I recently finished Anne Rice's Of Love and Evil, the second novel in the Songs of the Seraphim series. Toby O'Dare, a hit man who has known profound grief, is visited by Malchiah, an seraph who bears a message of God's mercy and the need to make reparation for sin. Thus far, that opportunity has involved travelling back in time and space ("Angel Time") to protect God's chosen people, the Jews, from persecution. In the first novel in the series, Angel Time, Malchiah brings Toby to thirteenth century England where, in the guise of a Dominican friar, he defends a Jewish family that has been falsely accused of murdering their young daughter. Similarly, in this second novel, Toby is taken to sixteenth century Rome, where he intervenes in the case of a Jewish physician, who has been falsely accused of poisoning his Christian patient. It is a delightful series, well-grounded in the Catholic theological tradition with much owed to Thomas Aquinas, the "Angelic Doctor", that creatively explores the rapport between angels and humans. One hopes that Ms. Rice's recent defection from the Church (which is a topic for another post) will not adversely impact the series.
Here a just a few things that I love about the series:
It recognizes angels as the personal representatives of God's love and protection. In other words, God could--and often does--protect and guide us humans directly, but His love is such that He creates spiritual beings for the sole purpose of bearing His love to us.
It acknowledges the reality of spiritual warfare. If there are spiritual beings who have chosen from the moment of their creation to love and serve God and to collaborate in our salvation, then there must also be spiritual beings who have chosen to not love and serve God and who work toward our destruction.
It has an historical perspective. There can be no doubt that Ms. Rice is an enthusiastic student of Ancient, Medieval and Renaissance history. I am particularly appreciative of the fact that Rice has chosen neither to defame the Church (in a Dan Brown-esque way) nor to ignore her very real faults and failures through the centuries. Especially heartbreaking is the mistreatment of the Jews in Medieval and Renaissance Europe.
On a final note, I thought that a quotation prefacing the book reflects well the overarching theme of the series:
"We are each of us angels with only one wing; and we can only fly by embracing one another."
--Luciano de Crescenzo
After following with awe and wonder the festivities surrounding the December 12 celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe--both north and south of the border--I realized that I knew next to nothing about the Morenita, her appearance to Saint Juan Diego or the miraculous tilma imprinted with her image. So, when I happened upon Paul Badde's María of Guadalupe: Shaper of History, Shaper of Hearts in a Catholic book shop in Savannah, I leaped at the chance to learn more. Badde, a German journalist and former papal aide (to John Paul the Great), weaves together the history and science of the tilma with his own journey of discovery, which takes him from Germany to Mexico and from Jerusalem to Rome, in the footsteps of the Morenita.
Perhaps more amazing than the miraculous qualities of the tilma itself (which continue to confound modern science) are the conversions that the encounter with the Morenita has occasioned, from the day of Juan Diego to today. Badde recalls how the Spanish conquistadores, the worst possible missionaries, "were incapable of evangelizing the Aztecs" (145). That came with the appearance of the Blessed Mother to a poor Indian man on Tepeyac Hill (just outside modern Mexico City) in December 1531. She came in the guise of an Aztec princess, proclaiming the Gospel of her divine Son, whom she bore in her womb. As proof of her visitation, she left behind her miraculous image on Juan Diego's tilma (a kind of cloak woven of agave fibers). A shrine was soon built in her honor.
What occurred thereafter is something wholly unique in the annals of world history: not only were the Aztecs converted to the religion of their often brutal conquerors, but the conquerors themselves were inspired to lay down their swords and live in peace with the Aztecs. Badde observes:
After the apparition, both military cultures, people who before were seeking to annihilate each other, literally began to embrace each other like lovers before this picture! ... There are no more Spaniards or Amerindians. From that moment there was a radical new beginning: the Mexicans have been shaped into a new people. (146)
Badde observes further:
Evangelization went very deep, with colossal speed, for both Aztec and Spaniard. Eight conquistadors of Hernan Cortés' inner circle became churchmen, Franciscan, Dominican or hermit. No one campaigned as passionately and boldly for the rights and defense of the Aztecs as the mendicant orders. (148)
Never has such a reconciliation of peoples and cultures occured in recorded history.
