favorite books and she shared with me some the rich symbolism that she found within the story.  So, the beauty of these insights belongs entirely to her; I can take no credit!

The Garden:  The garden represents heaven, a place of exceeding beauty, peace, joy, and eternal healing.  In the garden there is harmony in nature and in creation: the animals interact with the children with no fear and the flower seeds bloom and blossom wherever they are planted.  Dickon and Mary are in this way a kind of Adam and Eve.  Additionally, when Colin first enters the garden, he reacts by proclaiming, "I shall get well!  And I shall live forever and ever and ever!"  Heaven is our eternal healing where there is no pain or suffering, but only perfect love.

Mary:  This isn't a perfect correlation, but it nevertheless does work in many ways.  Mary Lenox is a symbol for Mary, Our Blessed Mother.  Mary is the one who unlocks the garden and, once inside, she brings other people within: Dickon, Ben Weatherstaff (the gardener), Colin, and her uncle.  It is through her hands and intercession, you might say, that healing and new life occur.  Our Lord came to us as a baby in the arms of Mary and, on the cross, He gave her to us.  Now, we can most easily and quickly reach Him through her.  Our Lady draws us closer to God and, thus, guides us into the heavenly garden that is heaven.  

Dickon:  There is not a character in the book who does not think of Dickon without a certain fondness.  There is just something about him that sets him apart.  He seems to be one with nature: he can talk with the animals, who flock around him lovingly.  He also seems to understand the needs and desires of other people with compassion.  He is a great help to Mary as he brings her gardening tools and food when her appetite grows from unaccustomed exercise.  Dickon's symbolism is revealed in an argument between Mary and Colin, when the former defends Dickon by asserting, "He's nicer than any other boy that ever lived!...He's--he's like an angel!"  Dickon's protecting, guiding, supporting presence is akin to the aid that each of us receives from our guardian angel in our journey toward heaven.

Robin:  The first friend Mary makes is the red-breasted robin who sings from one of the tree branches within the secret garden.  "She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling...the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile."  The bird awakens joy within Mary.  It is then the bird that reveals to Mary the place where the key to the secret garden is hidden.  Symbolically, the bird is the Holy Spirit, whose presence within our souls produces joy.  The Spirit sings to us, guiding us to heaven.

The Key:  The secret garden has been locked up for ten years, the key hidden in a hole in the ground.  After Mary discovers the key with the robin's aid, she finds the door that leads into the garden--a door that is extremely hidden beneath vines of ivy, along a long expanse of wall.  The hidden door is reminiscent of Our Lord's words: "For the gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life, and there are few who find it" (Matthew 7:14).  The key to the garden symbolizes the Church, for it is to Peter that Jesus says, "I will give you the keys to the kingdom of heaven.  Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven" (Matthew 16:19).

Martha:  Martha is Dickon's older sister.  She works at Misselthwaite as one of the servants, cooking and cleaning.  Might she be symbolic of the Martha, sister of Mary, who appears in the Gospels and who was "distracted with all her preparations?" (Luke 10:38-42)

Magic:  "Mary was a great believer in Magic.  Secretly she quite believed that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend...Magic was working all the afternoon and making Colin look like an entirely different boy."  

Mary and Colin are convinced about the presence of "Magic" within the garden.  Colin, in fact, holds a kind of religious ceremony where he calls upon the Magic to heal him.  "Sometimes since I've been in the garden I've looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast.  Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing.  Everything is made out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people.  So it must be all around us.  In this garden--in all the places."  

One could very simply replace the word "magic" with "grace."  It is God's grace (His life and love) that is present in every creature, in every place.  As St. Therese of Lisieux aptly said, "Everything is grace."

While in the garden one day, Colin experiences a rapture and exuberantly stands up, proclaiming that he wanted to shout out to "something" to express his gratitude for all that he was experiencing.  Ben Weatherstaff suggests singing the Doxology, but Colin (who has never been to church due to his assumed infirmity) knows nothing about it.  Dickon then sings out, 

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow, praise Him all creatures here below, praise Him above ye Heavenly Host, praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.  Amen."

