I recently began reading The Lamb's Supper by Scott Hahn, an excellent and revealing exploration of the true and mystical significance of the Catholic Mass. He argues that the Book of Revelation in the Bible is an explanation and retelling of a Mass as well as a vision of the end of the world. In fact, he believes that these two events are deeply interconnected--even, to some degree, the same thing. Should you be curious as to why the Apocalypse and the Mass are mystically the same event, I recommend the book. Mr Hahn is much smarter than I, and much more articulate about his point than I could be in this blog. But I'll reference some salient points to indicate one area in which modern American celebrations of the Mass fail to properly reverence all that the Sacred Liturgy means.
The author begins by briefly recounting his own conversion to Catholicism, which occurred during the observation of a Mass. When he heard the congregation recite the Agnus Dei and then heard the priest respond during the Elevation, "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world...," he realized that the format and the language of the mass itself is drawn directly from scripture, particularly the Book of Revelation. A protestant Biblical scholar at the time, he knew that the Gospel of John and John's subsequent apocalyptic vision--recorded in Revelation--particularly refer to Jesus by the title of "Lamb of God," and though Mr Hahn had previously condemned the Mass as a blasphemy, a "ritual that purported to 'resacrifice Jesus Christ,'" this scriptural fidelity caused him to reconsider.
But why the lamb of God? Tradition teaches that most Jews of Jesus' time, taking their cue from prophets who wrote that the coming Messiah would restore the "Kingdom of God," believed that the Christ would be a new David, a new Saul. The "New Israel" would be again a land of milk and honey, strong in its boundaries and renowned for its glory, as it was in Saul's day when the Queen of Sheba made her pilgrimage there (1 Kings 10). Such Jews were understandably upset when the so-called Christ, who claimed to be the Messiah and the Son of God, died ignomiously on a cross, leaving nothing but some cryptic sayings about rising from the dead and a gaggle of frightened followers. Yet Christian theology teaches rightly that the "New Jerusalem" isn't a stronger earthly kingdom were God's chosen people can be free from oppression, but rather an analogous spiritual kingdom where there is freedom from sin and corruption.
Think for a minute what a powerful point this is. The Bible begins the tale of humanity with a story that tells of man's fall from grace into sin. And that same sin is the root and origin of all misery. The sin of Cain caused him to be driven from his home; the sins of the Israelites in the desert of the Exodus caused the vast majority of them to be slaughtered; the sins of David caused him the great personal anguish recorded in the Psalms; the further sins of the Israelites caused the Babylonian captivity and a long passion of foreign oppression. Don't forget that the act of oppression is a sin in and of itself; it is the sin of the oppressor. The whole sordid history of the world, which saw the glory and decay of the Roman Empire, the Islamic Empire, the bloody democratic and nationalistic revolutions, Fascism, and today terrorism, is attributable to somebody's sin. Jesus' life, death, and resurrection frees us from the shackles of--though not the effects of--sin.
Therefore the true mark of Jesus' messianic effect is his role as sacrifice. Mr Hahn identifies this and cites it as the culmination and fulfillment of a long Jewish tradition of sacrifices. Throughout the Old Testament, Jews sacrificed to God as a core element of their worship. Able sacrificed a lamb to God, Abraham nearly sacrificed his son, Melchizedek offered bread and wine. Mr Hahn points out that the Hebrews are not alone in this, either: many other religions have ascribed a similar importance to sacrifice. "Man's primal need to worship God has always expressed itself in sacrifice: worship that is simultaneously an act of praise, atonement, self-giving, covenant and thanksgiving (in Greek, eucharistia)... So when Jesus spoke of his life as a sacrifice, He tapped into a current running deep...in every human soul" (26). To a Christian, it should be painfully obvious that the urge to sacrifice to God results from a deep human need to "make things right" with Him on a radical level: to praise God for creating and sustaining us; to lovingly give of ourselves back to Him in gratitude; to atone both for our great transgression in first turning away from him and for our daily specific transgressions.
Yet all our personal sacrifices cannot truly "make things right" with God. The opening story of the Bible makes it clear that by rejecting God's love and providence in the Garden of Eden, we have permanently stained ourselves with that sin. Practically, that original sin is visible in our specific sins, often committed despite our great efforts to be good and holy people. And so we recognize the need for a better sacrifice. This is not a new concept. Mr Hahn points out that during the original passover, the instructions specified a valuable lamb--one of certain age, one without physical defects. After all, the meaning of the sacrifice would be little if we sacrificed something worthless. For our sins and failings, though, only the sacrifice of Jesus good enough: the God-man, unstained by sin; completely undeserving of sin's reward, death. To properly praise God, to properly thank Him, and--perhaps most importantly--to properly atone for our transgressions, and thus be freed from the weight of our sin, we must (like the Jews during passover) offer a more perfect lamb. Only the Lamb of God Himself will do.
Jesus is, more than anything else, the Lamb of God. His role as the perfect sacrifice is the one thing that enables our communion with God and allows us to hope for eternal life. This sacrifice is what we Catholics re-enact at every Mass, reverently offering up again the perfect sacrifice for the praise of God and the forgiveness of our sins. Since while we bear the flesh of Adam and Eve on our bones we are tainted by their sin, our sacrifice must be constant--hence the need to reconstitute Jesus' sacrifice constantly. Our constant participation in the Mass (the Church recommends we attend every day, if we can) is extremely important. For God stands outside of time, and therefore to Him every moment in the world happens simultaneously, not in a single instant but over all eternity. That is why as humans we are never stagnant regarding God: we are either becoming closer to Him or further away with each action and thought we commit. The past does not factor into our current relationship with God except insofar as we can draw encouragement or discouragement from it; the future is the province of wishful thinking. The present, as C.S. Lewis observed, "is all lit up with Eternal rays." Thus the sacrifice on the altar at Mass is mystically, literally the same sacrifice that occurred on the hill of Calvary, and our worship is concurrent (and in community with) with the worship of the holy ones in the heavenly Jerusalem of John's vision in Revelations. At the Mass, our world literally touches heaven.
Christ, of course, was more than a sacrifice. Before his death, he was a leader, a healer, and a teacher. Now that he has risen, He is Lord and King of all creation. He is our brother and He is our friend. He is our sustenance, our "food for the journey." He has many titles appropriate to those roles: King of Kings, Prince of Peace, Bread of Life. Yet His most important role is always and forever that of the Lamb, is the sacrifice that finally reconciled us, God's chosen and beloved people, with God. The Mass celebrates above all this sacrifice and reconciliation. That is why, at the moment of the sacrifice, as we stand in the presence of God Himself and the whole of the Church triumphant, we chant or sing the Agnus Dei, repeating the words "Lamb of God" three times. To replace that title with a lesser one, like "Bread of Life," is to fail in reverence. Likewise, to make the tone of the Mass express more happiness at how much God loves us, or how great God is, than solemn and heartfelt awe at the magnitude of our offered sacrifice, is to fail in reverence. After all, Mass isn't something we Catholics do ourselves, nor is it something to which we can apply "artistic license." God does it for us; God invites us into his heavenly kingdom for that period of time. And our only guideline for how to act comes from John's vision in Revelation, which is resolved into the traditional rubrics of the Sacred Liturgy.
I'll conclude by saying that "reverence" does not exclude laughter or happiness. I think a deep joy mingles both with awe and with a deep sorrow regarding our sinful state when we are truly reverent. The external effect when we stand before God in church is, appropriately, one of solemnity; it then appropriately transitions to laughter, affection, compassion, spontaneous praise, and personalized, heartfelt prayer when we return to this physical world. The grace that attends our serious and awe-inspiring experience of God's presence leaves us prepared and able to be the joyous free lovers and servants of God--which is, after all, exactly what we were created to be.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Nip / Tuck
Though I rarely get to watch TV these days, there are shows I enjoy. Scrubs, for example, I find amusing, witty, and poignant. I should say rather I found it that way (past tense), because it seems like lately the show has been recycling old jokes and trying too hard to make them funny, mostly by reducing the characters from sympathetic, endearingly flawed people to mere caricatures. You might say this represents the inevitable and standard bow to the lowest common denominator. I also watch The Office, largely because it makes lowbrow humor the subject of highbrow, satiric humor, and presents in its characters archetypes rather than caricatures. Another show I enjoy is Ugly Betty. Artistically, this show has big fish to fry: it combines a satiric portrayal of high-fashion society with situationally comedic family humor; it also delves wisely and uncomfortably into the pain wrought by selfishness within friendships and families. Such shows both provide a comedic escape from drudgery while also--to varying degrees--presenting worthwhile themes and stories.
What, then, can I possibly find attractive about Nip / Tuck? This show is probably best known for occasional nudity, shocking references to sex, and a cruel veneration of sexual beauty. It offers very little that's light-hearted or funny. Yet between the lines of its biting and sometimes malicious script I detect a bitter satire.
No doubt there are viewers who find Nip / Tuck titillating. I certainly don't, because the tone of the story is grimly self-aware. The characters endlessly hurt each other in their desperate quest to be alluring and to conquer others. Moreover, the characters endlessly struggle, realistically, with the pain their lifestyle wreaks on them. A wasteland of broken relationships and cookie-cutter ideal beauty, Nip / Tuck pulls no punches revealing the true ugliness of our collective and selfish vanity.
You see, the writers of Nip / Tuck have identified the deadliest poison of our society: a radical, fundamental hedonism, founded in the (mistaken) belief that technology can make pleasure so readily available that there is no need to feel anything else. Their characters, superficially, meet our social ideal of manhood: they are sort of modern American Everymen, hypocritically seducing woman after woman between fits of trying to make more lasting relationships work, and concerned about money only insofar as it can elevate them above their peers. Nip / Tuck also shows its protagonists stumbling upon redemption, as when one of the doctors is asked to perform surgery on a nun. Challenged by her piousness and total contempt for his charm and his lifestyle, he hesitantly approaches her after the surgery is complete in order both to thank her for a small gift she gave him, and to ask her to help him pray a little. Of course, nothing comes of it in the end--the episode of the nun ends with that particular episode. Next week he is the same cocky, cruel, hedonistic man that he was before. But in those small incidences of clarity, when the characters vaguely realize that there is something truer and more satisfying beyond endless pleasure-seeking, I find an accurate portrayal of how socially we've nearly cauterized anything really good, anything approaching moral rectitude or an assertion of the actual dignity of man as an individual instead of a mere instrument or receptacle of sensation.
I am sure many people watch Nip / Tuck in order to worship, as it were, at the altar of modern hedonism. I am sure that the depraved and disgusting sexual episodes in the show are not only inspired by actual practices, but inspire imitation for people bored with more "conventional" relationships. And I am sure much of the show's critical acclaim and staying power has to do with "shock value." It does, however, also expose the great lie about our commercial culture--that the result of worshipping pleasure is to numb our senses to it. The show harshly illustrates the terrible emptiness of our "ideal" American life, often in ways that hit close to home, and (at least in my case) ends any temptation I have to participate it its characters' values in the slightest. The latter effect is more than enough reason to watch.
What, then, can I possibly find attractive about Nip / Tuck? This show is probably best known for occasional nudity, shocking references to sex, and a cruel veneration of sexual beauty. It offers very little that's light-hearted or funny. Yet between the lines of its biting and sometimes malicious script I detect a bitter satire.
No doubt there are viewers who find Nip / Tuck titillating. I certainly don't, because the tone of the story is grimly self-aware. The characters endlessly hurt each other in their desperate quest to be alluring and to conquer others. Moreover, the characters endlessly struggle, realistically, with the pain their lifestyle wreaks on them. A wasteland of broken relationships and cookie-cutter ideal beauty, Nip / Tuck pulls no punches revealing the true ugliness of our collective and selfish vanity.
You see, the writers of Nip / Tuck have identified the deadliest poison of our society: a radical, fundamental hedonism, founded in the (mistaken) belief that technology can make pleasure so readily available that there is no need to feel anything else. Their characters, superficially, meet our social ideal of manhood: they are sort of modern American Everymen, hypocritically seducing woman after woman between fits of trying to make more lasting relationships work, and concerned about money only insofar as it can elevate them above their peers. Nip / Tuck also shows its protagonists stumbling upon redemption, as when one of the doctors is asked to perform surgery on a nun. Challenged by her piousness and total contempt for his charm and his lifestyle, he hesitantly approaches her after the surgery is complete in order both to thank her for a small gift she gave him, and to ask her to help him pray a little. Of course, nothing comes of it in the end--the episode of the nun ends with that particular episode. Next week he is the same cocky, cruel, hedonistic man that he was before. But in those small incidences of clarity, when the characters vaguely realize that there is something truer and more satisfying beyond endless pleasure-seeking, I find an accurate portrayal of how socially we've nearly cauterized anything really good, anything approaching moral rectitude or an assertion of the actual dignity of man as an individual instead of a mere instrument or receptacle of sensation.
I am sure many people watch Nip / Tuck in order to worship, as it were, at the altar of modern hedonism. I am sure that the depraved and disgusting sexual episodes in the show are not only inspired by actual practices, but inspire imitation for people bored with more "conventional" relationships. And I am sure much of the show's critical acclaim and staying power has to do with "shock value." It does, however, also expose the great lie about our commercial culture--that the result of worshipping pleasure is to numb our senses to it. The show harshly illustrates the terrible emptiness of our "ideal" American life, often in ways that hit close to home, and (at least in my case) ends any temptation I have to participate it its characters' values in the slightest. The latter effect is more than enough reason to watch.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
To Autumn (courtesy of John Keats)
Autumn is without question my favorite season. The suddenly chilly air, the clear night skies and warm sunlit days, the changing leaves and the bare trees that follow, the impending holidays and the sense of school starting again...all of these things contribute to a mingled sense of excitement and melancholy. For most of you, this post will seem late, since Autumn has largely passed by late November, but it comes late and weak to Southern California. Fortunately, a poet has captured it in words. I offer it to you today.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
TO AUTUMN
by John Keats.
1.Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
On the restoration of the Tridentine Mass
Recently the Holy Father Benedict XVI issued a motu proprio authorizing parishes and churches to celebrate the Tridentine Mass from the 1962 Roman Missal. In a way, it was a controversial decision, since the most visible change wrought by the Second Vatican Council in the Catholic Church was the change to a vernacular, popular Mass, celebrated. In fact, this change was rejected by a group of French clergy led by Bishop Marcel Lefevre--called the "Society of Pius X"--who in defiance of the Council teaching continued to celebrate the Tridentine rite and openly criticized the sweeping changes made to Catholic faith by Pope Paul VI. Eventually the Society's members were excommunicated for their refusal to obey the dictates of the Holy See.