A final, interesting fact: it is likely that the Spanish title Guadalupe is a corruption of the Nahuatl (the language spoken by the Aztecs) Coatlaxopeuh, which means "she conquers the sepent" (Cf. Genesis 3:15, wherein "he" has also been interpreted as "she").
Let us pray that Mary, the Queen of Peace, might reconcile all her children to each other and to her divine Son, especially in her own Land.
I recently saw the Coen brothers' remake of the 1969 classic True Grit, based on the novel by Charles Portis. The film stars Jeff Bridges (formerly John Wayne) as the aging and cantankerous U.S. Marshall Reuben "Rooster" Cogburn. When an Arkansas man is killed in cold blood by the outlaw Tom Chaney (Josh Brolin), his precocious fourteen-year-old daughter, Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld), vows to bring the killer to justice, and hires Coghburn to help her. Joined by LaBoeuf (Matt Damon), a pompous Texas ranger who also has a claim on Chaney, the unlikely pair pursue the outlaw and his gang into Indian territory.
The film begins with a verse from Proverbs: "The wicked flee while no man pursueth" (28:1a). This is a clear reference to Chaney who, after killing Mattie's father and stealing two California gold pieces and a horse, flees the small frontier town, despite the fact that none "could be bothered to give chase." This is consonant with the character's cowardice and slow-wit, but it is also indicative that he still retains a shred of conscience. Indeed, Mattie says, Chaney "must learn that there is nothing free in this world, except the grace of God." The line might strike the viewer as somewhat out of place; what, after all, does God's grace have to do with a story primarily concerned with earthly justice?
[SPOLER ALERT] In the end, Cogburn, with the help of Mattie and LaBoeuf, gets his man, whom Mattie has the pleasure of shooting herself. However, the recoil from the rifle knocks her backward into a pit where she is bitten by a rattlesnake. Cogburn pulls her from the pit, attempts to extract the poison, and rides all day and night to deliver the injured girl to a doctor. As a delirious Mattie looks to the starry heavens, she murmurs, "He's getting away." "Who's getting away, sis?" Cogburn asks. "Chaney," she responds. The line is, I would suggest, an intimation that Chaney, having been served justice on earth, has received grace and mercy in heaven.
In fact, I believe that the entire film is--aside from a rousing good Western--a sustained reflection on justice and mercy (i.e. grace), which are not mutually exclusive categories. Recall Mattie's comment about "the grace of God". This is the law of love, by which God says, "I desire mercy, and not sacrifice" (Mat 9:13). This does not mean that criminals like Chaney should go unpunished, which would be a simplistic denial of justice. It does, however, mean that justice must be tempered by mercy, something that Mattie learns the hard way. In the end, we learn that while Cogburn saved Mattie's life, the doctor could not save her arm, which has been amputated. The symbolism is clear: Mattie's single-minded search for justice has taken a part of her. She is, ever after, an incomplete woman.
Indeed, the true model of both justice and mercy (or love) in the film is the uncouth--and often drunken--Cogburn, who selflessly risks his own life to save Mattie's. He descends into the snake pit in order to pull Mattie out (recall Christ's descent into hell), extracts the poison from her hand (note the close association in Latin of the words for "healer" and "savior"), and delivers her to safety. Not only is Mattie an icon of the fallen soul, but Cogburn is an icon of Christ who heals and saves.
The thematic meatiness aside, the film also boasts some wonderful Old Western action. Particularly delightful is the climactic scene wherein Cogburn rides one against four, reigns in teeth, firing two navy pistols. "I mean to kill you today Ned [the film's other villain], or see you hanged" says Cogburn. "I call that bold talk for a one-eyed fat man" taunts "Lucky" Ned Pepper. "Ned, you son of a b***h!" Cogburn cries, as he charges forward, guns blazing. You can almost hear the Duke laughing with glee from his seat where Justice and Mercy reigns. In fact, it is reminiscent of the second half of that verse from Proverbs: "but the righteous are bold as a lion" (28:1b).