This is the most powerful aspect of gardening.  God reveals Himself to us through His Word, through the Tradition of the Church, and through His creation.  We can look at the beauty of a rose, at the wonder of a seedling growing, at the immensity of the sky and learn something about God.  

Creation tells us a great deal about the Creator.

Colin knew next to nothing about God; he never stepped foot inside a church.  Yet, he came to know a great deal about creation and, through that, the goodness of the Creator.  He called it "Magic" instead of grace, but he knew and recognized it.

The Secret Garden is called a children's story, but the innocence, simplicity, and joy of the book is a gift to adults as well.  It's a good reminder that the simplest things--such as a growing garden--can teach us a great deal about those things that are most profound.

Daily Bread Addendum

Do you recall that favorite professor of mine, alluded to in yesterday's post?

He wrote a powerful and inspiring response to my reflections about daily Mass, which I would like to share with all of you:

The theologian Nicholas Lash once wrote that the word "and" is often the most important word in Catholic theology. I find him correct on that account. In my favorite modern work on the Eucharist, "The Sacrament of Charity," Pope Benedict XVI explains how the Conciliar emphasis on full and active participation in the Eucharist by the laity "must be understood in more substantial terms." It must be founded "on the basis of a greater awareness of the mystery being celebrated AND its relationship to daily life" [article 52]. 

The first part of that statement reminds me that the Eucharist is first and foremost a "mystery to be celebrated," not primarily a dogma to be understood. It remains a dogma whether or not I understand it or even if I'm inattentive. Some mornings I'm not even sure how I got there. But it's never about me; it is about the mystery, the sacrifice, the meal. Somehow, the body, blood, soul and divinity of Jesus Christ is made available to me. Do I understand that? I never have; but the rest of my life, with all its beauty, is poor without it. 

The second part of Benedict's teaching is one I often overlook or trivialize: "AND its relationship to daily life." This is why what you and Kathleen [a teacher who brings her second grade class to Mass] have said is awesome in the true meaning of that word. For some reason the Lord wants us to bring OUR daily life to the Eucharist, not just vice-versa. Our daily lives are, in some fundamental way, related to the enactment of the Eucharist. Don't know how. That blows me away. It is Mary with her clanking pail and Peter with his interrupted nap that both perfect perfection. 

I am certainly no authority on how others view their need for forgiveness (my confessor calls me "over scrupulous," so what do I know?), but I see Kathleen's very presence with those 19 children as INTEGRAL to that particular Eucharistic celebration. Mozart shrugged off Protestantism because he thought it was "All in the head." Mystery strikes us everywhere in Catholicism; it assaults our senses in a joyful way. I believe God is delighted by the presence of 19 children simply there at Mass. He made them; I think He likes it when they swing by the house. 

It was Flannery O'Connor who said that Catholics should be taught to distrust their feelings in relation to sacraments. Ex opere operato is not just a dictum that allows us to flatter bad priests, it has another side that we don't often consider: sacraments do not work because of the righteousness of the RECIPIENTS either (CCC, 1128). 

When I walk through that door each morning, I am taking a huge risk. I may find myself looking into the eyes of that extraordinary minister who REALLY believes she is offering me Christ. When I place myself in the mystery simply by putting my shoulder to the door, sometimes unkempt, often half conscious, always kind of suspicious that His grace is sure to catch me off guard again, I am exactly where He wants me. Nobody should ever deprive oneself of that chance. Bring them all, every time. It's His house, not ours. We're just fortunate enough to have been given the gift of knowing we're on the guest list. When we seriously consider it in relationship to our daily lives, we know he wants us to be the ones who give others the chance of learning that staggering fact for themselves.

Daily Bread

Is it even worth it?

I couldn't help but ask myself the question.

It was a Friday morning and I was sitting in my car, exhausted and frustrated after going to the 9:00 Mass with my two little companions.

It had been a gargantuan task to get all three of us ready on time.  Mary had found a toy that kept her quietly playing independently and it was all I could do to get her to leave her bedroom.  (Normally I would rejoice that she was playing, alone and content.)  In the end, I agreed to let her bring her tin pail and shovel to Mass.  Well, that turned out to be the wrong concession to make.  Tin pails make a lot of noise.

We sloshed through the cold and snow, across the parking lot and into church.  

Per usual, we arrived just before the Gospel.  So much for the first reading and Psalm...not that I can really give them my full attention anyway.

The remainder of the Mass was passed by simultaneously nursing Peter and holding Mary on my lap...not always successfully.  And cringing every time I heard Mary's tin pail clanking against the pew in an unacceptably loud manner.

No time for a thanksgiving after receiving Holy Communion, as Peter was absolutely spent and needed to take a nap NOW, indicated of course by loud wailing.  He would have nothing to do with the pacifier, so--beckoning Mary to follow me down the aisle, pail and shovel in hand--we made a hasty exit.  At least Mary and I genuflected on our way out of the pew.  Well, I think we did at least.

And thus I sat in the driver's seat, Mary clanking away with her pail and shovel, Peter crying.  We were going to a friend's house and of course I forgot the directions in my haste to get to Mass on time--an effort, as I explained, that was somewhat futile, since we were late anyway.  

So I started driving, hoping I would remember the way.  And I started praying.  

Lord, I think you really want us to be at Mass.  I'm really trying to make that happen.  But this is just so hard.  Should I really be doing it?  Is it even worth it?

My mind started ticking off all the reasons for not going.  Dragging the children out early in the morning--usually a very cold, sometimes snowy morning.  Asking too much of a toddler to sit through Mass every day.  Interrupting a potential nap for Peter.  Always arriving late.  Not being able to hear the readings.  Distracted so much I can barely pray.  No time to even make a thanksgiving after receiving the Eucharist.  Causing too much noise for other people at Mass.

Maybe, I started to ponder, it's just better to stay home and use my effort and energy to be more charitable and patient.  What good is Mass if it just makes me stressed and feels like a huge hurdle to jump through every day?

And then, in my mind, I felt an answer to my questions.  There were no words spoken, but instead I received an inspiration.

Jesus was happy that we were at Mass that morning.  Mary, Peter, and I being present at that Mass brought God great joy.

God wanted us there--clanking pail and all.  Let the children come to me.  Their noise is a joyful noise to Him.  In fact, in my heart, I could almost see an image of Christ smiling, from the altar, at us.

I realized that Mary and Peter were the only children at that Mass.  They are almost always the only children there.  

Going to Mass isn't about me and how it makes me feel.  Certainly, it is helpful and inspiring to have a peaceful, prayerful, contemplative Mass where you can truly enter into the mystery of the sacrifice.  It's great when you leave the church with warm, fuzzy feelings.  

Yet, I have to remind myself, Mass is primarily about God.  It's not mainly how I feel afterward or how well I can pray.  It's about what I am giving.  I'm giving God my time.  I am giving Him my physical presence.  My attendance at daily Mass is telling God, each day, You matter to me...I want to be with You...I want to worship You.  

In return, God gives me something of unsurpassable value: Himself.

My favorite college professor, a theologian, once related to our class how, if not for the Eucharist, he wouldn't bother going to daily Mass.  He could always read the daily Scripture passages on his own.  But it was the fact of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist that brought him to Mass, every day. 

Jesus gives me Himself at Mass and the overflowing grace that accompanies that gift is not affected by my trying to nurse Peter or asking Mary for the tenth time to please be more quiet.  

As my job as a mother has become more challenging with two children, one of whom is a full-fledged toddler, I recognize that I need the Eucharist.  Daily.  As much as possible.  

Yes, of course, it's easier just to stay at home and keep the children in pajamas until 10 AM.  But, in truth, my job of parenting these children is harder when I'm spiritually operating on empty.  

A person trying to run a marathon cannot do so if he or she were to eat only once a week.  The individual's body would be too fatigued and exhausted to maintain the needed stamina and physical excursion demanded of such a task.  

Well, raising children with the goal of helping them reach heaven is much harder than any marathon.  I know that, for myself, the Eucharist just once a week doesn't cut it: my soul hungers for more.

As I pondered all of this, I reminded myself that, if God truly wants us to attend daily Mass, He will provide the grace to do so.  Then, suddenly, as though giving me a confirmation, Peter stopped crying and fell asleep.  Mary quietly and contentedly was looking out the car window.  And I found our friend's house without a single wrong turn or misdirection.

After discussing the topic with my very wise husband, I came to see there are ways I can make daily Mass more manageable.  We created a "Mass bag" for Mary with special books she can only look at during Mass (these books being, of course, on topics of the Faith).  Needless to say, the pail and shovel stay at home from now on.  I recognize that we need to get up a little earlier in the morning.  Five minutes can make a big difference!

And I pray.  This morning as I got out of bed, I prayed: "God, I want to make it to Mass.  But You're going to have to help me."

We got there.  Three minutes early.

Of course, there are days when we can't do it.  When we had some -12 degree mornings, I couldn't justify bringing out the children.  The same thing happened when we had colds.  One must use reason.  I also know that if I have another major commitment that morning (such as a doctor's appointment), it might be too much trying to squeeze in Mass as well.  Prudence is required.

No one is ever obligated to attend daily Mass.  Some weeks, we only make it a couple of days and, if we miss Mass, I simply make a spiritual communion instead.  But if we can make it to morning Mass, I try to go because, well, love isn't about obligations.

It has been seven years now since I began attending daily Mass.  When Mary was first born, I was tempted to stop and just go on Sunday when I had Chris there to help me.  With Chris's encouragement, however, I persevered and, in time, it became a great deal easier.  I hope that it will get easier in time with two children as well.

As we go out the door on our way to Mass, I tell Mary, "Hurry up!  We're going to go see Jesus!"  I know, in my heart, as challenging as it may be, this regular time at Mass is shaping and growing her faith, especially her faith in the Real Presence.

Because if Jesus really, truly is present in the Eucharist--body, blood, soul, and divinity--why wouldn't we try to do everything we can to be there to see Him and to receive Him, as often as possible?

Lessons from The Count

If you could magically possess any one of God's characteristics, which would you choose?

There are some heavy contenders: all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good, existing outside of time...

I would probably choose the one quality that is definitional when it comes to God, which is being able to love perfectly.  

But for Edmond Dantes, protagonist of Alexandre Dumas' classic The Count of Monte Cristo, it is God's justice he admires and, in facts, seeks to dispense.

"...I betrayed, sacrificed, buried, have risen from my tomb, by the grace of God, to punish...He sends me for that purpose, and here I am."

The Count of Monte Cristo was published serially from 1844-1846 and truly reads like the forerunner of today's soap operas.  Dumas weaves an intricate plot with many characters, who share surprising and intricate relationships with one another.  Within the pages of the book you'll find assassinations, extramarital affairs, political schemes, character disguises, suicide attempts, and even some secret treasure.

While taking the prize for being the longest book I have ever read (totaling some 1500 pages), it's simultaneously a fast read.  You can absolutely tell that Dumas wrote in installments: each chapter ends with a cliff-hanger, which makes it pretty much always a challenge to put the book down.

The book grapples mainly with the ideas of revenge, justice, mercy, and forgiveness.

At the exact moment that everything is going exceedingly well in his life, Edmond Dantes finds himself inexplicably thrown into prison.  He later learns that he has been betrayed by three men (one who envies Dantes' professional advancement, one who seeks Dantes' betrothed, and one who goes along with the plan due to his state of intoxication) and unjustly treated by the chief prosecutor, who uses Dantes as a scapegoat to preserve his own career and power.