In an age and society where we prize independence above nearly everything else, shackling the Mass to dead language and strict routine may seem medieval and stodgy. For us, a Mass without participation from the congregation in the music and conduct of the liturgy seems to exclude our very presence in the Sacrament. But Bishop Salvatore Cordileone, the auxiliary Bishop of the diocese of San Diego, wrote the following letter on how restoring the Tridentine Mass can have a positive effect on our faith:
In an age and society where we prize independence above nearly everything else, shackling the Mass to dead language and strict routine may seem medieval and stodgy. For us, a Mass without participation from the congregation in the music and conduct of the liturgy seems to exclude our very presence in the Sacrament. But Bishop Salvatore Cordileone, the auxiliary Bishop of the diocese of San Diego, wrote the following letter on how restoring the Tridentine Mass can have a positive effect on our faith:
"I think this is the most important point of the entire motu proprio (authorizing the Tridentine mass ritual). I think in some places the quality of liturgy has so degenerated that some people do not understand what Catholic worship is supposed to look like any more. Too often it is so horizontal and community-focused that the sense of the transcendent disappears; an expectation has been created that the liturgy, and the celebrant especially, should be entertaining. I believe that a greater presence and use of the extraordinary form (the Tridentine ritual) will help us recover our authentic tradition within the ordinary form. This would obviously mean a greater use of Latin and Gregorian chant, but it would include other aspects as well--for example, not deviating from the letter and spirit of the rubrics, a restoration of sacred music in general and sacred art and architecture, a greater emphasis on the transcendent, an awareness that the liturgy does not belong to the local community to do with as they will, but is too sacred and far beyond them to 'personalize' it. I would even go so far as to hope that it will help recover reverent behavior and dress on the part of parishioners!... Most importantly, we need to recover a love and appreciation of our Catholic heritage, and the implementation of the motu proprio will, I believe, be one important means for achieving this. However, at the same time, this does not exclude a legitimate diversity, and even inculturation, with the use of the ordinary form...
"There are elements of the development in the ordinary form that can enrich the celebration of the extraordinary form. I am thinking especially of the call of the Second Vatican Council for the lay faithful to learn the Gregorian chants in Latin, and sing them at Mass. I think it would be a big mistake to simply 'go back' to exactly the way things were done before. If we are going to recover and reappreciate our authentic tradition, it means that those who prefer the extraordinary form should be learn (and therefore be taught) the responses in Latin (so they are not said just by the acolyte--this is the old 'dialogue Mass'), and they should learn to sing the parts of the mass in Gregorian chant (while still allowing for some more technically demanding pieces to be done by the choir alone)."
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Retreat
The weekend of November 3rd was a busy one. My new squadron celebrated the Marine Corps' birthday on Friday night, which turned out to be a lot of fun. The celebration almost always takes the form of a Ball, except when Marines are out in the field. Then it is usually celebrated over an MRE (or whatever chow is available). But however we observe it, it is a big deal - tradition dictates that we follow a specific procedure: first we read the original birthday message from General Lejeune (the 13th Commandant) first, then we read the most recent message, then we cut a cake--the first piece of which is given to the oldest Marine present, who takes a bite and passes it to the youngest Marine present to symbolize the continuance of tradition. That little ceremony is the basis for all Marine Corps' birthday celebrations. The Green Knights made it quite formal, with a sword honor guard for the cake and the guest of honor, followed by a pretty good dinner and dancing. The latter was mostly for those Marines who brought dates, so I mostly hung out with my former classmates and new comrades. Everyone got pretty convivial, but I stayed as sober as possible, for I had to drive out of town the next morning.
During the same weekend as the Ball, St. Brigid's young adult community held it's annual retreat at Whispering Winds Catholic Retreat center in Julian. If you followed the wildfire saga here in San Diego, you know that Julian was hit pretty hard. It sits up in the mountains east of the city (elevation some 5,000 feet), and that is where all the fires start when the Santa Ana winds blow. Fortunately, though, the campus was unscathed, and the utilities were restored mere days before we were to arrive.
The retreat itself started on Friday night, so everyone except me drove up that afternoon, participated in some icebreaker-type events, made "affirmation bags" where other people could leave them written messages of encouragement or faith, and turned in. Saturday morning they heard the first of several talks aimed at young adults--the one I missed concerned the ideas contained in Theology of the Body--and had some reflection time followed by lunch. That's when I arrived.
I got there in an enthusiastic mood. The road up to Julian winds through narrow canyons and over knife-edge ridged in a glory of tight turns and sudden views. My car got quite the workout; I must have taken 10,000 miles off my tires. There is something wild and relaxing about the mountain scenery, the clear sunlight, the laboring machine, and the solitude. A kind of reflection occurs at such times, unconscious and unintended, the chief effect of which is to focus one more on the immediate present and less on external and extraneous worries. It was providential: I arrived in Julian freed from the burdens of everyday life and ready for the retreat.
By now I know a fair number of the young adults at St. Brigid's, and it felt in a sense like 'going home' to meet with them, since they make up my core friends here in San Diego. But there were also many new people to meet. Fortunately the retreat schedule offered "free time" in the early afternoon where people could go to confession if they wanted, and also participate in any number of social or religious activities. One guy organized a football game; another a hike. I chose to make my confession and then participate in the Rosary walk. This may seem like a silly thing to do, since it involves praying a notoriously "rote" prayer in a group, but for me it brought back sweet memories of my pilgrimages to Medjugorje, where the Rosary and it's focus on the life of Jesus was second only to the Mass, and nearly always prayed/celebrated as a community. I find there is an additional measure of accountability and support to prayers prayed as a community--often they are therefore more valuable than the same prayers prayed alone, where any number of worries or whims can distract one from the prayer itself. Furthermore, the rosary itself only occupied a short amount of the "free time," so I also got to play in a touch football game. Like the drive up, there was something clarifying about spending that time outside in the sunlight, amid the smell of pines and the thin mountain air. The advantage of the football game over the drive, though, was that I got to share it with others.
Later that afternoon we heard a talk on vocation, and how vocation isn't necessarily a job, a call to religious life, or a call to marriage; rather it is a responsibility to do God's will in all the small acts of our lives. As I write this I am shocked to see how obvious it appears, baldly contained in one small sentence. But like many people I am victim to the temptation of focusing only on the big things in my life: my career as a Marine and an Aviator, my important relationships, my spiritual life. I find it easy to overlook what God's will might be for me when I do a specific thing, like go to a church function, or drive to work, or undertake a job around the squadron. But the speaker, Fr. Steve Callahan, explained that making our entire lives a prayer depends on the holiness we exhibit in all our actions, not just the big decisions. This lecture was the first of several events at the retreat which thus far have subtly began to change my life.
After dinner we headed down to the chapel for adoration and confession. Though the team had priests offering the sacrament during the free time, this evening event was much larger in scale. The intent, I think, was to gently remind us that there is an immense acceptance of grace found in the act of adoration and the receipt of the sacrament. Both were once cherished elements of Catholic faith that, sadly, have fallen off recently (especially among young people). Though I am a rather conservative Catholic myself--and therefore quite open to such practices--it was good to hear again the dogmas and teachings that provide Catholics an intelligent and challenging framework of worship. Before the confessionals opened up, a priest explained the value of what we were doing, and led us in an examination of conscience. Because I had gone to confession earlier that afternoon, I prayed silently for a while and left the chapel to pray another rosary with a close friend of mine under the chilly stars.
What a night it was! In an earlier post I talked about suddenly discovering stars, and the impact of that experience was no less in Julian. Ringed by mountains, unsullied by street-lights, headlights, and window lights, the stars above us that night shone forth in pre-industrial splendor. The Milky Way and the familiar constellations stood out clearly among thousands of stars I had all but forgotten. The crisp still air seemed to sharpen my senses and evoke a sense of exhilaration. I spent little time examining the panorama above, but its presence seemed to infuse the conversations that evening with a zest and wit and laughter I seldom experience, even among my closest friends.
During one such conversation a fellow retreatant told me that because he hadn't found an "affirmation bag" for me--since I didn't arrive until Saturday, I wasn't around during the time given for their creation--he made one for me. It may seem a small thing, but for me that represented the ultimate act of kindness. Having something kind to say, and guessing that others might as well, this friend out of charity decorated a paper bag so that I could receive notes and small gifts. I was humbled. I took about an hour and a half that evening to sit and write notes to all the people at St. Brigid's who meant something to me, and it was a cathartic experience. I have found kindness, hospitality, challenges to be a better person, support, and companionship among this community, and it felt right and satisfying to thank each and every person for what they gave me. When I first heard of the concept of an "affirmation bag," I cringed inwardly. Here, I thought, was an excuse to write yearbook-style, banal notes that (like yearbook notes) would sound the same for everybody: "so nice to meet you, hope we see more of each other, you're so cool." But as I wrote to my friends I found I had something unique to say to each of them. I realized then that, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was part of a cohesive group of friends, where I could appreciate them individually and collectively, not just as my personal friend but as friends of each other too. I have much to be grateful for.
The next morning started with Sunday Mass, breakfast, and the pack up. An easy camaraderie had formed among us that made the worship and the meal a simple and penetrating joy. In its closing the effect of the retreat is hard to put into words. Long had I known the right spiritual steps to take in my life, regarding both my personal prayer life and my interactions with others. But long had I put off taking those steps, due perhaps to fear that I would find spiritual dryness, or to my own selfish clinging to a comfortable routine, or even simply to a kind of spiritual apathy. But since I've returned I've discovered a subtle inspiration born of gratitude and humility. Perhaps that is the manifestation of accepted grace, brought on by the constant prayer at Whispering Winds. I write this more deeply grateful for all that St. Brigid's community has given me; I am humbled by the good and virtuous company of my friends. I have received a great gift.
During the same weekend as the Ball, St. Brigid's young adult community held it's annual retreat at Whispering Winds Catholic Retreat center in Julian. If you followed the wildfire saga here in San Diego, you know that Julian was hit pretty hard. It sits up in the mountains east of the city (elevation some 5,000 feet), and that is where all the fires start when the Santa Ana winds blow. Fortunately, though, the campus was unscathed, and the utilities were restored mere days before we were to arrive.
The retreat itself started on Friday night, so everyone except me drove up that afternoon, participated in some icebreaker-type events, made "affirmation bags" where other people could leave them written messages of encouragement or faith, and turned in. Saturday morning they heard the first of several talks aimed at young adults--the one I missed concerned the ideas contained in Theology of the Body--and had some reflection time followed by lunch. That's when I arrived.
I got there in an enthusiastic mood. The road up to Julian winds through narrow canyons and over knife-edge ridged in a glory of tight turns and sudden views. My car got quite the workout; I must have taken 10,000 miles off my tires. There is something wild and relaxing about the mountain scenery, the clear sunlight, the laboring machine, and the solitude. A kind of reflection occurs at such times, unconscious and unintended, the chief effect of which is to focus one more on the immediate present and less on external and extraneous worries. It was providential: I arrived in Julian freed from the burdens of everyday life and ready for the retreat.
By now I know a fair number of the young adults at St. Brigid's, and it felt in a sense like 'going home' to meet with them, since they make up my core friends here in San Diego. But there were also many new people to meet. Fortunately the retreat schedule offered "free time" in the early afternoon where people could go to confession if they wanted, and also participate in any number of social or religious activities. One guy organized a football game; another a hike. I chose to make my confession and then participate in the Rosary walk. This may seem like a silly thing to do, since it involves praying a notoriously "rote" prayer in a group, but for me it brought back sweet memories of my pilgrimages to Medjugorje, where the Rosary and it's focus on the life of Jesus was second only to the Mass, and nearly always prayed/celebrated as a community. I find there is an additional measure of accountability and support to prayers prayed as a community--often they are therefore more valuable than the same prayers prayed alone, where any number of worries or whims can distract one from the prayer itself. Furthermore, the rosary itself only occupied a short amount of the "free time," so I also got to play in a touch football game. Like the drive up, there was something clarifying about spending that time outside in the sunlight, amid the smell of pines and the thin mountain air. The advantage of the football game over the drive, though, was that I got to share it with others.
Later that afternoon we heard a talk on vocation, and how vocation isn't necessarily a job, a call to religious life, or a call to marriage; rather it is a responsibility to do God's will in all the small acts of our lives. As I write this I am shocked to see how obvious it appears, baldly contained in one small sentence. But like many people I am victim to the temptation of focusing only on the big things in my life: my career as a Marine and an Aviator, my important relationships, my spiritual life. I find it easy to overlook what God's will might be for me when I do a specific thing, like go to a church function, or drive to work, or undertake a job around the squadron. But the speaker, Fr. Steve Callahan, explained that making our entire lives a prayer depends on the holiness we exhibit in all our actions, not just the big decisions. This lecture was the first of several events at the retreat which thus far have subtly began to change my life.
After dinner we headed down to the chapel for adoration and confession. Though the team had priests offering the sacrament during the free time, this evening event was much larger in scale. The intent, I think, was to gently remind us that there is an immense acceptance of grace found in the act of adoration and the receipt of the sacrament. Both were once cherished elements of Catholic faith that, sadly, have fallen off recently (especially among young people). Though I am a rather conservative Catholic myself--and therefore quite open to such practices--it was good to hear again the dogmas and teachings that provide Catholics an intelligent and challenging framework of worship. Before the confessionals opened up, a priest explained the value of what we were doing, and led us in an examination of conscience. Because I had gone to confession earlier that afternoon, I prayed silently for a while and left the chapel to pray another rosary with a close friend of mine under the chilly stars.
What a night it was! In an earlier post I talked about suddenly discovering stars, and the impact of that experience was no less in Julian. Ringed by mountains, unsullied by street-lights, headlights, and window lights, the stars above us that night shone forth in pre-industrial splendor. The Milky Way and the familiar constellations stood out clearly among thousands of stars I had all but forgotten. The crisp still air seemed to sharpen my senses and evoke a sense of exhilaration. I spent little time examining the panorama above, but its presence seemed to infuse the conversations that evening with a zest and wit and laughter I seldom experience, even among my closest friends.
During one such conversation a fellow retreatant told me that because he hadn't found an "affirmation bag" for me--since I didn't arrive until Saturday, I wasn't around during the time given for their creation--he made one for me. It may seem a small thing, but for me that represented the ultimate act of kindness. Having something kind to say, and guessing that others might as well, this friend out of charity decorated a paper bag so that I could receive notes and small gifts. I was humbled. I took about an hour and a half that evening to sit and write notes to all the people at St. Brigid's who meant something to me, and it was a cathartic experience. I have found kindness, hospitality, challenges to be a better person, support, and companionship among this community, and it felt right and satisfying to thank each and every person for what they gave me. When I first heard of the concept of an "affirmation bag," I cringed inwardly. Here, I thought, was an excuse to write yearbook-style, banal notes that (like yearbook notes) would sound the same for everybody: "so nice to meet you, hope we see more of each other, you're so cool." But as I wrote to my friends I found I had something unique to say to each of them. I realized then that, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was part of a cohesive group of friends, where I could appreciate them individually and collectively, not just as my personal friend but as friends of each other too. I have much to be grateful for.
The next morning started with Sunday Mass, breakfast, and the pack up. An easy camaraderie had formed among us that made the worship and the meal a simple and penetrating joy. In its closing the effect of the retreat is hard to put into words. Long had I known the right spiritual steps to take in my life, regarding both my personal prayer life and my interactions with others. But long had I put off taking those steps, due perhaps to fear that I would find spiritual dryness, or to my own selfish clinging to a comfortable routine, or even simply to a kind of spiritual apathy. But since I've returned I've discovered a subtle inspiration born of gratitude and humility. Perhaps that is the manifestation of accepted grace, brought on by the constant prayer at Whispering Winds. I write this more deeply grateful for all that St. Brigid's community has given me; I am humbled by the good and virtuous company of my friends. I have received a great gift.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Cross-countries, moving, and wildfires
The past several weeks have been very busy - so busy, in fact, that I have not seen the last four Notre Dame games, which for those of you who know me well is quite rare. I'm not quite complaining, either. I split my time between my job at the squadron, often spending twelve or so hours a day there, and the St. Brigid's young adult group. And being so busy is certainly having a positive effect on me, though it can be superficially frustrating at times (such as when I want to watch my favorite TV shows).