Highly recommended! The Brothers Coen are (to employ a Hebrew pun) the high priests of film!
I recently had a conversation with my English professor that reminded me of the prevailing attitude toward Pope Benedict XVI, especially among intellectuals. I had met with him to discuss my research paper, but somehow the conversation turned to matters of faith. My professor commented on the pontiff's perceived unconsciousness of his political influence. He mentioned (predictably) the recent opening of the canonization process for Venerable Pope Pius XII, frequently accused of indifference toward the Shoah, and the lifting of the excommunications on members of the Society of St. Pius X, including Bishop Williamson, an infamous Holocaust denier.
I explained that Pius XII harbored hundreds of Jews within the walls of the Vatican itself, and instructed religious houses across Europe to do the same. So grateful was the Chief Rabbi of Rome, Israel Zolli, that he converted to Catholicism, taking the name Eugenio, Pius XII's baptismal name. Regarding the Williamson debacle, I explained that while the illicit ordination of bishops is an impediment to full communion with the Church, stupidity is not. Since the members of the SSPX have repented of that crime, canonically, the excommunications must be lifted. Still, he countered, I could not deny that these actions were impolitic. Perhaps.
However, as I left his office, that stubborn and most Catholic of questions weighed on my mind: But is it true? Is it just to deny Pius XII beatification merely because of the slanders against him? Is it fair to deny full communion with the Church to those who have repented of the sin for which they were excommunicated in the first place? Ultimately, it's a matter of differing priorities. For secular intellectuals, many of whom deny man's ability to know truth with certainty, the priority is political advantage in some form or another. Not so for Catholics. Sebastian, in Evelyn Waugh's masterpiece Brideshead Revisited, observed that "everything they think important is different from other people." For Catholics, who vehemently affirm man's ability to know truth with certainty, the priority is the proclamation of that truth which sets us free (John 8:23).
If one desires to understand the mind of the Church and its priorities, Pope Benedict's new book, Light of the World: The Pope, the Church and the Sign of the Times, is an excellent guide. As eminent theologian George Weigel writes in the Preface:
World political leaders see the flow of history in terms of interests, alliances, and power. Intellectuals of international repute perceive humanity in terms of their philosophical, historical, or scientific theories.... Popes, if they have the wit and the stomach for it [Benedict does], see the whole picture.... (ix)
This broadness of vision derives not only from the Holy Father's close and frequent contact with bishops and faithful from around the world, but from his grounding in Christ, the Truth whom we can know personally. He explains how Christ-who-is-Truth frees us from the "dictatorship of relativism":
The truth comes to rule, not through violence, but rather through its own power.... [Jesus] does not defend the truth with legions but rather makes it visible through his Passion and thereby implements it. (51)
And this, brothers and sisters, is the essential difference between Catholicism and every other philosophical system: the proclamation of the Truth through Love. It is the bent-but-unbroken logic of the Cross.
This Christmas I had the great privilege to hear Midnight Mass in Savannah's historic Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. Bishop Kevin Boland presided and gave the homily. I was particularly struck by His Excellency's concern for two groups of Catholics: those who have fallen away and those who are persecuted.
Regarding fallen away Catholics, he recalled the now-famous "Catholics Come Home" campaign, in which the Diocese of Savannah is participating. He observed that there are (according to a recent study) several reasons that Catholics have left the Church, but none so frequent as the fact that many are frankly too lazy to attend mass on Sunday mornings (although, with the advent of Saturday Vigil masses and Sunday evening masses, this should no longer be a problem). He reminded his listeners that the practice of our faith always comes at a price, be it great or small. For us in the United States, where we are blessed with religious freedom and peace, the price is comparatively small.