After 14 longs years in a dark prison cell--kept alive by his friendship with another inmate, who shares with Dantes his vast wisdom & knowledge, including the details of secret treasure buried on the nearby island of Monte Cristo--Dantes is finally able to escape.  By hiding himself in the burial sack meant for another prisoner, Dantes leaves the prison and, as he is assumed for dead, is thrown into the sea.

This harrowing escape is Dantes' "baptism" from an innocent and joyful youth who assumes the best of others to a vindictive, determined man bent on executing God's justice upon his enemies.  This transformation is accompanied by a change of name, as the protagonist takes the new title of the "Count of Monte Cristo."  Monte Cristo is an island off the coast of Italy and the place where Dantes finds his treasure.  The word itself means "Mount of Christ."  Accordingly, ruling from the judgment seat of God, well-supplied by his extensive knowledge & vast wealth, the Count plots his revenge.

The Island of Monte Cristo

It takes ten years for the Count to arrange everything in his plan.  For, you see, it wasn't enough just to bring his enemies before the law.  No: the Count wanted to destroy them and all that they treasured, just as they had done to him.  

Thus, like a chess board, the Count diligently arranges each piece, setting up the pawns just so and, when everything is in place, he lets the game begin.  The Count manipulates events to position his enemies in circumstances of great temptation, which exposes their personal greed, dishonesty, and hypocrisy.  

Throughout, the Count displays almost a supernatural power. He seems able to predict the future.  No expense is beyond his budget.  His contacts are vast and numerous.  He even seems to possess a way to thwart death itself.  In short, he reads like Batman's precursor.

The Count is convinced that this power has been given to him for the good purpose of bringing about God's justice.  But "let any one who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall" (1 Cor. 10:12).  

"See...how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view.  I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,--I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy,--I, who, like a wicked angel, was laughing at the evil men committed, protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am, in my turn, bitten by the serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitten to the heart!"

What the Count comes to understand is that, while seemingly acting in the name of God, he really acts not as an angel of light, but as an angel of darkness.  Revenge becomes another enemy who threatens to destroy him: void of almost all loving emotion, he has become a driven man, bent on stripping his enemies of everything...even if such an undertaking involves sacrificing the innocent along the way.

That is the key question that drives the plot of the book: will the Count become victim again, this time to his own desire for vengeance?  Or will he realize that there is only one who can truly dispense justice...and when we seek to do so in His place, we can very easily become ourselves enemies of God?

Without providing the answer or explaining what ultimately happens to the Count's enemies, let me say that Dumas leaves his reader with two words: wait and hope.  

In the face of profound injustice, wait.  Wait because there will be retribution.  There will be inevitable, unavoidable punishment.

We have hanging in one of the rooms of our house an image of Michelangelo's Last Judgment.  It's a sobering reminder that Christ the King will "come again to judge the living and the dead" (Nicene Creed).  Some of souls will rise with the angels to the throng of victors surrounding Christ.  Others will be dragged into the fiery depths of hell.

And this is where the hope comes in.  Hope for ultimate justice?  Yes, but something more as well.  Hope for redemption, for conversion, for repentance.  

When one considers the punishment that awaits the soul that refuses to repent--eternal separation from God...from everything that is good and thus condemned to a state void of all love--can anyone in good conscience really wish this upon his enemy?

This is why, in fact, the Church teaches against capital punishment.  Yes, of course offenders must be justly punished and society protected from further evils from such an individual.  

However, as long as there are proper facilities to retain such an individual (which we do have here in our country), capital punishment must not occur, for the specific reason that it deprives a person of the opportunity to repent.  In killing the criminal, we kill the hope that the criminal will experience remorse here on earth and seek pardon from the ultimate Judge.

May you be spared suffering at the hands of an enemy, but if you find yourself in such a situation, may you resist the temptation to seek revenge.  

Forgive us our trespasses, as we have forgiven those who trespass against us.