On the flying side, there was a two-week period where I went on three cross-countries: the first to Phoenix, the second to Las Vegas, and the third to Yuma, AZ (though that one was more of necessity than by choice). The whole idea of a cross country is to take a weekend with a jet to get training done. The positive from the squadron's point of view is that training flights take place on non-working days, freeing up more sorties during the week, and cross countries allow flights to get done without maintenance support. The positive from the aircrew point of view is that we get to travel on the weekend to places like Phoenix or Vegas. And it is fun to fly around unfamiliar places - the sense of detachment and appreciation that comes from looking on new cities and the countryside from the air is always exhilarating.
The Phoenix trip occurred during the week, because Miramar Airfield shut down that particular Wednesday for the upcoming weekend airshow (October 12-14). That day we flew over as a two-ship, or section, from San Diego in two legs, stopping each time to dogfight each other. Those kinds of flights are my favorite: high-G, intense, competetive, and just plain fun. We made it to Phoenix without incident, checked into our hotel for the night, and went out for a quiet evening of college football over steaks (I was pleased to see Navy beat Pitt in overtime) and turned in early. The next morning, we got up, drove to the airport for two more flights; the first being another dogfight, the second being an air-to-ground roll in practice flight (an explanation of which can be found in this post). That night--Thursday--we went out with the ASU kids in Tempe, spending our evening at a bar ironically called "The Library." It was decorated with bookshelves (and real books!), but it served strong drinks and boasted the entertainment of an 80s Metal cover band called Metal Head--which meant we rocked out to Def Leppard and Van Halen tunes for the rest of the night. It was a little surreal to be back in the college atmosphere, but it was one of the better nights I have experienced since the nightlife of Pensacola.
We recovered Friday morning over a full breakfast spread, kindly (and anonymously) purchased for us by a patron of the hotel who noticed us in our uniforms. That was the first time I have ever been treated specially for serving in the military, and it was humbling--I realized personally that while wearing the uniform I am the steward of others' respect and hope. I was also very grateful, and thus motivated I joined my comrades for our two flights back to San Diego. On these legs we fought each other again, and landed Friday afternoon exhausted but satieted with high-performance flying--just in time for the weekend.
That weekend was one of labor for me, as I moved from my La Jolla residence to a San Diego apartment. I moved chiefly because my lease in La Jolla was up, and my previous room-mate had a friend living downtown that he wanted to move in with. As it turns out, the move is a positive one: I am renting a bigger appartment with a closer friend for a lower price. My new room-mate, Brooks, had his girlfriend, brother, and sister-in-law help us move everything across town, and I had some friends from St. Brigid's Young Adult group assist, and overall it was pretty fun. As when the anonymous hotel patron bought me breakfast, I was humbled by the friendship and charity present I found in my friends, who gave up their Saturday to help me move my belongings (in the rain, no less).
The next weekend saw the Las Vegas trip, which was a little different from our jaunt to Phoenix. My part in the plan was to get LAT qualified. LAT is a military acronym meaning Low Altitude Tactics (I think), and next to dogfighting is the most fun I think you can have in a fighter jet. It involves raging around scarce hundreds of feet above the ground, diving through valleys and pulling hard over ridges. And like dogfighting, it is hard work-- we pull a lot of Gs in LAT because it is important to keep the aircraft's speed up, in case we have to quickly climb away from the ground--and high speeds mean high Gs when you turn. It is also very warm, because the air coming into the cockpit is ground temperature and does little to mitigate the heat of the sun coming through the thick canopy. Each flight is roughly like an hour-long workout. We flew two sorties that day, stopping in between at Edwards Air Force Base (and landing behind an F-22, which was kind of cool). Flying into Vegas itself was extremely busy, since we have to compete with all the commercial carriers and the corporate jets for airspace and tarmac. Yet despite the intensity of the approach, I couldn't help notice in awe the gigantic multicolored desert cliffs that surround the city, cast into sharp dramatic relief by the setting sun. I always get a sense of awe flying over the high desert--it seems to be all jagged ridges and blasted lakebeds like a foretaste of the apocalypse. Nearly as impressive is the massive metropolis springing out of bare desert, tucked into a deep valley and bordered by a giant still lake. It looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.
Vegas is kind of a destination for military aviators. The airports there are reasonably kind to us, the city itself is reasonably close to the restricted airspace where we do our training, and Vegas itself offers a lot of entertainment. That Friday night we were staying in the Stratosphere hotel, and decided that we would "stay local" - eat dinner there and go afterwards to the Stratosphere nightclub. Before that, however, I was subjected to a "hasty callsign review," where amongst much drinking "Vigo" was rejected and I was awarded the moniker "ECMO-2." An ECMO is the backseater in an EA-6B prowler, and is responsible for jamming enemy radar signals. As such, ECMOs are reputed to be nerds. Evidently I give off the same impression. After that was over, we went to the nightclub where I happily sang along to all the 80s music they played until I couldn't stand up any more and went to bed.
The next morning I didn't have to fly, so I was free to recover and sightsee as I pleased. It was actually a very depressing day. The temperature was cool--which I wasn't prepared for--and I was fighting off the nauseating after-effect of the previous evening. I was struck by how quickly and disconcertingly grand impressive casino facades and sumptuous casino lobbies gave way to the tawdry glitter and cheap furnishings of the casino floors themselves. I was vaguely disgusted by the expensive design shops built next to banks of industrial vending machines and airport-style shops hawking magazines, ice cream, candy, and soft drinks. The entire city seems designed to be overwhelming and beautiful on the outside, but crushing on the inside. I was shocked and saddened to see elderly men and women gambling and drinking alone at slot machines, and easily frustrated young men with bored pretty young women aimlessly shopping and gambling at quiet, bitter blackjack tables. If Vegas is supposed to be a center of entertainment and fun, so why are so many of it's pilgrims unhappy? I spent nearly the whole day lonely and depressed.
Then I went to Mass. The Cathedral for the diocese of Las Vegas sits almost directly on the Strip, just north of the Wynn casino. It is a dramatic, geometric building that looks to have been built in the late '50s. The facade had a mural showing three men paying homage to a Christ in apotheosis, accompanied by the exhortations "Prayer...Penance...Peace." Inside, the retablo behind the altar consisted of another, pure art-deco mural showing what I assume to be the resurrection--a noble, powerful, youthful, clean-shaven Jesus (identifiable only by the holes in hands, feet, and side) sprang up from the tabernacle in a burst of vaguely atomic light, surrounded by similarly virile angels, spreading his hands toward the ceiling. It was unlike any religous art I had ever seen. However, the trappings on the altar themselves were beautifully carved and expensive-looking, and the church itself was remarkably clean and well-maintained. It occurred to me later that the diocese of Las Vegas was probably quite wealthy. Despite the jarring decorations, the mass itself was orthodox and heartfelt, and preached to a full congregation. It felt good to shut out the huge palaces on the Strip and retreat for an hour into familiar church hymns and rituals. The depression and the sadness of my day melted away, and I exited the church in a more cheerful frame of mind.
Stepping out the church door, I was greeted by a gritty blast of cool dry desert wind. The palm trees were bowing toward the horizontal and sheets of dust raged howling up the Strip. Well-dressed gamblers and partygoers, hunched against the assault of sand and air, scurried along to get cabs or get inside. I slitted my eyes and strode as best I could down to the Flamingo, two miles to the south, where I was staying for the night. I passed the silent, wind-lashed fountain outside the Bellagio and inwardly rejoiced at this desert windstorm that had thankfully shut down the painful, frenetic pace of the city. Returning to my hotel, I ate a nice, quiet dinner with my room-mate, declined my comrades' offer to go to the Playboy Club, and retired early.
The following morning we simply ferried the jets home from Vegas in one trip. We did a low-level (more LAT), which was fun, and I got to see some of the fires in their very early states as we flew in from the east, but on the whole it was simply good to be back in the solid reality of my own routine and apartment. After two cross countries following so shortly after each other, I looked forward to a week to settle back in, get back in a routine, and not have to live out of a suitcase. But providence had other plans. That week the fires struck San Diego county. Monday morning the pilots in the squadron flew the jets to Arizona (to get them out of the danger zone) while the WSOs--like me--stayed back to run the squadron. There was much to do. My job turned out standing Tower ODO, as the officer in charge of running the airfield itself. It is largely a supervisory role and it isn't too difficult. Mostly I just make sure that the crews who operate the actual control tower, the refueling equipment, and the fire trucks are all doing their job in accordance with the airfield schedule. That day I had to start the field preparing for the eventual arrival of the President, along with his assorted limosines and helicopters, all of which were flown in Tuesday night by Air Force transport aircraft. It was exciting to be a part of that kind of planning, and part of the firefighting effort--even if all I did was supervise the support of real firefighters.
The following day the squadron was shut down, so I sort of had the day off. The day after that, Wednesday, the jets flew back in and I was asked to fly to Yuma as part of a training detachment. Even when fires threaten our home town, training must go on. Those of us who went were lived in areas not threatened by fires. The trip itself was supposed to be a quick one: fly over Wednesday night, complete the training flights Thursday morning, be back that afternoon. But all of our jets broke. And they broke hard. We spent Thursday trying to fix them, reluctantly stayed Thursday night again in Yuma, and found out Friday that the maintenance would take probably several days, so we rented a car and drove three hours back to San Diego. Though the trip ended up a frustrating experience in many ways, I was surprised and humbled by how well my fellow aircrew and the maintenance guys handled it. You learn a lot about the quality of your comrades when you watch them deal with adversity. Those guys I was stuck with complained a lot, but not in a negative way. They did it to be funny, and they do it in spite of working very hard to fix what is wrong. They didn't whine or give up. As a result, the trip turned out to be kind of fun. I was reminded again that I am in the company of true professionals.
The events of the last three weeks or so have left me with a wealth of experience. I am not sure how it all fits together. Phoenix, Vegas, Mass in Vegas, moving, wildfires, getting stuck in Yuma--I am fortunate to have enjoyed and learned so much. As a new guy to the squadron, I get the more thankless tasks and the rougher hours, but it seems there is a bright side.
Still, I hope I can go at least a couple of weeks without a cross country.
On the flying side, there was a two-week period where I went on three cross-countries: the first to Phoenix, the second to Las Vegas, and the third to Yuma, AZ (though that one was more of necessity than by choice). The whole idea of a cross country is to take a weekend with a jet to get training done. The positive from the squadron's point of view is that training flights take place on non-working days, freeing up more sorties during the week, and cross countries allow flights to get done without maintenance support. The positive from the aircrew point of view is that we get to travel on the weekend to places like Phoenix or Vegas. And it is fun to fly around unfamiliar places - the sense of detachment and appreciation that comes from looking on new cities and the countryside from the air is always exhilarating.
The Phoenix trip occurred during the week, because Miramar Airfield shut down that particular Wednesday for the upcoming weekend airshow (October 12-14). That day we flew over as a two-ship, or section, from San Diego in two legs, stopping each time to dogfight each other. Those kinds of flights are my favorite: high-G, intense, competetive, and just plain fun. We made it to Phoenix without incident, checked into our hotel for the night, and went out for a quiet evening of college football over steaks (I was pleased to see Navy beat Pitt in overtime) and turned in early. The next morning, we got up, drove to the airport for two more flights; the first being another dogfight, the second being an air-to-ground roll in practice flight (an explanation of which can be found in this post). That night--Thursday--we went out with the ASU kids in Tempe, spending our evening at a bar ironically called "The Library." It was decorated with bookshelves (and real books!), but it served strong drinks and boasted the entertainment of an 80s Metal cover band called Metal Head--which meant we rocked out to Def Leppard and Van Halen tunes for the rest of the night. It was a little surreal to be back in the college atmosphere, but it was one of the better nights I have experienced since the nightlife of Pensacola.
We recovered Friday morning over a full breakfast spread, kindly (and anonymously) purchased for us by a patron of the hotel who noticed us in our uniforms. That was the first time I have ever been treated specially for serving in the military, and it was humbling--I realized personally that while wearing the uniform I am the steward of others' respect and hope. I was also very grateful, and thus motivated I joined my comrades for our two flights back to San Diego. On these legs we fought each other again, and landed Friday afternoon exhausted but satieted with high-performance flying--just in time for the weekend.
That weekend was one of labor for me, as I moved from my La Jolla residence to a San Diego apartment. I moved chiefly because my lease in La Jolla was up, and my previous room-mate had a friend living downtown that he wanted to move in with. As it turns out, the move is a positive one: I am renting a bigger appartment with a closer friend for a lower price. My new room-mate, Brooks, had his girlfriend, brother, and sister-in-law help us move everything across town, and I had some friends from St. Brigid's Young Adult group assist, and overall it was pretty fun. As when the anonymous hotel patron bought me breakfast, I was humbled by the friendship and charity present I found in my friends, who gave up their Saturday to help me move my belongings (in the rain, no less).
The next weekend saw the Las Vegas trip, which was a little different from our jaunt to Phoenix. My part in the plan was to get LAT qualified. LAT is a military acronym meaning Low Altitude Tactics (I think), and next to dogfighting is the most fun I think you can have in a fighter jet. It involves raging around scarce hundreds of feet above the ground, diving through valleys and pulling hard over ridges. And like dogfighting, it is hard work-- we pull a lot of Gs in LAT because it is important to keep the aircraft's speed up, in case we have to quickly climb away from the ground--and high speeds mean high Gs when you turn. It is also very warm, because the air coming into the cockpit is ground temperature and does little to mitigate the heat of the sun coming through the thick canopy. Each flight is roughly like an hour-long workout. We flew two sorties that day, stopping in between at Edwards Air Force Base (and landing behind an F-22, which was kind of cool). Flying into Vegas itself was extremely busy, since we have to compete with all the commercial carriers and the corporate jets for airspace and tarmac. Yet despite the intensity of the approach, I couldn't help notice in awe the gigantic multicolored desert cliffs that surround the city, cast into sharp dramatic relief by the setting sun. I always get a sense of awe flying over the high desert--it seems to be all jagged ridges and blasted lakebeds like a foretaste of the apocalypse. Nearly as impressive is the massive metropolis springing out of bare desert, tucked into a deep valley and bordered by a giant still lake. It looked like something out of the Arabian Nights.
Vegas is kind of a destination for military aviators. The airports there are reasonably kind to us, the city itself is reasonably close to the restricted airspace where we do our training, and Vegas itself offers a lot of entertainment. That Friday night we were staying in the Stratosphere hotel, and decided that we would "stay local" - eat dinner there and go afterwards to the Stratosphere nightclub. Before that, however, I was subjected to a "hasty callsign review," where amongst much drinking "Vigo" was rejected and I was awarded the moniker "ECMO-2." An ECMO is the backseater in an EA-6B prowler, and is responsible for jamming enemy radar signals. As such, ECMOs are reputed to be nerds. Evidently I give off the same impression. After that was over, we went to the nightclub where I happily sang along to all the 80s music they played until I couldn't stand up any more and went to bed.
The next morning I didn't have to fly, so I was free to recover and sightsee as I pleased. It was actually a very depressing day. The temperature was cool--which I wasn't prepared for--and I was fighting off the nauseating after-effect of the previous evening. I was struck by how quickly and disconcertingly grand impressive casino facades and sumptuous casino lobbies gave way to the tawdry glitter and cheap furnishings of the casino floors themselves. I was vaguely disgusted by the expensive design shops built next to banks of industrial vending machines and airport-style shops hawking magazines, ice cream, candy, and soft drinks. The entire city seems designed to be overwhelming and beautiful on the outside, but crushing on the inside. I was shocked and saddened to see elderly men and women gambling and drinking alone at slot machines, and easily frustrated young men with bored pretty young women aimlessly shopping and gambling at quiet, bitter blackjack tables. If Vegas is supposed to be a center of entertainment and fun, so why are so many of it's pilgrims unhappy? I spent nearly the whole day lonely and depressed.
Then I went to Mass. The Cathedral for the diocese of Las Vegas sits almost directly on the Strip, just north of the Wynn casino. It is a dramatic, geometric building that looks to have been built in the late '50s. The facade had a mural showing three men paying homage to a Christ in apotheosis, accompanied by the exhortations "Prayer...Penance...Peace." Inside, the retablo behind the altar consisted of another, pure art-deco mural showing what I assume to be the resurrection--a noble, powerful, youthful, clean-shaven Jesus (identifiable only by the holes in hands, feet, and side) sprang up from the tabernacle in a burst of vaguely atomic light, surrounded by similarly virile angels, spreading his hands toward the ceiling. It was unlike any religous art I had ever seen. However, the trappings on the altar themselves were beautifully carved and expensive-looking, and the church itself was remarkably clean and well-maintained. It occurred to me later that the diocese of Las Vegas was probably quite wealthy. Despite the jarring decorations, the mass itself was orthodox and heartfelt, and preached to a full congregation. It felt good to shut out the huge palaces on the Strip and retreat for an hour into familiar church hymns and rituals. The depression and the sadness of my day melted away, and I exited the church in a more cheerful frame of mind.
Stepping out the church door, I was greeted by a gritty blast of cool dry desert wind. The palm trees were bowing toward the horizontal and sheets of dust raged howling up the Strip. Well-dressed gamblers and partygoers, hunched against the assault of sand and air, scurried along to get cabs or get inside. I slitted my eyes and strode as best I could down to the Flamingo, two miles to the south, where I was staying for the night. I passed the silent, wind-lashed fountain outside the Bellagio and inwardly rejoiced at this desert windstorm that had thankfully shut down the painful, frenetic pace of the city. Returning to my hotel, I ate a nice, quiet dinner with my room-mate, declined my comrades' offer to go to the Playboy Club, and retired early.
The following morning we simply ferried the jets home from Vegas in one trip. We did a low-level (more LAT), which was fun, and I got to see some of the fires in their very early states as we flew in from the east, but on the whole it was simply good to be back in the solid reality of my own routine and apartment. After two cross countries following so shortly after each other, I looked forward to a week to settle back in, get back in a routine, and not have to live out of a suitcase. But providence had other plans. That week the fires struck San Diego county. Monday morning the pilots in the squadron flew the jets to Arizona (to get them out of the danger zone) while the WSOs--like me--stayed back to run the squadron. There was much to do. My job turned out standing Tower ODO, as the officer in charge of running the airfield itself. It is largely a supervisory role and it isn't too difficult. Mostly I just make sure that the crews who operate the actual control tower, the refueling equipment, and the fire trucks are all doing their job in accordance with the airfield schedule. That day I had to start the field preparing for the eventual arrival of the President, along with his assorted limosines and helicopters, all of which were flown in Tuesday night by Air Force transport aircraft. It was exciting to be a part of that kind of planning, and part of the firefighting effort--even if all I did was supervise the support of real firefighters.
The following day the squadron was shut down, so I sort of had the day off. The day after that, Wednesday, the jets flew back in and I was asked to fly to Yuma as part of a training detachment. Even when fires threaten our home town, training must go on. Those of us who went were lived in areas not threatened by fires. The trip itself was supposed to be a quick one: fly over Wednesday night, complete the training flights Thursday morning, be back that afternoon. But all of our jets broke. And they broke hard. We spent Thursday trying to fix them, reluctantly stayed Thursday night again in Yuma, and found out Friday that the maintenance would take probably several days, so we rented a car and drove three hours back to San Diego. Though the trip ended up a frustrating experience in many ways, I was surprised and humbled by how well my fellow aircrew and the maintenance guys handled it. You learn a lot about the quality of your comrades when you watch them deal with adversity. Those guys I was stuck with complained a lot, but not in a negative way. They did it to be funny, and they do it in spite of working very hard to fix what is wrong. They didn't whine or give up. As a result, the trip turned out to be kind of fun. I was reminded again that I am in the company of true professionals.
The events of the last three weeks or so have left me with a wealth of experience. I am not sure how it all fits together. Phoenix, Vegas, Mass in Vegas, moving, wildfires, getting stuck in Yuma--I am fortunate to have enjoyed and learned so much. As a new guy to the squadron, I get the more thankless tasks and the rougher hours, but it seems there is a bright side.
Still, I hope I can go at least a couple of weeks without a cross country.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
An historically bad season
Notre Dame football is making a lot of people happy by the season it is having. Zero and five for the first time in history? how the mighty have fallen. Certainly one would expect ND to do better, after all they hold the most national championships and heisman trophies, and the second-best winning percentage. They have been a major heavyweight on the college football landscape for nearly a hundred years.
Notre Dame fans are trying to deal with this bitter autumn. Some seek a pound of flesh: after watching the Irish lose to Michigan State two weeks ago, one fan struck up a conversation with me where he declared several times that Charlie Weis, our head coach, "has got to go." ESPN agrees--and has pointed out smugly that since ND fired Willingham after three years, surely Weis should (in a fair world) be given the same treatment. This is natural. But I think it is the wrong approach, given that Charlie has a historically inexperienced team. The reasons for and consequences of which are explained very well here. Certainly ND has shown some promise on the gridiron, successfully excecuting long passes, good runs, and solid defence. The consistency required to win football games--and eliminating penalties--will come with more experience. I am far from despair about the state of the Fighting Irish.
It is more disturbing, however, to find that some Irish fans are developing indifference. They have stopped watching or even following the games, perhaps as a way to insulate themselves from the disappointment of losing. That's understandable, but ultimately wrong. To my mind, we earn the right to be fans in the bad seasons. Solidarity is better developed through adversity and struggle than victory. Of course, one could argue that these fans are still supporting the team internally. But a great pope once said that love is mere sentimentality without sacrifice, and I think that "supporting a team" means making the sacrifice to follow the team, or at least continue to support them. To become indifferent is to abandon them.
Now I have made the argument before that we take football so seriously at Notre Dame because it represents everything we strive for at the university: excellence and righteousness. Though love and responsibility for a football team is far less important than most other obligations we contract during our lives, abandoning it when it ceases to be valuable, or pleasurable, or successful speaks poorly of our ability to support anything else we love. For us fans, Notre Dame should be our football team, win or lose. And when responding to any comments made about this terrible season--whether good-natured cracks to dark, sincere joy at our predicament--we should always make clear that we care deeply enough about this team to feel strongly disappointed (or excited, if fortune turns).
Notre Dame fans are trying to deal with this bitter autumn. Some seek a pound of flesh: after watching the Irish lose to Michigan State two weeks ago, one fan struck up a conversation with me where he declared several times that Charlie Weis, our head coach, "has got to go." ESPN agrees--and has pointed out smugly that since ND fired Willingham after three years, surely Weis should (in a fair world) be given the same treatment. This is natural. But I think it is the wrong approach, given that Charlie has a historically inexperienced team. The reasons for and consequences of which are explained very well here. Certainly ND has shown some promise on the gridiron, successfully excecuting long passes, good runs, and solid defence. The consistency required to win football games--and eliminating penalties--will come with more experience. I am far from despair about the state of the Fighting Irish.
It is more disturbing, however, to find that some Irish fans are developing indifference. They have stopped watching or even following the games, perhaps as a way to insulate themselves from the disappointment of losing. That's understandable, but ultimately wrong. To my mind, we earn the right to be fans in the bad seasons. Solidarity is better developed through adversity and struggle than victory. Of course, one could argue that these fans are still supporting the team internally. But a great pope once said that love is mere sentimentality without sacrifice, and I think that "supporting a team" means making the sacrifice to follow the team, or at least continue to support them. To become indifferent is to abandon them.
Now I have made the argument before that we take football so seriously at Notre Dame because it represents everything we strive for at the university: excellence and righteousness. Though love and responsibility for a football team is far less important than most other obligations we contract during our lives, abandoning it when it ceases to be valuable, or pleasurable, or successful speaks poorly of our ability to support anything else we love. For us fans, Notre Dame should be our football team, win or lose. And when responding to any comments made about this terrible season--whether good-natured cracks to dark, sincere joy at our predicament--we should always make clear that we care deeply enough about this team to feel strongly disappointed (or excited, if fortune turns).
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
On Baptism
This weekend at church, there was a baptism. Where once I regarded such events as a distraction from the mass and a way to make it last longer, I now view them as an essential and important element of our community. We Catholics profess to be the Body of Christ, and therefore we must welcome the administrative necessities of community. We must welcome new members...and we should be joyful when we have the opportunity. It is also good to show community support for parents and godparents who will be trying to raise a new child with love--despite the frustrations that child-rearing inevitably causes. But this baptism was more than just an important and necessary function of my Church. It had an intensely personal meaning for me.
I am often surprised by the power of the words of the liturgy. Of course they are intended that way: they are (hopefully) written by men and women with a great appreciation of the language. Certainly the presence of the Holy Spirit contributes. The words of the priest are stirring: "this white garment is symbolic of your Christian dignity, in the end may you bring it unstained before the judgement seat.. [and] may you walk always as a child of the light." Listening in Mass yesterday I was struck by the fact that those words were once said over me after the holy water was poured upon my forehead, and that the covenant then declared between me and the Catholic community binds me still. It was a call to arms--it was a call for me to participate fully in the Church militant, to reject Satan and the glamour of sin, to accept the truth of the Gospel message and the authority of the Church.
Baptisms reach out to us in a way that the Gospels and the Mass does not. Certainly they are not a more important sacrament or element in our faith, but they are another way of reminding us of our Christian duty. It is essentially a sacramental grace, and an opportunity to develop my spiritual life. It is certainly not an irritation.
I am often surprised by the power of the words of the liturgy. Of course they are intended that way: they are (hopefully) written by men and women with a great appreciation of the language. Certainly the presence of the Holy Spirit contributes. The words of the priest are stirring: "this white garment is symbolic of your Christian dignity, in the end may you bring it unstained before the judgement seat.. [and] may you walk always as a child of the light." Listening in Mass yesterday I was struck by the fact that those words were once said over me after the holy water was poured upon my forehead, and that the covenant then declared between me and the Catholic community binds me still. It was a call to arms--it was a call for me to participate fully in the Church militant, to reject Satan and the glamour of sin, to accept the truth of the Gospel message and the authority of the Church.
Baptisms reach out to us in a way that the Gospels and the Mass does not. Certainly they are not a more important sacrament or element in our faith, but they are another way of reminding us of our Christian duty. It is essentially a sacramental grace, and an opportunity to develop my spiritual life. It is certainly not an irritation.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
VMFA(AW)-121: The Green Knights
Today I had my first flight as a "Green Knight" of VMFA(AW)-121. For those of you who don't know, each letter in that acronym-looking thing means something specific: the "V" denotes its a fixed-wing squadron (as opposed to rotary-wing); the "M" means it is a Marine Corps squadron; the "F" and "A" mean our primary missions are fighter and attack, the "(AW)" indicates we are organized for all-weather operations; and 121 is our numerical designator. In any case, I have reached an important milestone in my career. I have left dedicated training units behind, and after three and and half years of preparation, I finally get to do my job. The transition has been swift and busy, so it doesn't feel quite as much like the end or beginning of something as it should. It is worth a little reflection.
I finished at the training squadron, VMFAT-101 ("T" means it's a training squadron)' on Tuesday, September 4. The last three weeks with them were a flurry of air-to-air flights, mostly at the rate of twice a day and once at the rate of three times a day. The pace was hard, since there was so much to learn for each flight that I often had to spend 12 or more hours at the squadron a day. The flights were fun, however: fast-paced, with plenty of air combat. My final flight was an combination of air-to-ground and air-to-air tactics as I led a division (four aircraft) on a self-escort strike. We fought (air-to-air) our way into the target area, bombed a target (air-to-ground), and fought our way back out. It was rewarding and culminating. And after I finished, 101 kicked me unceremoniously out the door.
Looking back, I am amazed at how much I've learned. Generally, I have little patience with technical applications--I prefer to focus on "big picture" stuff, like theories and tactics. Yet my profession is dauntingly technical, since I operate a machine whose equipment is made by many different contractors, and which is designed to accomplish many very different missions. In order to juggle everything effectively, pilots and WSOs have to develop a sort of "muscle memory" about their equipment: we have to be able to operate equipment on instinct (called "stem power") because our meager brain power is already occupied with the arrangement of enemy fighters, or air defenses, or simply external hiccups in the mission plan itself that we are trying to react to. No plan, after all, survives first contact with the enemy...or even Air Traffic Control (in our case). It requires a lot of rote memorization and repetitous practice to make the most out of training flights.
And when all is said and done, I am only technically 60% combat ready right now. The aircraft of my new squadron have more secret, more sophisticated, ultimately more capable equipment than those of the training squadron. This stuff blows my mind, and I am in the process of making a concerted effort to learn about it. Encrypted radios, sophisticated sensors, new modes of operating our radar...the tactics of real combat are much more complicated than the introduction I received in the training squadron. And so it is true what they say: as an aviator you never stop learning. If I ever become really proficient in the systems I am operating now, no doubt there will be new ones to learn appearing in the fleet. In short, I have not "arrived"--I still have a lot to learn and a lot to prove.
The increasingly technical dynamic of my job makes it hard to write about, which is why I have slowed drastically in the amount of posts related to the military. Back in TBS, every week we were introduced to new skills and theories. In the early part of flight school, every month or so I was introduced to a different regime of flight. Yet as I get closer and closer to my actual job in combat, the knowledge base required to understand what exactly I am learning or doing at any one time grows proportionally. All that I've written about "increasingly complicated systems" makes it sound more dramatic than it is. It's just I am moving farther away from theory and deeper into techniques.
Yet I could not have found a better place to take this next step. VMFA(AW)-121, or the "Green Knights," is one of the most storied squadrons in the Marine Corps. It was formed as VMF-121 here at Miramar in 1941, along with the 2nd Marine Division, and was among the leading elements to hit Guadalcanal in 1942. The maintenance Marines of the squadron assaulted the beaches of Guadalcanal as infantry, fought through the jungle to capture the partially finished Japanese airfield there, and begin directing flight operations to bring in Green Knight aircraft. Stories tell how the fighting was so close that Green Knights would take off and drop ordnance without even retracting the landing gear, and circle back to the field to reload. VMF-121 would later fight from the legendary forward air bases of Espirito Santo Island, Turtle Bay, Bougainville, and Emirau. All told, the squadron was without equal among Marine Corps fighter squadrons during WWII. During the conflict, the Squadron produced 14 Fighter Aces while downing 209 Japanese aircraft in aerial combat--scoring higher in both categories than any other squadron.
The Squadron dropped more bomb tonnage during the Korean War than any other Navy or Marine Corps squadron, devastating enemy airfields, supply dumps, bridges, and railroad yards. During November of 1962, the "Green Knights" deployed to NAS Cecil Field on the coast of Florida in response to the Cuban Missile Crisis. During the Vietnam War, the Squadron helped pioneer new night-attack and targeting systems. On December 8, 1989 the Squadron acquired the Hornet (my own aircraft), and was redesignated as VMFA(AW)-121. It wasthe first Marine Corps F/A-18D Night Attack Hornet Squadron. Slightly over one year later, the Squadron deployed in support of Operation Desert Shield/Storm and earned the nom du guerre "Heavy Haulers for dropping more ordnance in support of ground forces than any other squadron. More recently, the Green Knights flew combat missions over Afghanistan and Iraq--in fact, I checked in immediately after the squadron returned from their latest deployment to the Middle East.
The Green Knights are a proud and demanding squadron. As a new WSO, I am expected to read and learn various tactical manuals in preparation for my "combat wingman" qualification, and they have set high standards for me and the other new check-ins. Twelve hour days have been the norm, and I usually fly back-to-back flights. The veterans are strict with everything from how we brief to how we talk on the radio. But I sense behind the work a strong corporate commitment to maintain our tradition of excellence and battlefield success. Wish me luck!
I finished at the training squadron, VMFAT-101 ("T" means it's a training squadron)' on Tuesday, September 4. The last three weeks with them were a flurry of air-to-air flights, mostly at the rate of twice a day and once at the rate of three times a day. The pace was hard, since there was so much to learn for each flight that I often had to spend 12 or more hours at the squadron a day. The flights were fun, however: fast-paced, with plenty of air combat. My final flight was an combination of air-to-ground and air-to-air tactics as I led a division (four aircraft) on a self-escort strike. We fought (air-to-air) our way into the target area, bombed a target (air-to-ground), and fought our way back out. It was rewarding and culminating. And after I finished, 101 kicked me unceremoniously out the door.
Looking back, I am amazed at how much I've learned. Generally, I have little patience with technical applications--I prefer to focus on "big picture" stuff, like theories and tactics. Yet my profession is dauntingly technical, since I operate a machine whose equipment is made by many different contractors, and which is designed to accomplish many very different missions. In order to juggle everything effectively, pilots and WSOs have to develop a sort of "muscle memory" about their equipment: we have to be able to operate equipment on instinct (called "stem power") because our meager brain power is already occupied with the arrangement of enemy fighters, or air defenses, or simply external hiccups in the mission plan itself that we are trying to react to. No plan, after all, survives first contact with the enemy...or even Air Traffic Control (in our case). It requires a lot of rote memorization and repetitous practice to make the most out of training flights.
And when all is said and done, I am only technically 60% combat ready right now. The aircraft of my new squadron have more secret, more sophisticated, ultimately more capable equipment than those of the training squadron. This stuff blows my mind, and I am in the process of making a concerted effort to learn about it. Encrypted radios, sophisticated sensors, new modes of operating our radar...the tactics of real combat are much more complicated than the introduction I received in the training squadron. And so it is true what they say: as an aviator you never stop learning. If I ever become really proficient in the systems I am operating now, no doubt there will be new ones to learn appearing in the fleet. In short, I have not "arrived"--I still have a lot to learn and a lot to prove.
The increasingly technical dynamic of my job makes it hard to write about, which is why I have slowed drastically in the amount of posts related to the military. Back in TBS, every week we were introduced to new skills and theories. In the early part of flight school, every month or so I was introduced to a different regime of flight. Yet as I get closer and closer to my actual job in combat, the knowledge base required to understand what exactly I am learning or doing at any one time grows proportionally. All that I've written about "increasingly complicated systems" makes it sound more dramatic than it is. It's just I am moving farther away from theory and deeper into techniques.
Yet I could not have found a better place to take this next step. VMFA(AW)-121, or the "Green Knights," is one of the most storied squadrons in the Marine Corps. It was formed as VMF-121 here at Miramar in 1941, along with the 2nd Marine Division, and was among the leading elements to hit Guadalcanal in 1942. The maintenance Marines of the squadron assaulted the beaches of Guadalcanal as infantry, fought through the jungle to capture the partially finished Japanese airfield there, and begin directing flight operations to bring in Green Knight aircraft. Stories tell how the fighting was so close that Green Knights would take off and drop ordnance without even retracting the landing gear, and circle back to the field to reload. VMF-121 would later fight from the legendary forward air bases of Espirito Santo Island, Turtle Bay, Bougainville, and Emirau. All told, the squadron was without equal among Marine Corps fighter squadrons during WWII. During the conflict, the Squadron produced 14 Fighter Aces while downing 209 Japanese aircraft in aerial combat--scoring higher in both categories than any other squadron.
The Squadron dropped more bomb tonnage during the Korean War than any other Navy or Marine Corps squadron, devastating enemy airfields, supply dumps, bridges, and railroad yards. During November of 1962, the "Green Knights" deployed to NAS Cecil Field on the coast of Florida in response to the Cuban Missile Crisis. During the Vietnam War, the Squadron helped pioneer new night-attack and targeting systems. On December 8, 1989 the Squadron acquired the Hornet (my own aircraft), and was redesignated as VMFA(AW)-121. It wasthe first Marine Corps F/A-18D Night Attack Hornet Squadron. Slightly over one year later, the Squadron deployed in support of Operation Desert Shield/Storm and earned the nom du guerre "Heavy Haulers for dropping more ordnance in support of ground forces than any other squadron. More recently, the Green Knights flew combat missions over Afghanistan and Iraq--in fact, I checked in immediately after the squadron returned from their latest deployment to the Middle East.
The Green Knights are a proud and demanding squadron. As a new WSO, I am expected to read and learn various tactical manuals in preparation for my "combat wingman" qualification, and they have set high standards for me and the other new check-ins. Twelve hour days have been the norm, and I usually fly back-to-back flights. The veterans are strict with everything from how we brief to how we talk on the radio. But I sense behind the work a strong corporate commitment to maintain our tradition of excellence and battlefield success. Wish me luck!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Reflections on Week 2 of College Football 2007
Last Saturday, I watched Notre Dame get licked for the second straight week in a row by a talented Penn State team. That is hard for me. Since I became a fan in 2000 (at the hands of my rabid dorm comrades and authorities), I have learned that Notre Dame is a proud football program with a tradition of winning - and winning with class. This year I have been disappointed on both accounts. On the field, we look like what we are: an inexperienced, overmatched team. Though there are flashes of talent and promise, by and large we get dominated. Then there is the "class" issue. In both our games, a senior on our (inexperienced) team has committed an egregious personal foul. Against Georgia Tech, the player was rightfully ejected. Against Penn State, it was merely a 15-yard assessed penalty. Coach Weis should have benched the player. Notre Dame as a program should not stand for such actions from its players. I won't claim that Notre Dame is better than other schools--nobody has a monopoly on sportsmanship or moral righteousness. But Notre Dame certainly should uphold the standard.
As to the barely-concealed glee which Pat Forde at ESPN attacks ND again for sacking Tyrone Willingham, I think a little more reason is called for. ND fired Willingham after two straight bad seasons. I think the same courtesy (at least!) can be extended to Charlie Weis. Other blogs--notably Notes from the Geetar and Her Loyal Sons--have already pointed out that Willingham's teams were not improving, that Willingham was already talking to Washington about a head coaching job, that Willingham's recruiting was exceedingly poor, and many other reasons for changing coaches.
Michigan may yet turn their dismal season around. I suppose as a ND fan I should be thankful that a team is falling harder than we are...especially since Michigan is our nemesis. The football tragedy occurring in Ann Arbor illustrates that teamwork and personal effort are indispensible in football--it isn't only talent that wins. I hope ND takes note.
Finally, I found this article online today, detailing the appalling rudeness of Rutgers students toward Navy. The author already got on a pretty high horse about it (rightfully so!), so I won't. But disturbingly, this is only one of many stories I have heard about fans being downright vicious towards visiting opponents. The beauty of sports for me is that they are (theoretically) pure competition. They are a fantasy about how this combatative world of ours should be: everyone plays by the rules, so there is no doubt about the winner; each team-mate has the opportunity to play well and make a difference; and no amount of money or influence can buy a championship. Sports is never this pure in reality, of course--not when teams open against so-called cupcake opponents, nor when major-league players sell themselves to the highest bidder (just to name a few examples). Nevertheless, the pleasure of sports is clean competition, and the respect it engenders. It is juvenile, petty, and cruel to belittle opponent players, whether they are losing or winning. I won't claim that all ND fans have been similarly high-minded, or that all Rutgers fans are boors. I have been fortunate to meet mostly respectful and respectable fans in my travels. And that should be everybody's experience.
As to the barely-concealed glee which Pat Forde at ESPN attacks ND again for sacking Tyrone Willingham, I think a little more reason is called for. ND fired Willingham after two straight bad seasons. I think the same courtesy (at least!) can be extended to Charlie Weis. Other blogs--notably Notes from the Geetar and Her Loyal Sons--have already pointed out that Willingham's teams were not improving, that Willingham was already talking to Washington about a head coaching job, that Willingham's recruiting was exceedingly poor, and many other reasons for changing coaches.
Michigan may yet turn their dismal season around. I suppose as a ND fan I should be thankful that a team is falling harder than we are...especially since Michigan is our nemesis. The football tragedy occurring in Ann Arbor illustrates that teamwork and personal effort are indispensible in football--it isn't only talent that wins. I hope ND takes note.
Finally, I found this article online today, detailing the appalling rudeness of Rutgers students toward Navy. The author already got on a pretty high horse about it (rightfully so!), so I won't. But disturbingly, this is only one of many stories I have heard about fans being downright vicious towards visiting opponents. The beauty of sports for me is that they are (theoretically) pure competition. They are a fantasy about how this combatative world of ours should be: everyone plays by the rules, so there is no doubt about the winner; each team-mate has the opportunity to play well and make a difference; and no amount of money or influence can buy a championship. Sports is never this pure in reality, of course--not when teams open against so-called cupcake opponents, nor when major-league players sell themselves to the highest bidder (just to name a few examples). Nevertheless, the pleasure of sports is clean competition, and the respect it engenders. It is juvenile, petty, and cruel to belittle opponent players, whether they are losing or winning. I won't claim that all ND fans have been similarly high-minded, or that all Rutgers fans are boors. I have been fortunate to meet mostly respectful and respectable fans in my travels. And that should be everybody's experience.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
ND home opener, 2007
Better men and women than I have already commented on Notre Dame's drubbing at the hands of Georgia Tech yesterday. Their comments appear on their own blogs, found on the links to the right of this page. There is no question that yesterday was a grave dissapointment.
Recently accused of being a "delusional Notre Dame fan" and of making excuses for my team, I will state categorically that we were beat. We were outplayed on offense and defense. We made crucial mistakes. Georgia Tech was without question the better team.
But I feel that there are some distinct reasons that we played so poorly. We are a largely inexperienced team. This is no doubt the explanation of (but never an excuse for) the two lost fumbles, the nine sacks, the many negative-yardage plays, and the missed blocking assignments. Our defense, which had a promising start after forcing Tech into field goal attempts on their first three drives (one of which they blocked), slowly fell apart under the strain of Tech's long drawn-out rushing attack. And I think the optimism in South Bend these last few weeks meant that Notre Dame players came into the game ever so slightly cocky, which only made them more demoralized as the score mounted and their futile offense sputtered.
There is a silver lining. Both Sharpley and Clausen, our second- and third-string quarterbacks, played well (though Sharpley looked hesitant at times), and our young running backs look very talented. And our defense looked much improved from last year. But there is no question that we showed ourselves a bad football team yesterday. I earnestly hope that our coaches and players learn from our embarassing display and come out with a sounder team next week against ranked Penn State.
I salute Georgia Tech. They played with poise, precision, and energy. I hope they win the ACC and contend in a BCS bowl game (perhaps even the National Championship). As for Notre Dame, they are still my team - and I will proudly display my support by wearing a ND T-shirt today. Though disappointed, I look forward to next week.
Recently accused of being a "delusional Notre Dame fan" and of making excuses for my team, I will state categorically that we were beat. We were outplayed on offense and defense. We made crucial mistakes. Georgia Tech was without question the better team.
But I feel that there are some distinct reasons that we played so poorly. We are a largely inexperienced team. This is no doubt the explanation of (but never an excuse for) the two lost fumbles, the nine sacks, the many negative-yardage plays, and the missed blocking assignments. Our defense, which had a promising start after forcing Tech into field goal attempts on their first three drives (one of which they blocked), slowly fell apart under the strain of Tech's long drawn-out rushing attack. And I think the optimism in South Bend these last few weeks meant that Notre Dame players came into the game ever so slightly cocky, which only made them more demoralized as the score mounted and their futile offense sputtered.
There is a silver lining. Both Sharpley and Clausen, our second- and third-string quarterbacks, played well (though Sharpley looked hesitant at times), and our young running backs look very talented. And our defense looked much improved from last year. But there is no question that we showed ourselves a bad football team yesterday. I earnestly hope that our coaches and players learn from our embarassing display and come out with a sounder team next week against ranked Penn State.
I salute Georgia Tech. They played with poise, precision, and energy. I hope they win the ACC and contend in a BCS bowl game (perhaps even the National Championship). As for Notre Dame, they are still my team - and I will proudly display my support by wearing a ND T-shirt today. Though disappointed, I look forward to next week.
Friday, August 31, 2007
The Meaning of Notre Dame
As the opening game of the college football season draws near, I have been contemplating a post about the meaning of Football at Notre Dame. It isn't simply a case of athletics and tradition, as it may be with great football schools like Nebraska, Oklahoma, Alabama, and Southern Cal. I wanted to explain how ND's focus on football is an expression of an overall commitment to excellence founded in the vocational idea that "if you are going to do something, you should do it well." I wanted to explain how, from the early 1920s, Notre Dame's football team has unashamedly promoted both the Catholic faith and academically excellent university around the country. I wanted to explain how for Notre Dame, winning is not an end in itself but something that, through faith, we can offer to God (and His mother). I wanted to explain that Notre Dame is and will always be my team - win or lose - because they represent a piece of my life that is precious and informs my perspective deeply.
But somebody already explained it better than I could. From the Rock Report (http://therockreport.blogspot.com/), slightly abridged so as to be comprehensible to those who never attended Notre Dame:
But somebody already explained it better than I could. From the Rock Report (http://therockreport.blogspot.com/), slightly abridged so as to be comprehensible to those who never attended Notre Dame:
She is - in ways perhaps unimaginable by those who've never walked her hallowed grounds - Our Mother.
Some may assume her fame to be borne of football glory, her greatness measured merely by championships and trophies, her mystique arising solely from the legend and lore of illustrious heroes past. Some, sensing that there must be more, may invoke her academic prestige or uncommon acclaim. And some - adopting the naive premise (or the wishful thought) that she must be like the rest - may choose to blithely call into question her specialness, her inimitability, and even her relevance.
But for those of us who've glimpsed the famed Golden Dome gleaming in the midmorning sun, for those who've watched the autumnal mist settling across the tranquil waters of St. Mary's Lake, for those who've spent a quiet evening embraced by the candlelit prayers of the Grotto, or simply strolled across the campus and, looking up, caught sight of Our Lady majestically standing atop the dome, surveying her university and all who call it home - for those of us who've been so blessed to have experienced these moments, we understand.
These are the sacred moments in which you feel yourself transported, and through which you become inextricably linked with those who've come before you, whose own moments of valor and victory have been inspired in and by this place for generations. How vividly I remember my first glimpse of the Golden Dome as my parents drove me to campus for freshman orientation. We had just turned north onto Notre Dame Avenue, and there it was - stately and serene, set against a clear blue sky, shimmering in the brilliant August sunlight, seeming to grow taller and brighter as we approached. Two days later, now alone, I took my first unguided tour of the campus. I gazed upon Touchdown Jesus, unaware that the mural's official name was "The Word of Life." I walked around the stadium, trying to imagine the cheers of the crowd on a football Saturday when the Irish took the field. I visited the Grotto and watched the steady stream of students whose faith compelled them to come to this sacred place and offer prayers on bended knee. I experience the breathtaking beauty that is the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, and I pondered the words inscribed above the east door - "God, Country, Notre Dame."
As I circled the Administration Building (as it was then known), I came upon two priests who were quietly conversing. One of them called me over. "You look lost," he said with a good-natured laugh. "You must be a freshman!" "I am," I confessed. "My parents just left a few minutes ago" He extended his hand. "I'm Father Ted," he said. "This is Father Ned Joyce. Welcome to Notre Dame." "Welcome home," Father Ned added. "Welcome home."
"Do you have plans for dinner?" Father Ted asked after we had chatted for several minutes. "No, Sir," I answered. "Good," he replied without hesitation. "Then join us." [D]uring dinner, Father Hesburgh sat next to me. At one point, he turned to me and said, "So, tell me about your goals while you're at Notre Dame. What do you want to accomplish during your career here?" I answered honestly, and, I must admit, in a way that I thought would've impressed the University's President.
I answered honestly, and, I must admit, in a way that I thought would've impressed the University's President. "I want to make straight A's and graduate at the top of my class," I boldly proclaimed. Father Ted studied my face for a moment, and then leaned closer. "Son," he said in a gentle voice befitting a man of wisdom, "I'm sure you have the academic credentials to make all A's and to be one of these super students at Notre Dame. I have no doubt of it. But that would require you to lock yourself in your room and do nothing but study for the next four years. Now some people do that, but I don't think they should. Now, of course I want you to do well academically, but I also want you to promise me that you'll go out and live the Notre Dame Experience. You're going to make great friends here - enjoy your time with them. Enjoy the campus. Enjoy all that Notre Dame has to offer."
I would come to learn over time that the experience of which he spoke was indeed made of moments just such as these, each more special than any test score, each more meaningful than a grade point average, each more brilliant than even a dome of gold. From my window in Alumni Hall, I could see both the Golden Dome and Notre Dame Stadium - one, the iconic symbol of a world-renowned university, and the other, her celebrated field of legends. But in between the two, I found autumn afternoons and trees ablaze with color. I found guys tossing footballs on the quad, and the band playing the Fight Song as they marched across the campus. I found the calming waters of the lakes, and the profound serenity of the Grotto. I found quiet snowfalls that could mesmerize with their magical beauty, yet could chill a Southern boy like me to the bone.
I found students volunteering their time in the service of those less fortunate, raising money for those in need, and selflessly performing small acts of kindness without the slightest thought of repayment. I found passion and purpose, I found loyalty and honor, and I found friendships that have endured to this day. And through it all, I found that the Notre Dame Experience, as Father Hesburgh had described it on my very first day, was more than anyone could ever grasp by simply reading a book, or writing a paper, or even becoming a valedictorian. That experience, that spirit, dwells deep within the hearts of all who've lived here, of all who've studied here, and of all who've come to know and love this place we call Notre Dame.
What some may find most extraordinary is that the Spirit of Notre Dame doesn't emanate from her championships, as important as they are. In fact, just the opposite is true - the championships of Notre Dame emanate from her spirit. And that spirit is unique. It's real, it's palpable, and it's clean. There's a freshness about it that couldn't exist if it weren't authentic.
What I've learned to be true is that for all the spectacle and splendor of a football weekend at Notre Dame, she reserves her most treasured gifts for those quiet moments when one strolls across the campus, admiring the freshly fallen snow, breathing in the crisp, clean pine-scented air, listening to her beating heart, warm beneath the mantle that is her embrace. These are the times when one discovers her truest blessings - the grace that must be sought, the spirit that must be nurtured, and the irresistible beauty that is Our Mother and our home. And so it is that we willingly defend her honor on Saturdays in the fall when we do strong battle against those who would dare to take that which she has bequeathed to us. We strap on our pads, we don our helmets, and we rise up with explosive force to engage in titanic struggle for the ultimate victory of the Lady on the Dome.
Victory is a decision. And it is a decision that we make without apology. No matter the foe, no matter the price, we seek victory and nothing less. We shall not be defined by circumstance, and we shall never ask anyone for permission to succeed. Those who openly pine for Notre Dame's luster to be tarnished, or who brashly claim that she'd prefer to live in the glory of a bygone era, indict themselves by their very words, for it is they who do not understand the nature of this place. While we rightly honor the towering achievements of those who've gone before us, let it be known by one and all that we hold forever firm the ideal that our greatest dreams have yet to be dreamed, our greatest works have yet to be done, our greatest heights have yet to be scaled, and our greatest victories have yet to be won.
We, the sons and daughters of Notre Dame, share a common heritage. We speak a common language, are united by a common destiny, and are inspired by a common vision. We are, therefore, a nation - bound together not simply by golden helmets or athletic fame, but more so by the very ideals that set us apart, that define who we are, that enlighten our path and enrich our journey as we navigate the glory and travail of this life. We are poised at the front line of history, our heroes of the past standing shoulder to shoulder behind us, their mythical deeds echoing through time, supplying us with courage and hope for the future. Now it is our turn, and we are both humbled and honored by the privilege of lifting her banner high for the world to see.
We are a nation triumphant. We are a nation compassionate. We are a nation accomplished, yet forever aspiring. We are a nation sublime, a nation united, and a nation set apart, destined to be loved, to be feared, to be admired, and to be envied, but, above all, destined to prevail. We are, in the final analysis, a nation of champions, who, with Our Mother atop the dome, stand victorious.
We are Notre Dame.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
On gluttony and sin in America
I found an interesting article online today about obesity in America, wherein the author points out that Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins and the rapidly growing rate of obesity in the United States is strong evidence that it is one of our worst temptations. Furthermore, as the "temple of the Holy Spirit," the author argues that we are called to take care of our physical selves by staying healthy, even if that means finding time to work out or eat somewhere besides fast food. All of this seems very logical to me.
Unfortunately, the article drew a very strong reaction. As it was posted in a blog, readers are able to publicly comment on it, and the tone of the comments I read is surprising. One jeering poster calls the blog "the most right wing evangelical bigoted publication in the history of journalism" (presumably partially for the fact that the article was posted there in the first place) and asks the blogger (but not, interestingly enough, the author of the article) "who will go to hell the quickest, the overeater, the Catholic, the Jew, or the homo?" Others defensively and angrily remind her of Jesus' scriptural admonishment not to judge. I was appalled at responses to what seemed to me a non-judgmental, logical, and morally sound argument. In fact, I think such responses bring up a myriad of additional issues on contemporary American sinfulness and religious perception.
From the tone of the blog itself (and the comments that follow), the blogger is probably some kind of Evangelical Christian--perhaps Southern Baptist, perhaps another organized sect, perhaps simply non-denominational. I don't know if she thinks Jews, homosexuals, or Catholics are going to hell, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she doesn't condemn others arbitrarily. That, however, is undeniably a problem in the American Christian community. I don't know why certain conservative (and often high-profile) Christian sects are so eager to condemn everyone else to hell, but it is presumptuous (only God really knows the content of our hearts), it is insulting, it is hypocritical (they are surely as sinful and needful of Grace as those they condemn), and it is almost absurdly opposite to the recorded scriptural actions of Jesus. Instead of condemning them, Jesus reached out to sinners with authority and compassion in order to inspire them to be better people (c.f. the woman accused of adultery, John 8:11), and prevented his followers from punishing those who rejected his message (e.g. Luke 9:51-56). In fact, the only people Jesus condemned were those who condemned others, calling them "hypocrites" and "whited sepulchers" (Matthew 23).
The claim that Christians should "judge not, lest [we] be judged" (Matthew 7:1), while scripturally accurate, is also scripturally incomplete--a classic case of taking a bible verse out of context. Jesus follows this statement by declaring "in the same way you judge others, you will be judged...How can you say to your brother, 'let me remove that splinter from your eye,' while the wooden beam is in your eye? You hypocrite, remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter from your brother's eye" (italics mine). It is very clear that Jesus does not forbid us to remove the metaphorical splinter from our brothers' eyes. In fact, He actually instructs us how to do so: by attending to our own failings first. Besides, it makes practical sense that our understanding of our own sinfulness should inform our judgment of others. Indeed, admonishing the sinner is considered by the Church to be one of the corporeal acts of mercy, since as a community of faith it is important that we thus help our fellow Christians on the journey. Certainly one of the best ways we learn about our own flaws is hearing them from family, friends, and even complete strangers (who all have a different and perhaps more accurate picture of us than we ourselves do). To lash out at well-meant judgment by throwing a bible verse in the offender's face or is prideful, juvenile and petty. If we are serious about our spiritual health, we will accept God's rebukes no matter how they come to us.
So I maintain that the article on gluttony was necessary and worthwhile. The evidence of my own eyes and that of numerous studies shows that we Americans are indeed gluttons. In the southern states, where obesity is most rampant, there is a lifestyle culture flourishing that centers around hearty American breakfasts, lots of fried food, and red meat dinners. Worse, to justify this appallingly unhealthy menu, the culture implies that such fare is "all-American" and therefore right. But the phenomenon is not limited to the south: fast food restaurants inundate every town and freeway stop in this country, peddling tasty french fries and mayonnaise-heavy sandwiches. Lately various national agencies have talked about legally blaming fast food companies for our country's obesity problem, but I find this ridiculous--it is nothing more or less than a denial of our own accountability in this matter. Walking into any restaurant does not obligate you to buy any of their food, least of all the unhealthy food. And I know that you can find healthy food most places you go. At McDonald's, for example, they offer grilled-chicken sandwiches and "snack wraps" right alongside their double cheeseburgers and fried chicken fingers. Similar options can be found at most other fast-food places. What I find damning, then, about our collective eating habits is our lack of temperance.
It is clear that we are not "forced" into our situation--instead, we have apparently decided, as a nation, that getting obese is either all right or unavoidable. What spiritual discipline could do for us! There are many ways to avoid unhealthiness. We could circumvent the fast-food restaurants altogether by buying healthy food at the supermarket and making our own lunches. Or we could actually drive past the fast food restaurants around us and find somewhere generally healthier to eat. Failing either of those options, we could simply forgo the fries and burgers at our local fast-food joint and eat whatever's healthiest on the menu. But any of these options requires sacrifice: sacrifice of time, sacrificing our hunger a little longer, and sacrificing our desire for the better-tasting fried food. All of this is a kind of fasting--a spiritual discipline modeled by John the Baptist (who subsisted on locusts and wild honey, c.f. Mark 1:6), designed to bring us closer to God.
Yet gluttony is a sin even if our external bodies are healthy. Having the metabolism to eat whatever you want is not, in the eyes of the Church, a license to do so. And if you work out several hours a day so you "don't have to worry about what you eat," you are simply augmenting the original gluttony with a new kind, excessive exercise (which is probably accompanied by the sin of vanity). Spending an inordinate amount of time or money on finding organic or vegan food in an attempt to eat healthy is also a type of gluttony. Essentially, whenever we excessively preoccupy ourselves with food, we commit this deadly sin.
Food is one of our most basic pleasures, and I believe we are meant to enjoy it. Jesus Christ Himself dined often in the scriptures at the houses of Pharisees and tax collectors, who probably had the best food available in Roman Judea. And though scripture tells us extremely little about the manner of his eating, from the phrase "recline at table" (Luke 7:36) implies a certain leisure and luxury. Yet scripture is also filled with occasions where Jesus fasts (e.g. Matthew 4:2) or goes off by himself to pray (e.g. Mark 7:46). The point is well-taken: Jesus balances his pleasures (like food and company) with physical and spiritual fasting--alone, perhaps in the wilderness, presumably in some discomfort. By following His lead and occasionally retreating "into the wilderness" or "off to the mountain" ourselves--by sacrificing some pleasure or another (like food)--not only allows us to "tame" that desire and prevent it from turning into gluttony, but also brings us closer spiritually to God--which is, for Christians, the entire point of our earthly lives.
Unfortunately, the article drew a very strong reaction. As it was posted in a blog, readers are able to publicly comment on it, and the tone of the comments I read is surprising. One jeering poster calls the blog "the most right wing evangelical bigoted publication in the history of journalism" (presumably partially for the fact that the article was posted there in the first place) and asks the blogger (but not, interestingly enough, the author of the article) "who will go to hell the quickest, the overeater, the Catholic, the Jew, or the homo?" Others defensively and angrily remind her of Jesus' scriptural admonishment not to judge. I was appalled at responses to what seemed to me a non-judgmental, logical, and morally sound argument. In fact, I think such responses bring up a myriad of additional issues on contemporary American sinfulness and religious perception.
From the tone of the blog itself (and the comments that follow), the blogger is probably some kind of Evangelical Christian--perhaps Southern Baptist, perhaps another organized sect, perhaps simply non-denominational. I don't know if she thinks Jews, homosexuals, or Catholics are going to hell, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she doesn't condemn others arbitrarily. That, however, is undeniably a problem in the American Christian community. I don't know why certain conservative (and often high-profile) Christian sects are so eager to condemn everyone else to hell, but it is presumptuous (only God really knows the content of our hearts), it is insulting, it is hypocritical (they are surely as sinful and needful of Grace as those they condemn), and it is almost absurdly opposite to the recorded scriptural actions of Jesus. Instead of condemning them, Jesus reached out to sinners with authority and compassion in order to inspire them to be better people (c.f. the woman accused of adultery, John 8:11), and prevented his followers from punishing those who rejected his message (e.g. Luke 9:51-56). In fact, the only people Jesus condemned were those who condemned others, calling them "hypocrites" and "whited sepulchers" (Matthew 23).
The claim that Christians should "judge not, lest [we] be judged" (Matthew 7:1), while scripturally accurate, is also scripturally incomplete--a classic case of taking a bible verse out of context. Jesus follows this statement by declaring "in the same way you judge others, you will be judged...How can you say to your brother, 'let me remove that splinter from your eye,' while the wooden beam is in your eye? You hypocrite, remove the wooden beam from your eye first; then you will see clearly to remove the splinter from your brother's eye" (italics mine). It is very clear that Jesus does not forbid us to remove the metaphorical splinter from our brothers' eyes. In fact, He actually instructs us how to do so: by attending to our own failings first. Besides, it makes practical sense that our understanding of our own sinfulness should inform our judgment of others. Indeed, admonishing the sinner is considered by the Church to be one of the corporeal acts of mercy, since as a community of faith it is important that we thus help our fellow Christians on the journey. Certainly one of the best ways we learn about our own flaws is hearing them from family, friends, and even complete strangers (who all have a different and perhaps more accurate picture of us than we ourselves do). To lash out at well-meant judgment by throwing a bible verse in the offender's face or is prideful, juvenile and petty. If we are serious about our spiritual health, we will accept God's rebukes no matter how they come to us.
So I maintain that the article on gluttony was necessary and worthwhile. The evidence of my own eyes and that of numerous studies shows that we Americans are indeed gluttons. In the southern states, where obesity is most rampant, there is a lifestyle culture flourishing that centers around hearty American breakfasts, lots of fried food, and red meat dinners. Worse, to justify this appallingly unhealthy menu, the culture implies that such fare is "all-American" and therefore right. But the phenomenon is not limited to the south: fast food restaurants inundate every town and freeway stop in this country, peddling tasty french fries and mayonnaise-heavy sandwiches. Lately various national agencies have talked about legally blaming fast food companies for our country's obesity problem, but I find this ridiculous--it is nothing more or less than a denial of our own accountability in this matter. Walking into any restaurant does not obligate you to buy any of their food, least of all the unhealthy food. And I know that you can find healthy food most places you go. At McDonald's, for example, they offer grilled-chicken sandwiches and "snack wraps" right alongside their double cheeseburgers and fried chicken fingers. Similar options can be found at most other fast-food places. What I find damning, then, about our collective eating habits is our lack of temperance.
It is clear that we are not "forced" into our situation--instead, we have apparently decided, as a nation, that getting obese is either all right or unavoidable. What spiritual discipline could do for us! There are many ways to avoid unhealthiness. We could circumvent the fast-food restaurants altogether by buying healthy food at the supermarket and making our own lunches. Or we could actually drive past the fast food restaurants around us and find somewhere generally healthier to eat. Failing either of those options, we could simply forgo the fries and burgers at our local fast-food joint and eat whatever's healthiest on the menu. But any of these options requires sacrifice: sacrifice of time, sacrificing our hunger a little longer, and sacrificing our desire for the better-tasting fried food. All of this is a kind of fasting--a spiritual discipline modeled by John the Baptist (who subsisted on locusts and wild honey, c.f. Mark 1:6), designed to bring us closer to God.
Yet gluttony is a sin even if our external bodies are healthy. Having the metabolism to eat whatever you want is not, in the eyes of the Church, a license to do so. And if you work out several hours a day so you "don't have to worry about what you eat," you are simply augmenting the original gluttony with a new kind, excessive exercise (which is probably accompanied by the sin of vanity). Spending an inordinate amount of time or money on finding organic or vegan food in an attempt to eat healthy is also a type of gluttony. Essentially, whenever we excessively preoccupy ourselves with food, we commit this deadly sin.
Food is one of our most basic pleasures, and I believe we are meant to enjoy it. Jesus Christ Himself dined often in the scriptures at the houses of Pharisees and tax collectors, who probably had the best food available in Roman Judea. And though scripture tells us extremely little about the manner of his eating, from the phrase "recline at table" (Luke 7:36) implies a certain leisure and luxury. Yet scripture is also filled with occasions where Jesus fasts (e.g. Matthew 4:2) or goes off by himself to pray (e.g. Mark 7:46). The point is well-taken: Jesus balances his pleasures (like food and company) with physical and spiritual fasting--alone, perhaps in the wilderness, presumably in some discomfort. By following His lead and occasionally retreating "into the wilderness" or "off to the mountain" ourselves--by sacrificing some pleasure or another (like food)--not only allows us to "tame" that desire and prevent it from turning into gluttony, but also brings us closer spiritually to God--which is, for Christians, the entire point of our earthly lives.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
The importance of proper liturgical music
As I have grown older in my Catholic faith, I have begun to notice in a deeper way the differences in the way Mass is celebrated from church to church. For example, at Notre Dame, I found myself equally inspired by the reverent and dramatic Basilica High Mass and the closer, more comradely Stanford Hall Mass. I think each was appropriate to its place: the Basilica is the centerpiece of the University and should uphold the dignity and authority of the Church; the hall chapel is more evangelical--a service to the students in residence. Also, of course, I have developed negative tastes. For example, my home parish in Bellevue, Washington has a director of music who possesses both an operatic singing voice and penchant for performance. Hence the Mass is often what occurs between her performances of usually contemporary and sadly ugly music. Yet that is a difficult criticism to make, since St. Augustine once famously argued that "to sing well is to pray twice," and that choir director certainly sings well, if not necessarily pleasantly. Is there a right or wrong way to add music to the mass? And if so (on either question), can it be done without forcing smaller churches to put on a grandeur they don't possess or making larger churches get falsely folksy?
There do occur, of course, blatant departures from Canon Law. I personally have seen examples of this--In some parishes the congregation neither stands for the Offeratory nor kneels for the consecration; or instead of saying "lamb of God" three times during the Agnus Dei a church will substitute some other description of Jesus (such as "Bread of Life"), which is incorrect no matter how biblical the other description is; or perhaps the priest will be joined by a parishioner at the altar during the consecration or have a parishioner help him distribute the Eucharist from the altar. Such violations of the Nuovo Ordo undermine the very universality of the Universal Catholic Church (and the churches in question are probably being sadly irreverent along the way). But this is not specifically what I am talking about. Even in a church that worships correctly "by the book," considerable damage may be done to the atmosphere of worship when the music is wrong. And "wrong" in this case could mean "performed" (for it's own sake instead of to enhance the Mass), "irreverent," "theologically unsound," or even simply "meaningless."
In considering this question I owe a considerable debt to the IrishLaw blog (there's a link on the right of this page), whose author argues that "Putting yourself into the place of God in hymns ("I am the Bread of Life" -- well, no we're not, Christ is), applause for the choir during Mass (it's not a performance), [or] using treacly and vapid "teen" music (did I *really* have to sing "Our God is an awesome God" so much in high school?)" (7 July 2007) are some of the major ways the music can diminish the experience of Mass. And while I must disagree with her on the song "I am the Bread of Life," both because I think it beautiful and because I assume parishioners are smart enough to understand that it is not them individually that are the Bread of Life but rather Christ, who they are echoing through the lyrics, I think she has a good point. I would also like to add to her list those stupid and meaningless "Gospel" hymns like "Standing in the need of prayer," since they sometimes technically wrong--"it's not the preacher nor the teacher but it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer" strikes me as a selfish and unchristian sentiment--and often say very little beyond their one refrain. Church should be a celebration, yes; however celebrations needn't be mindless fun.
I think much of the happy, pop- or gospel-style music that has inundated the contemporary American Mass is due to a well-meant, but actually hurtful intention. Faced with emptier churches and the grand Vatican II mandate of opening the arms of the Church in welcome to the world, many Catholics who provide or direct music for liturgy attempted to make Catholicism more appealing both by dumbing it down and making it more happy and fun. The problem with this should be obvious: the Church should never lower itself to appeal to some "common denominator" (either when constructing the liturgy or promulgating it's teaching on faith or morals), it should rather seek to raise up humanity so that they may see and believe the great promise of Christ. As St. Paul wrote, "It is [Christ] whom we proclaim, admonishing everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone perfect in Christ" (Col 1:27-28).
So I offer two criteria for liturgical music. First, since it is the priest who administers the Mass (and the sacrament of the Eucharist), it is only fitting that the music should compliment him instead of overshadowing him. Second, the music should be meaningful and theologically sound, though not necessarily complicated--many of the most beautiful and meaningful hymns are simply re-arranged biblical passages with a very simple theme, like "Blessed are they" or "Here I am, Lord." I'll caveat my opinion by also making clear that while I don't necessarily think broader-appeal songs like "My God is an awesome God" are bad (they may, in fact, be entirely appropriate for certain situations--like a teen mass), they certainly do less to increase our understanding of God's mysteries or ennoble us than many other hymns. And older hymns that have nearly dissappeared, like "Christ the Lord has risen today" and "Eternal Father, strong to save" (look them up--they're probably only recorded by college choirs anymore) can be very powerful even to members of my (or a younger) generation.
We are creatures with a spiritual nature. A crude way of putting this is to say that we have one foot in the physical world and one foot in the spiritual. The sacraments are where we perhaps (if only for an instant) stand in both worlds at the same time, and therefore are the closest to heaven. Liturgical music should compliment this effect by inspiring us--literally, "raising us up" (to loosely quote another popular hymn) to consider the greatest mysteries of God's grace and our own condition. Otherwise, it is simply a distraction--which is, I am sad to say, exactly what much contemporary liturgical music has become.
There do occur, of course, blatant departures from Canon Law. I personally have seen examples of this--In some parishes the congregation neither stands for the Offeratory nor kneels for the consecration; or instead of saying "lamb of God" three times during the Agnus Dei a church will substitute some other description of Jesus (such as "Bread of Life"), which is incorrect no matter how biblical the other description is; or perhaps the priest will be joined by a parishioner at the altar during the consecration or have a parishioner help him distribute the Eucharist from the altar. Such violations of the Nuovo Ordo undermine the very universality of the Universal Catholic Church (and the churches in question are probably being sadly irreverent along the way). But this is not specifically what I am talking about. Even in a church that worships correctly "by the book," considerable damage may be done to the atmosphere of worship when the music is wrong. And "wrong" in this case could mean "performed" (for it's own sake instead of to enhance the Mass), "irreverent," "theologically unsound," or even simply "meaningless."
In considering this question I owe a considerable debt to the IrishLaw blog (there's a link on the right of this page), whose author argues that "Putting yourself into the place of God in hymns ("I am the Bread of Life" -- well, no we're not, Christ is), applause for the choir during Mass (it's not a performance), [or] using treacly and vapid "teen" music (did I *really* have to sing "Our God is an awesome God" so much in high school?)" (7 July 2007) are some of the major ways the music can diminish the experience of Mass. And while I must disagree with her on the song "I am the Bread of Life," both because I think it beautiful and because I assume parishioners are smart enough to understand that it is not them individually that are the Bread of Life but rather Christ, who they are echoing through the lyrics, I think she has a good point. I would also like to add to her list those stupid and meaningless "Gospel" hymns like "Standing in the need of prayer," since they sometimes technically wrong--"it's not the preacher nor the teacher but it's me, oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer" strikes me as a selfish and unchristian sentiment--and often say very little beyond their one refrain. Church should be a celebration, yes; however celebrations needn't be mindless fun.
I think much of the happy, pop- or gospel-style music that has inundated the contemporary American Mass is due to a well-meant, but actually hurtful intention. Faced with emptier churches and the grand Vatican II mandate of opening the arms of the Church in welcome to the world, many Catholics who provide or direct music for liturgy attempted to make Catholicism more appealing both by dumbing it down and making it more happy and fun. The problem with this should be obvious: the Church should never lower itself to appeal to some "common denominator" (either when constructing the liturgy or promulgating it's teaching on faith or morals), it should rather seek to raise up humanity so that they may see and believe the great promise of Christ. As St. Paul wrote, "It is [Christ] whom we proclaim, admonishing everyone and teaching everyone with all wisdom, that we may present everyone perfect in Christ" (Col 1:27-28).
So I offer two criteria for liturgical music. First, since it is the priest who administers the Mass (and the sacrament of the Eucharist), it is only fitting that the music should compliment him instead of overshadowing him. Second, the music should be meaningful and theologically sound, though not necessarily complicated--many of the most beautiful and meaningful hymns are simply re-arranged biblical passages with a very simple theme, like "Blessed are they" or "Here I am, Lord." I'll caveat my opinion by also making clear that while I don't necessarily think broader-appeal songs like "My God is an awesome God" are bad (they may, in fact, be entirely appropriate for certain situations--like a teen mass), they certainly do less to increase our understanding of God's mysteries or ennoble us than many other hymns. And older hymns that have nearly dissappeared, like "Christ the Lord has risen today" and "Eternal Father, strong to save" (look them up--they're probably only recorded by college choirs anymore) can be very powerful even to members of my (or a younger) generation.
We are creatures with a spiritual nature. A crude way of putting this is to say that we have one foot in the physical world and one foot in the spiritual. The sacraments are where we perhaps (if only for an instant) stand in both worlds at the same time, and therefore are the closest to heaven. Liturgical music should compliment this effect by inspiring us--literally, "raising us up" (to loosely quote another popular hymn) to consider the greatest mysteries of God's grace and our own condition. Otherwise, it is simply a distraction--which is, I am sad to say, exactly what much contemporary liturgical music has become.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The value of Harry Potter
Whenever I ask one of my peers if they have read the Harry Potter books, I often hear derision in their response. "That's not my kind of book," they say, or else: "I think all the attention is silly;" "It's stupid that people are so obsessed about it;" and "I'm not really into fantasy or children's books." To distort things further, many apologists of the series have defended it by proclaiming how "dark" the later books became, as if an element of darkness in the story suddenly makes it better or more worthwhile. Overall, Harry Potter's story has been publicly resolved into trends--and the trend one happens to follow (the fantasy component, the incredible popularity, disapproval of popular things, "darkness," etc.) determines one's response to the stories. All of this obscures the actual point of J.K. Rowling's books.
(The following discussion contains "spoilers".)
The story of Harry Potter, told in seven separate books, is essentially a fairy tale. Like most fairy tales, there is a wondrous or magical element to the setting, though (also like most fairy tales) the setting is familiar to us readers. As a fairy tale, the story isn't particularly dark: it can be scary and sad, but the goodness of the main characters glows throughout as they struggle to do the right thing in each book and mostly succeed. There is no question that their situation becomes more dire from book to book, as the evil they're fighting gets stronger in proportion to their increasing maturity. In fact, rather than "dark" the books simply get more adult in theme and content--though never "adult" in the negative, pornographic sense. The much-talked about deaths of several "main characters" along the way simply add a dimension of tragedy, a reminder that Harry and his friends are struggling against forces that are in fact very dangerous and cruel.
In a literal sense, the series is a tour de force. J.K. Rowling did a great job of tying up loose ends from the main plot and all the sub-plots. Her theme of Love comes to full fruition in the final book with Harry's willingness to die for his loved ones (much like his mother's similar willingness seventeen years before--which, incidentally, started the storyline). Though it was terribly sad that Tonks and Lupin and Dobby and Fred died--I was especially stricken when Colin Creevey, the youngster who irritatingly worshipped Harry in The Goblet of Fire, died after staying to fight, even though he was underage--the tragedy was more than balanced by the redemption of certain characters. Finally, the series ended as all fairy tales do, with a "happily ever after." To be sure, I wanted more detail about Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, and their children...but really, just knowing that they were still friends, still happy together, and moving on in their lives was enough to satisfy me that the hurts of Voldemort had been healed. And that was the point, wasn't it? Harry was always just looking to be normal and happy.
Morally, the stories are very clear. The children--especially the three main characters--constantly attempt to be good in the face of obstacles, which take the form of temptations to selfishness, direct threats on their life, and cruelly adolescent students. Though their efforts seem at times pointless or futile, in each book they (in some measure) succeed. More importantly, Rowling avoids the literary cliche of a "chosen one" by explaining very carefully at the end of the sixth book that it is Harry's choice to face up to Voldemort. That choice is not thrust upon Harry as the result of inscrutable fate or an exalted destiny, but (rather unfortunately) by Voldemort's own obsession and misunderstanding. And for his part Harry consistently chooses--at least once each book--to face up to Voldemort, instead of trying to avoid it all or giving up. In fact, it is partly Harry's determination to confront Voldemort throughout the first books that fuels Voldemort's frightening focus on Harry in the final books. Underneath all these larger plot points, however, is the constant Love that unites Harry and his friends. Their continual success against Voldemort is directly attributable to their combined efforts, which doesn't spring so much from a shared purpose as their constant, unselfish friendship. In the end, it is only Harry's decision to give his life for his friends that makes it possible for him to finally defeat Voldemort. Literally and figuratively, it is Love that conquers the death, fear, and despair that threaten Harry and his friends throughout the series.
Rowling also deals heavily in the theme of redemption, which surfaces quietly in the early books--think how Sirius redeems his aggressively dark family through his friendship both with Harry's father and Harry himself--and becomes inescapable in the last. With the exception of Voldemort himself (and his particularly evil henchmen), every "bad" character to some measure redeems himself--Malfoy, a bully with a particular hatred of Harry, has the grace in the end to turn his back (however halfheartedly) on Voldemort, and to quietly allow Harry to save his life. Percy Weasley, who disowned his family to serve his own ambition, apologizes and returns to their side in the final battle. We learn that Dumbledore, perhaps the most staunchly good character of the entire book, was in fact tempted by Dark Magic early in his life, though he obviously repented early enough to discover Voldemort and set up his demise. But it is in Professor Snape's story that we see the most redemption: the tale of a man who loved Lily so much that he could protect and aid her son even though he looked like James, the man Snape (perhaps) hated most in the world, is touching and powerful. Furthermore, it is clear from Snape's interactions with Dumbledore (seen in the memories he gave Harry immediately prior to his death) that much of his cruelty at Hogwarts was an act to lend verisimilitude to his continued status as a Death Eater--he shows his real colors when he corrects one of his portrait-henchmen at Hogwarts from using the equivalent of a racist epithet: "don't use that word ["mudblood"]!" He aids Harry throughout the series: early on by attempting to foil the curse of an unseen enemy during a quidditch game; then by trying to teach Harry the difficult art of Occlumency; and especially in the last book by sending his patronus to the wood to lead Harry to Gryffindor's sword. Snape was ever a bitter, lonely young man, desperate to fit in and be liked, a tremendously competent wizard, and sorely tempted by Dark Magic--a near perfect prospect for the Death Eaters. Yet he was redeemed by his love of Harry's mother to the point of fighting thanklessly throughout the entire series to protect her son and defeat Voldemort.
The Harry Potter books are ultimately ennobling: by doing the right thing, sticking together, and confronting evil, the three main characters achieve their "happily ever after." But the stories are much richer than a tale of good triumphing over evil. Each one is a cleverly constructed mystery novel, wherein the mundane details of the plot conceal clues to the overarching problem of the novel, and many characters are not what they seem--an example of this is the case of Sirius Black in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Each book (and the series together) is also a bildungsroman, or coming-of-age novel. Harry, Ron, and Hermione (and to a lesser extent Neville, Ginny, and Luna) grow up and become more complete persons as a result of their individual and collaborative response to troubles and threats. Indeed, part of their attraction to us as characters is their endearing and familiar adolescent struggle to like themselves, to gain friends, to fit in, to succeed. Finally, by embedding the magical world in our own, Rowling has underlaid her writing with witty, often amusing, and sometimes devastating satire.
The great questions of humanity include why we exist, what we should do, how we can be happy. In her own way, Rowling has offered an answer to these questions through the Harry Potter books. Along the way, she has crafted seven exciting stories that are introspective, funny, tragic, affirming, and ennobling. Her books, though not as profound, yet stand comparison in some degree to The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Lord of the Rings. Though they may not be to everyone's taste, they certainly don't deserve to be sneered at or pigeonholed. They are a valuable addition to the canon of English literature.
(The following discussion contains "spoilers".)
The story of Harry Potter, told in seven separate books, is essentially a fairy tale. Like most fairy tales, there is a wondrous or magical element to the setting, though (also like most fairy tales) the setting is familiar to us readers. As a fairy tale, the story isn't particularly dark: it can be scary and sad, but the goodness of the main characters glows throughout as they struggle to do the right thing in each book and mostly succeed. There is no question that their situation becomes more dire from book to book, as the evil they're fighting gets stronger in proportion to their increasing maturity. In fact, rather than "dark" the books simply get more adult in theme and content--though never "adult" in the negative, pornographic sense. The much-talked about deaths of several "main characters" along the way simply add a dimension of tragedy, a reminder that Harry and his friends are struggling against forces that are in fact very dangerous and cruel.
In a literal sense, the series is a tour de force. J.K. Rowling did a great job of tying up loose ends from the main plot and all the sub-plots. Her theme of Love comes to full fruition in the final book with Harry's willingness to die for his loved ones (much like his mother's similar willingness seventeen years before--which, incidentally, started the storyline). Though it was terribly sad that Tonks and Lupin and Dobby and Fred died--I was especially stricken when Colin Creevey, the youngster who irritatingly worshipped Harry in The Goblet of Fire, died after staying to fight, even though he was underage--the tragedy was more than balanced by the redemption of certain characters. Finally, the series ended as all fairy tales do, with a "happily ever after." To be sure, I wanted more detail about Harry and Ginny, Ron and Hermione, and their children...but really, just knowing that they were still friends, still happy together, and moving on in their lives was enough to satisfy me that the hurts of Voldemort had been healed. And that was the point, wasn't it? Harry was always just looking to be normal and happy.
Morally, the stories are very clear. The children--especially the three main characters--constantly attempt to be good in the face of obstacles, which take the form of temptations to selfishness, direct threats on their life, and cruelly adolescent students. Though their efforts seem at times pointless or futile, in each book they (in some measure) succeed. More importantly, Rowling avoids the literary cliche of a "chosen one" by explaining very carefully at the end of the sixth book that it is Harry's choice to face up to Voldemort. That choice is not thrust upon Harry as the result of inscrutable fate or an exalted destiny, but (rather unfortunately) by Voldemort's own obsession and misunderstanding. And for his part Harry consistently chooses--at least once each book--to face up to Voldemort, instead of trying to avoid it all or giving up. In fact, it is partly Harry's determination to confront Voldemort throughout the first books that fuels Voldemort's frightening focus on Harry in the final books. Underneath all these larger plot points, however, is the constant Love that unites Harry and his friends. Their continual success against Voldemort is directly attributable to their combined efforts, which doesn't spring so much from a shared purpose as their constant, unselfish friendship. In the end, it is only Harry's decision to give his life for his friends that makes it possible for him to finally defeat Voldemort. Literally and figuratively, it is Love that conquers the death, fear, and despair that threaten Harry and his friends throughout the series.
Rowling also deals heavily in the theme of redemption, which surfaces quietly in the early books--think how Sirius redeems his aggressively dark family through his friendship both with Harry's father and Harry himself--and becomes inescapable in the last. With the exception of Voldemort himself (and his particularly evil henchmen), every "bad" character to some measure redeems himself--Malfoy, a bully with a particular hatred of Harry, has the grace in the end to turn his back (however halfheartedly) on Voldemort, and to quietly allow Harry to save his life. Percy Weasley, who disowned his family to serve his own ambition, apologizes and returns to their side in the final battle. We learn that Dumbledore, perhaps the most staunchly good character of the entire book, was in fact tempted by Dark Magic early in his life, though he obviously repented early enough to discover Voldemort and set up his demise. But it is in Professor Snape's story that we see the most redemption: the tale of a man who loved Lily so much that he could protect and aid her son even though he looked like James, the man Snape (perhaps) hated most in the world, is touching and powerful. Furthermore, it is clear from Snape's interactions with Dumbledore (seen in the memories he gave Harry immediately prior to his death) that much of his cruelty at Hogwarts was an act to lend verisimilitude to his continued status as a Death Eater--he shows his real colors when he corrects one of his portrait-henchmen at Hogwarts from using the equivalent of a racist epithet: "don't use that word ["mudblood"]!" He aids Harry throughout the series: early on by attempting to foil the curse of an unseen enemy during a quidditch game; then by trying to teach Harry the difficult art of Occlumency; and especially in the last book by sending his patronus to the wood to lead Harry to Gryffindor's sword. Snape was ever a bitter, lonely young man, desperate to fit in and be liked, a tremendously competent wizard, and sorely tempted by Dark Magic--a near perfect prospect for the Death Eaters. Yet he was redeemed by his love of Harry's mother to the point of fighting thanklessly throughout the entire series to protect her son and defeat Voldemort.
The Harry Potter books are ultimately ennobling: by doing the right thing, sticking together, and confronting evil, the three main characters achieve their "happily ever after." But the stories are much richer than a tale of good triumphing over evil. Each one is a cleverly constructed mystery novel, wherein the mundane details of the plot conceal clues to the overarching problem of the novel, and many characters are not what they seem--an example of this is the case of Sirius Black in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Each book (and the series together) is also a bildungsroman, or coming-of-age novel. Harry, Ron, and Hermione (and to a lesser extent Neville, Ginny, and Luna) grow up and become more complete persons as a result of their individual and collaborative response to troubles and threats. Indeed, part of their attraction to us as characters is their endearing and familiar adolescent struggle to like themselves, to gain friends, to fit in, to succeed. Finally, by embedding the magical world in our own, Rowling has underlaid her writing with witty, often amusing, and sometimes devastating satire.
The great questions of humanity include why we exist, what we should do, how we can be happy. In her own way, Rowling has offered an answer to these questions through the Harry Potter books. Along the way, she has crafted seven exciting stories that are introspective, funny, tragic, affirming, and ennobling. Her books, though not as profound, yet stand comparison in some degree to The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Lord of the Rings. Though they may not be to everyone's taste, they certainly don't deserve to be sneered at or pigeonholed. They are a valuable addition to the canon of English literature.
Friday, June 29, 2007
On Freedom and Predestination
When Christians talk of freedom, they often phrase it as freedom from sin or death--sometimes more poetically as freedom from the slavery of sin or death. This is not an open freedom; it implies no license. In other words, Christians are not, in fact, free to do as they wish. St. Paul cautions, "Christ set us free; so stand firm and do not submit again to the yoke of slavery...do not use this freedom as an opportunity for the flesh...you may not do what you want" (Gal 5). Christians are offered personal freedom only in the sense of making a choice between a "yoke of slavery" or the "flesh," and something else. That "something else" is a different freedom. It is the freedom Christians believe Christ won for humanity: the freedom from death and their own sinfulness.
Because the freedom we are used to talking of is much broader--it is the freedom to do what we wish--it is perhaps difficult to understand why Christianity would narrow the possible choices of action down to simply Christ (and the freedom He offers) and death. But in this distinction Christianity explains that God created us in His image and likeness to be His free lovers and servants. To do anything else is to reject God--no matter how seemingly trivial or meaningless the rejection. Everything action we commit is either selfless and loving (and therefore oriented toward the glory and goodness of God), or else is selfish. So, indeed, Christianity teaches that we have only two real, substantive choices in this world.
Understanding such a stark choice brings up, inescapably, the issue of predestination. Of course we are destined for God; He created us for Himself. His plan for us since the very beginning is that we find our way to Him of our own free wills. It would be then correct to say of a man who goes to heaven, "he was predestined for it." All humanity is. But the criteria for getting there in the first place is the exercise of our free will--we are each responsible for choosing God ourselves. C.S. Lewis captures this idea very well in his book Perelandra, whose protagonist Dr. Ransom has decided to do "the right thing" over his own, selfish, protests.
A clue to what they have lost is found in Lewis' pregnant phrase, "the rhetoric of [Ransom's] passions." The word "rhetoric" means "manufactured nobility or grandeur," and the classic art of Rhetoric was taught to politians so they could twist words in order inspire others to their cause (incidentally, St. Augustine was a teacher of Rhetoric, and his Confessions are filled with contempt for that art which teaches men seduce others with good-seeming words). What Lewis is alluding to is the human tendency to to let their passions run away with them in a way that is actually harmful, something that is a result of Original Sin. As an example, it is undeniably human to find a member of the opposite sex attractive, but to follow that passion into adultery is clearly wrong.
The faculty by which we regulate our passions is our reason. We have the ability to rationally decide if any given passion is Good or Bad--whether a particular passion is bringing us closer to God (love for a family member, perhaps) or separating us from him (excessive ambition, for example). The ancient definition of Man (from Aristotle) was a rational animal, a creature subject to physical passions yet endowed with reason for free will. The essence of humanity, then--what it is that separates us from other physical creatures--is nothing more than reason, and our unique place in God's creation as the creatures of His image. To abdicate reason in favor of passions is to reject God's call, and therefore one's humanity. Lewis speculates on this again through the thoughts of Ransom:
Because the freedom we are used to talking of is much broader--it is the freedom to do what we wish--it is perhaps difficult to understand why Christianity would narrow the possible choices of action down to simply Christ (and the freedom He offers) and death. But in this distinction Christianity explains that God created us in His image and likeness to be His free lovers and servants. To do anything else is to reject God--no matter how seemingly trivial or meaningless the rejection. Everything action we commit is either selfless and loving (and therefore oriented toward the glory and goodness of God), or else is selfish. So, indeed, Christianity teaches that we have only two real, substantive choices in this world.
Understanding such a stark choice brings up, inescapably, the issue of predestination. Of course we are destined for God; He created us for Himself. His plan for us since the very beginning is that we find our way to Him of our own free wills. It would be then correct to say of a man who goes to heaven, "he was predestined for it." All humanity is. But the criteria for getting there in the first place is the exercise of our free will--we are each responsible for choosing God ourselves. C.S. Lewis captures this idea very well in his book Perelandra, whose protagonist Dr. Ransom has decided to do "the right thing" over his own, selfish, protests.
"You might say, if you liked, that the power of choice had been simply set aside and an inflexible destiny substituted for it. On the other hand, you might say that he had [been] delivered from the rhetoric of his passions and had emerged into unassailable freedom. Ransom could not, for the life of him, see any difference between these two statements. Predestination and freedom were apparently identical."I believe that we cannot be predestined to hell. That would infringe on our freedom of choice. It is, rather, our path heaven that is predestined. When we do what is right--defined, perhaps, as what is both good and necessary--we are doing no more than that which God predestined us to do when he "called us by name" (to quote Isaiah). Furthermore, however sinful and far from God we grow, He has only made each of us only one path to him in the individual sense, for He created us. One person's calling is not another, and though they may be guilty of the same sins, their redemptions are going to be as individual as they are. Perhaps this is what scripture refers to when it speaks of "the Elect:" those who succumbed to their destiny or enacted their freedom to choose God (take your pick). Those who don't are exiled from heaven--they have lost something essential.
A clue to what they have lost is found in Lewis' pregnant phrase, "the rhetoric of [Ransom's] passions." The word "rhetoric" means "manufactured nobility or grandeur," and the classic art of Rhetoric was taught to politians so they could twist words in order inspire others to their cause (incidentally, St. Augustine was a teacher of Rhetoric, and his Confessions are filled with contempt for that art which teaches men seduce others with good-seeming words). What Lewis is alluding to is the human tendency to to let their passions run away with them in a way that is actually harmful, something that is a result of Original Sin. As an example, it is undeniably human to find a member of the opposite sex attractive, but to follow that passion into adultery is clearly wrong.
The faculty by which we regulate our passions is our reason. We have the ability to rationally decide if any given passion is Good or Bad--whether a particular passion is bringing us closer to God (love for a family member, perhaps) or separating us from him (excessive ambition, for example). The ancient definition of Man (from Aristotle) was a rational animal, a creature subject to physical passions yet endowed with reason for free will. The essence of humanity, then--what it is that separates us from other physical creatures--is nothing more than reason, and our unique place in God's creation as the creatures of His image. To abdicate reason in favor of passions is to reject God's call, and therefore one's humanity. Lewis speculates on this again through the thoughts of Ransom:
"Up till that moment, whenever he had thought of Hell, he had pictured the lost souls as being still human; now, as the frightful abyss which parts ghosthood from manhood yawned before him, pity was almost swallowed up in horror--in the unconquerable revulsion of the life within him from positive and self-consuming Death... The forces which had begun, perhaps years ago, to eat away his [enemy's] humanity had now completed their work... Only a ghost was left--an everlasting unrest, a crumbling, a ruin, an odour of decay."Understanding this relationship between passions and reason sheds light on the Christian definition of freedom as freedom from the slavery of sin and death. To be free is to exercise reason in determining God's path for us, and then following that path. To choose anything else is to follow one's passions into sin and error. Our only hope for everlasting life is to assume the mantle of full humanity: not an indulgent understanding of "human weakness," not a claim to full, unrestricted freedom of lifestyle, but a responsibility to choose God--and His specific and individual destiny for us--over every other option, and thereby be free.
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