For persecuted Catholics in such places as Iraq and Pakistan, however, the price is great. Many, such as those martyred in the All Saint's Eve attack on Our Lady of Salvation Syriac Catholic Cathedral in Baghdad, have paid with their lives. The violence, instigated by Muslim jihadists, has caused Iraqi Christians to cancel their Christmas festivities this year. Let us not forget during this season of peace that many of our brothers and sisters in the faith still live under a pall of fear. Let us pray for the relief of the persecuted and for the conversion of the persecutors, begging the intercession of the Martyrs of Baghdad.
Ultimately, Bishop Boland said, the mission of the Church remains the same as in centuries past: that Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace, be born in every human heart. Only then can there be true and lasting peace on earth. Let's get busy.
Here is the well-known tv spot encouraging Catholics to "come home":
And here is a beautiful "Hail Mary" sung in Syriac:
May the Infant Jesus, Word made Flesh and Prince of Peace, be born again in your hearts this Christmas season.
With exams finished and papers turned in, this blogger is officially ready for Christmas! We will not, alas, be spending Christmas amongst the snow-covered splendor of Michigan. As in years past, we will be spending this Christmas with our good friends (my sister's godparents) in Savannah, Georgia. Though we will miss the winter wonderland that is the (ahem) Spartan State, we will have a chance to golf, wade along Tybee Beach, and attend the always beautiful Midnight Mass in Savannah's historic Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist.
In preparation to celebrate the Solemnity of the Nativity of Our Lord, I had the privilege to join (if in spirit only) with our brothers and sisters south of the border in honoring the woman who made it all possible. Readers might not be familiar with the beautiful customs associated with the feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe, affectionately known amongst Mexicans as "la Morenita" or "the Little Dark One" (my very rough translation). This feast, which commemorates the appearance of the Blessed Mother to Saint Juan Diego in 1531, is the patronal feast of Mexico and, in a sense, of all the Americas. In fact, Venerable John Paul the Great (i.e. Pope John Paul II) named her "Queen of Mexico and Empress of America" in 2002. The reason is simple: she achieved by love what waves of Spanish Conquistadors could not achieve by force, the conversion of the native peoples of Mexico to her divine Son. In a startling turn of history, an entire nation was converted to Christ by the sole intervention of the Mother of Christ. She is the "misionaria celestial", the "heavenly missionary"!
To honor the "Morenita", millions of devout Christians flood churches across Mexico to sing songs of love before replicas of the "Tilma" (the cloak of Saint Juan Diego on which an image of the Virgin miraculously appeared) or, at the Basilica in Tepeyac, the Tilma itself. These festivities, called "Las Mañanitas a la Virgen de Guadalupe" and televised annually by Univision, begin at midnight and carry on into the wee hours, culminating with the Holy Mass. Often, in a moving display of national devotion, they are led by Mexican celebrities:
I'm thinking that staying up late to watch "Las Mañanitas" might well become a personal tradition!
Here's a helpful link to the Catholic Education Resource Center regarding the science and symbolism of the Tilma.
Virgen de Guadalupe, reina de México y emperatriz de América, ruega por nosotros!
This Second Sunday of Advent marks my triumphant return to the blogosphere after more than a year's absence. Much has happened since I last posted. I had a brief sojourn in the seminary, our bishop has ordained four new priests, all good men and true, for the Diocese of Lansing, my best friends have gotten married (many blessings upon Brian and Katie), the mighty Spartans have won the Big Ten title, and I find myself preparing, at long last, to graduate. Spring has turned to summer, and summer to autumn, and autumn to winter... repeat.
And now Advent 2010 is well underway, as we prepare to welcome the Divine Child into our hearts this Christmas. I promise (no, really) to post much more often in the months ahead, but not before term papers and final exams are well out of the way. Until then, please enjoy this stirring rendition of "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence":
Granted, the images are somewhat trippy, and despite the lyrics the video looses the sense of the hymn's Eucharistic origins, but it is still moving.
For something with a bit more Greek flavor, here's the hymn in its original form:
