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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

God bless Midwest Catholics

Over the weekend of June 8-10, I traveled to Washington DC for a wedding. It was held in St. Veronica's church in Fairfax County. The ceremony was not particularly sentimental. The vows were traditional, taken by the bride and groom in a quiet and serious manner. The readings were appropriate, but certainly not the expected fare: no 1 Corinthians chapter 13.* The homily was very down-to-earth, but was neither moving nor eloquent, and the consecration was professional rather than grave or solemn. Nobody exclaimed in penetrating whispers after the mass, "What a beautiful ceremony!" The best accolade I heard while exiting the church was a simple, "That was very nice." And it was nice. It was simply nice. But I think that goes a lot farther in the long run than pure romance.

For me, the ceremony had a lasting effect and rare value. In the homily, the priest spoke in clumsy analogies, calling on the groom's profession as an artist and the bride's profession as a doctor to point out that a successful relationship requires both creativity and imagination from the artist's side, and discipline and precision from the doctor's side. He pointed out that the practical foundation of a good marriage is, in essence, good business sense (the organized hospital); while the personal or spiritual element foundation requires quiet, comfortable, inspired interaction (found in the studio). The entire content of the homily, in fact, was plain advice on how to make a permanent and necessarily close relationship between two people work.

In short, the priest made the wedding ceremony one of commitment. He invited us, the family and friends of the new couple, to witness their bond. The advice he gave, not preachy, was a memorable blueprint for a good and lasting relationship. Sentimentality is pretty, but steadiness is more lasting. Steadiness is made of loyalty and care--and while it springs from the more erotic love of two young people who have "fallen for each other," it is in fact more romantic. It is the source of contentment and happiness over a long life, instead of over a short period.

Then, before distributing Communion, the priest reminded his congregation that the Catholic Church refuses the Eucharist to those who aren't Catholic themselves, because the sacrament is not only the body and blood of Christ, but also represents the recipient's full accord with the teachings and laws of the Church. Since about a quarter of those present did not appear Catholic, I thought this was a difficult thing to say. It seems rude and demeaning, probably, to them, who consider themselves as much a Christian (sometimes, if not more) than any Catholic. But, as a priest, he is bound to respect and uphold the laws of the Church, even when it is unpleasant. And I admired him for it.

During my trip back on Sunday, I had a two and a half hour layover in Chicago's Midway airport. As I walked through the terminal to my next gate, so I could find a place to settle down and read, I heard over the intercom an announcement for Mass. Though I had planned to go to Mass that evening (my church offers a 5:30 PM Mass), I was interested. I changed course for the chapel and took my place in one of the seats.

Slowly, the place filled up. There were several families with children, many couples of all ages, and many solitary travelers (like me) in the room before Mass started. Eventually there was standing room only. The priest entered quietly, we all stood, then he started by asking that no one leave after communion, but admonished that we all should stay for the completion of the Mass. He also offered confession afterward to anyone who was interested. Again, I found this admirable. Most people (and I think especially Americans) do not like to be criticized or told what to do. It seems to me that many American Catholics react strongly and negatively when a priest (or anyone) asserts the need for confession, or that it is polite and respectful--to God, if not the priest--to stay for the entire Mass (instead of taking communion and leaving). Too often, then, are these subjects ignored. It is easier to talk about other aspects of the faith. But this priest--frail, old and a stranger to all of us--invoked his ecclesiastic authority.

I should point out here that I don't think many of the erstwhile parishioners at the airport Mass needed the priest's reminders. We were a motley collection, consisting mostly of private, sometimes ugly people quietly going about our business. There was nothing exceptionally social in our demeanor, nor particularly inspired about our worship (though we did sing at times). I felt, though, a strong and solid faith among us; everyone there seemed to be executing their duty to God in a quiet but lasting way. At Notre Dame I saw the same thing. Students and professors who rarely spoke about religions quietly (but clearly, if I observed them) went to Mass every weekend (since I lived on campus I had ample opportunity to discover this amongst my fellow students) and led essentially sober, good lives--though "sober" might be a misleading word here, because groups of people I've met drink and party as often or good-humoredly as Midwesterners. I say "essentially sober" because I doubt seriously whether many Midwesterners drink so as to lose all control and thereby commit great sins, rather they are good, honest people when drunk as well as when sober.

Was the priest at the wedding from the Midwest? I don't know, but I heard the trace of a flat "a" sound while he spoke that reminded me strongly of the accent heard in Ohio and Illinois. His homily was redolent of the plain, practical common sense that Midwesterners bring to their religion and religious duties (among which are Mass and marriage), which I was reminded of so strongly--by both the priest and congregation--during the short Sunday traveler's Mass at Midway airport. And though I go to a church now that is much more inspired, I recognize the value of such good sense and practical discipline in my own life (spiritual or otherwise). I certainly don't want to imply either that my Notre Dame Mass experience lacked inspiration or that my current Mass experience lacks solid values--neither would be true. But like a relationship between two people, a relationship with God also requires both inspiration and discipline. And since I have become so used to the inspiration side, it was good to be reminded of the discipline side.

*Note: I do not dislike 1 Corinthians chapter 13. I find it a powerful and illuminating text. It is nevertheless somewhat cliché at weddings. I find it much more romantic and applicable when it is read starting with chapter 12, verse 27.

Tactical flying (and living) San Diego

It has been four long months since I last wrote about my continuing military adventure. This is partially due to the time commitment of my job, partially due to the other activities I have taken on, but mostly due to the fact that my job is no longer so easy to explain. As I get more specialized in my profession, the knowledge I acquire is more technical, and thus of diminished interest to the world at large. But I will try to adequately describe the excitement of operating a real military jet, which goes far beyond its flight capabilities.

The program here consists of several phases. The first I wrote about in my last post about flying. The next is air-to-ground training: how to bomb and deliver advanced weapons (the ones you hear about on the news). Much of knowledge required is technical specifications about the ordnance itself, or the delivery systems organic to the aircraft, and much of that stuff is secret (no, it's really classified...I'm not kidding). But the flights themselves are rewarding, because we generally "roll in" on a target, a fancy way to say we dive-bomb it. It has a few advantages: you can look at your target and thereby be more accurate, and you can deliver the weapon on a moving target (something harder from high altitude). There is nothing, however that gets your adrenaline pumping like flying at the ground at 500 mph, trying to put a steel bomb downrange without actually impacting the ground yourself. Naturally, we are very careful--and we certainly don't hesitate to pull out of the dive if any dangerous situation develops. But it requires a lot of concentration.

Some of you may be inquiring why we dive-bomb when we have all these fancy GPS weapons. More may be thinking that we're crazy to dive-bomb at all, what with the threat of turning ourselves into a kamikaze jet. A single answer suffices for both: dumb bombs are cheaper than smart bombs, and the most effective way to deliver them is by a dive delivery. And since the whole purpose of Marine Aviation is to put bombs on bad guys, we do that as best we can...even if it's dangerous. And we train to it. Hence the many practice flights. You'd think it gets repetitive, but it doesn't. It's a lot of fun, partially because it's such a challenge. There are few things in life as satisfying as doing a demanding job well.

Speaking of putting bombs on bad guys, the culmination of the air-to-ground phase is CAS, or Close Air Support. That is the art of supporting ground troops actually in contact with the enemy, as opposed to pre-planned deep strikes against solitary (but presumably high-value) targets. This is also very dangerous, because the explosive effects of our weapons can cover a lot of ground, and the worst thing that can happen is a friendly-fire incident. To add to the possibility of error is the fact that oftentimes we cannot plan our targets in advance, since a battle is always fluid and we have to respond to developing situations. We instead rely on external controllers (airborne or on the ground) to direct us to targets as they appear. So we have strict procedures to follow in the airplane that involve a specific brief over the radio (the 9-line) and standardized radio comms in order to prevent us dropping ordnance on our own troops. I can't really describe the excitement of this kind of mission: it is exciting, challenging, and intense. It is, in fact, exactly what I wanted to do when I signed up for Marine Aviation. It’s worth noting that as a backseater, I will be trained to be one of the (airborne) external controllers, and my job then will be to fly above the battlespace and direct other aircraft (including helicopters) in Close Air Support. I can’t wait.

In my civilian life, I have found a church here with a very strong Young Adult program (they tend to get offended if referred to as “youth,” though I still think of myself as such). This facet of their ministry is appropriate considering their location in Pacific Beach , a neighborhood of small shops, tattoo parlors, and bars whose chief residents are college students. But the ministry offers everything from a Memorial Day barbecue to in-depth conferences and bible studies oriented toward (and led by) young adults. It’s a fun group—we often go out to dinner after Mass, or simply go out drinking if the mood strikes us. Recently I began leading a bible study with a friend of mine, and the chance to do the “great books” thing again--by immersing myself in the text and trying to understand it with other people and perspectives--has been very rewarding. In fact, spending time with these young Catholics constitutes my largest extra-military activity.

As my parents found out when they visited over Mother’s day, I lead a good life down here. Despite my location by the coast, the weather is nice more often than not, and (at least around the city) the landscape is beautiful. It is definitely part of the desert, though--I find it amazing that the entire coastal landscape becomes distinctly greener after a day of rain, and becomes gradually browner during good weather. The real desert is evident when flying over the mountains east of the city to the bombing ranges. It is a bleak, magnificent landscape; never easier to appreciate than when raging around at 300’ above the desert floor, rolling over dramatic ridges and diving through valleys. Though it's fun to see that kind of landscape, I prefer the comparatively lush coastline.

On one flight out over the ocean, I chanced to look down as we went “feet wet” and noticed what appeared to be a solitary beach immediately below me. That afternoon I went to check it out as a possible location to go for a run. There were only a few people there, but oddly enough half of them appeared to be naked. It took a minute for this to sink in (since it was so unexpected), but I discovered later that I had found Black’s Beach, which is apparently a de facto nude beach. Given the several-hundred-foot cliffs that separate it from the headland, authorities rarely (read: never) come to enforce the San Diego ordinance prohibiting nudity. Despite that, it is a largely solitary and clean beach, nestled between the surf and the cliffs--a beautiful place to run. In fact, there are many beautiful places around here, and I am happy to be able to enjoy them. Southern California has not disappointed me.

A defense of real cork

I am very interested in wine. This is partly my parents' fault, since they are also very interested in wine, and I grew up with it at the dinner table every night. But they weren't just interested in drinking it: my father especially is fairly knowledgeable about how wines are made and labeled (no small subject of inquiry). Following in his footsteps, I myself have recently begun to investigate the ancient art of fermenting grapes into a drinkable beverage. And I have found it very intriguing.

I should be very clear here. I find that knowing about wine is almost as fun as drinking wine. I don't mean the pretentious knowledge about, say, which wine labels are better than others, or which wines can be correctly paired with what kinds of foods--that sort of "knowledge" is, in my experience, largely a result of one person trying to appear better than others. It is, essentially, condescension. I am not interested in that. I am interested in discovering where certain wines come from and how they (hopefully) reflect their origins. I am interested in attempts, both old and new, to make a better wine by combining various grapes. I am interested in the fermenting process, the aging process, and most of all in the finished product. I am interested because I think it truly is a craft, just like making fine furniture or painting pictures.

I am, for example, fascinated that champagne was developed as a desperate bid to make marketable wine from the Champagne region of France, which apparently has very poor natural conditions and soil (from a winemaking perspective). The medieval monk Dom Perignon was one of the chief engineers of sparkling wine, and his name is immortalized now as the label of a very famous champagne. Likewise interesting is the fact that Riesling winemakers will leave a portion of their grapes on the vine past the first harvest so they will ripen further. This is a risk in Germany, when autumn frosts come early and hard. But the longer the grapes are left on the vine, the sweeter, more ageworthy, and more flavorful are the wines made from them. And even if the grapes freeze, they can be made into a very sweet wine called Eiswine ("Icewine").

Such examples of winemaking illustrate the painstaking care and ingenuity that goes into producing the bottle of wine that I choose to drink. And that makes drinking the wine a Romantic experience--not romantic in the sense of being appropriate to two people who are in love, but rather in the sense I define at the top of this page: being "marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized." A bottle of wine made with care should represent both the place it came from and the intent of the winemaker who created it. It can produce an astounding variety of flavors and even enhance the flavor of the food we eat while drinking it. Above all, like any great endeavor of human ingenuity, it should inspire us.

The English author Evelyn Waugh recognized this, and in the novel Brideshead Revisited, during a darkly amusing and depressing dinner with an excessively practical, grasping, manipulative man named Rex Mottram, the main character muses: "Those were the kind of things he [Rex] heard, mortal illness and debt, I thought. [But] I rejoiced in the Burgundy. How can I describe it? The Pathetic Fallacy resounds in all our praise of wine. For centuries every language has been strained to define its beauty, and has produced only wild conceits or the stock epithets of the trade. This Burgundy seemed to me, then, serene and triumphant, a reminder that the world was an older and better place than Rex knew, that mankind in its long passion had learned another wisdom than his. By chance I met this same wine again...in the first autumn of the war; it had softened and faded in the intervening years, but it still spoke in the pure, authentic accent of its prime and, that day, as...with Rex Mottram years before, it whispered faintly, but in the same lapidary phrase, the same words of hope."

So perhaps it is easy to see why I have been sorry to see the intrusion of wax synthetic corks and plastic screwtops into the world of wine. It isn't that I refuse to recognize the benefits of these technological advancements: cork taint, or the intrusion of molds and bad flavor into the wine from the cork, is one of the oldest and most consistent problems with wine bottling. In fact, when the waiter at a restaurant pours a little wine into the glass for you to taste before the wine is served, it isn't so the you can decide if you like the wine. It's so you can be satisfied you are getting a wine untainted by the cork. Without question, synthetic corks and screwtops largely eliminate this problem. Furthermore, as both substitutes are less porous than cork, they help wines age better. Nevertheless, the quality of the cork is one among many unknowns that make wine drinking such a romantic experience.

When holding a bottle of wine in my hand, I feel great anticipation. The bottle, cork and all, holds the promise of new flavors and experiences. The fact that it may turn out either very good or simply mediocre (or even unpalatable) heightens the anticipation. The particular ceremony required to open the wine--peeling the foil, inserting the corkscrew, and extracting the cork (hopefully without leaving bits of cork in the wine) all further contribute to that anticipation. And synthetic corks (especially screwtops), while they may eliminate the possiblity of cork taint and bad extractions, also kill some of this anticipation.

I am sad, then, to hear more and more winemakers are switching over from real cork. I will miss the satisfying pop! that heralds the opening of a wine bottle, and examining the stamped and stained cork itself as a prelude to tasting the wine. Hopefully a few winemakers, at least, will retain the risk and the reward of using real cork--and the soul-satisfying act of opening (and tasting!) a new bottle of wine will retain its magic for old-fashioned romantics like me.

The power of imagination

On a recent flight from Washington, DC to San Diego I had the fortune of watching the movie Bridge to Terabithia. It didn't seem like fortune at the time, though. I was frankly disappointed that a more exciting movie wasn't playing. Crammed into a small airline seat, forced to sit still for four hours or so, I wanted to watch something with action and drama and even romance, not some fantasy movie for children. But I didn't feel like reading, so I plugged in my headphones and decided to give it a chance.

As a part of the programming, the airline included a review before the movie actually started. Interestingly, one reviewer remarked that he had the same misgivings as I did about the movie before he saw it, but ended up pleasantly surprised. He also mentioned that there were some significant dramatic themes, including a death. At the time, his comments didn't really make me more excited to watch the movie myself, but I remembered them later.

I will probably spoil the movie for those of you who haven't watched it, so if you really want to see it, move on to the next post. The main character, Jesse, is a young boy with four sisters. His family is struggling to get by, and his parents have too much on their mind to pay much attention to him. The movie is chiefly about his pre-adolescent struggles, and how he learns to deal with difficulties in life, which for him take the form of school bullies, a demanding and rigid father, and an annoying little sister (she actually loves him very much and because of that seems clingy to him).

The movie begins on the first day of sixth grade. Jesse has been practicing all summer so he can be the fastest kid in his class in the opening field day race. Unfortunately, he his mother insists that he wear his sister's hand-me-down pink sneakers, for which classmates will tease him--but that's pretty normal for Jesse, since his family can't afford to buy many new things. During the race, he beats everybody in his class except a new girl named Leslie. What makes it worse for him is that she seems extremely interested in being his friend. He puts her off initially, partially bitter from the race he lost but also partially because she is new and different. Like him, she is an outcast--and the two eventually become friends.

Leslie discovers that Jesse has a passion for drawing. He keeps a notebook filled with drawings of imaginary creatures and events, though he is very shy about it. And with her encouragement, they begin to visit the woods behind their houses every day after school, developing in their imagination a fantasy world which they protect and rule. It is Leslie that instigates the imaginative part; Jesse is at first skeptical, reluctant, and derisive. Their world, Terabithia, is sophisticated: the children bring in the problems they face at school and at home and re-create them as evils threatening Terabithia, and likewise project their role and king and queen into their everyday lives, teaming up to get the better of bullies and help other students. Terabithia is a visible manifestation of the childrens' friendship and a means by which they can romanticize their sufferings and make them meaningful. And while their sufferings might be considered trivial compared with adult problems, as children at the very beginning of puberty they feel disappointment, regret, and frustration with all the clarity of innocence. The movie clearly presents the childrens' problems as a microcosm of our (the viewers') own.

Later in the movie, Jesse is been invited to visit an art gallery with a teacher whom he has a crush on. For that reason, he doesn't invite Leslie. When Jesse returns from the gallery he finds his parents sick with worry and senses something wrong: they tell him that Leslie went to the woods (Terabithia) by herself, and when crossing a swollen stream fell in and drowned. It is a terrible scene. Jesse can't believe it at first and runs to her house, only to find ambulances and police cars and sympathizers already in attendance--including the teacher he was with that day. Reproachfully, he tells her that next time they should invite Leslie.

At this point in the story, I realized I had read the book before. It had been when I was very young, and I chiefly remember that I cried. It is a tragic story: Jesse senselessly loses his best friend; he blames himself because he didn't invite her to the museum; he watches the exciting world they dreamed together and its positive effect on real life come crashing down about his ears. It was perhaps my first real encounter with grief. I sympathized with Jesse through the medium of the story--when he loses his temper with his little sister and pushes her to the ground, when he runs from his father into the woods, when he gets into a fight in school. I felt keenly the unlooked-for compassion of his parents (who struggle tell him that Leslie's death wasn't his fault) and his teachers, who tell him how lucky he was to have befriended Leslie and how special they thought she was. And, most importantly, I discovered that the gifts of others -- in Jesse's case, Terabithia -- are the things that preserve their memory the best.

Bridge to Terabithia is far more than a simple children's story. It is about dealing with suffering, death, and maturity. It reminds us that holding ideals with childlike clarity and abandonment is worthwhile. Jesse's father, careworn as he is, recognizes this: "That girl gave you something very special, and to remember that is to keep her alive," he tells Jesse. The value of a story like this recalls the great literary value of other "children's stories," such as the fables of Aesop and Hans Christian Anderson and the Chronicles of Narnia, which (like Bridge to Terabithia) continue to escape a more "mature" reading audience who decide they no time for childrens' tales. And yet if joy, contentment, sorrow, pain, and frustration are the simplest emotions we feel, surely we feel them most keenly in our simplest frame of mind - when we are as little children. Even Jesus taught that we each should believe in Him and his message "as a little child."

For if Terabithia is an ideal, so is the promise of Christianity. They are both firmly in the province of faith. And they both provide meaning to our daily trials and a goal to work toward in our daily labor. Keeping such an ideal before us despite the intrusion of dull or demanding tasks and obligations requires imagination--more specifically, it requires a simple, uncomplicated, unfettered imagination. It requires the imagination of a child. Such an imagination is the means by which we discern hope even amid our current suffering. That is what Bridge to Terabithia celebrates.

Palm Sunday reflections

Today is the start of Holy Week, which is probably my favorite week of the year. That seems strange even to me. Catholicism makes me feel by turns comforted, cared for, frightened, guilty, and frustrated. My “progress” is often hampered by my own opinions and the opinions of religious authorities. And sometimes I am nagged by the vaguely unsatisfied feeling that I am not getting as much out of my religious experience as I should be.

My attraction to Holy Week starts with the ceremonies. They are remarkably different from what we do every Sunday for the rest of the year. Only during this week do Catholics imitate the crowds of Jerusalem with palms, and only this Sunday and the following Friday do they read the Passion in church. The liturgical decorations are different, and often very grand (today we had large palm trees flanking the altar). And on Good Friday, there will be no mass. There will be only a service commemorating the Cross and crucifixion conducted in a bare church and in front of an empty Tabernacle. The theatric nature of these liturgies and the fact that they only happen once a year makes them exciting.

Holy Week is also very interesting, because it focuses on a great tragedy; a tragedy which in the literal sense ranks among the greatest mythological tragedies humanity has yet produced. Yet unlike mythological or literary tragedies, we believe this one is true—and we believe it has immediate and important consequences for us. This is the reason we celebrate the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus so dramatically. In a sense we are meant to live this week as Jesus did: we were there today when Jesus enters Jerusalem to cheers; we will be there Thursday when He celebrates his last supper with friends; we will suffer with Him Friday when he agonizes in the Garden, is betrayed, and is crucified; and we will be there Sunday when He rises from the dead. Catholics enter this great story more than any other from Scripture.

None of these reasons, however, fully explain my enjoyment of Holy Week. I know that the Church intends the pomp and circumstance of Holy Week to induce awe and respect (and appropriately so) in its members; I know also that the end of a six-week period of fasting which coincides roughly with the end of winter and the beginning of spring magnifies the intended effect of the liturgical celebrations. But it isn’t the ceremonies themselves that attract me, nor is it excitement that spring is here and fasting is over. I find that participating in Holy Week gives me great spiritual satisfaction.

The Easter truth answers almost all the unspoken questions I carry with me about life and how to live it. I know that sounds like a huge generalization, but I mean it in a very specific sense. In the movie Stranger than Fiction, a literary professor neatly divides human stories into two categories: Comedies, which tell of the continuance of life; and Tragedies, which relate the inevitability of death. And this dichotomy lies at the root of our happiness and unhappiness here and now. If the comedic elements of our lives, such as the feeling of love, of laughter, or achievement, are to be meaningful at all, they must have an eternal component. There must be some kind of continuance for us, who have personally experienced this happiness. Otherwise, it and us are meaningless. If all that awaits us after life is death, then all our stories are tragedies, and whatever joy and light we experience now is temporal; a cheap entertainment to stave off ultimate loneliness and fruitlessness. I can’t believe that.

I think the presence of love (and companionship, and happiness) on this world means that humanity does not entirely belong here. There is a part of us right now that belongs to a supernatural world, with the world “supernatural” meaning simply an existence beyond the natural one, or namely the “eternal life” spoken of in Church. But for all the reasons that religion is sometimes a chore for me I cannot feel ready for, comfortable about, or worthy of that “eternal life.” The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ illustrate all that and explain how I might restore myself from my discomfort and unworthiness, all of which throw up the obstacles to religion I feel to a greater degree during the rest of the year. I profoundly believe the Easter story and its implications for me.

The qualitative measure of a tragedy has always been the extent to which it produces catharsis. I don’t know exactly what that word means. The dictionary defines it as a “purification or purgation of the emotions (as pity and fear)…; a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal.” That’s pretty close, but I think catharsis also implies an understanding that by suffering one achieves the purification and subsequent renewal. It is the suffering of Lent and the suffering of Jesus—which I believe we are called to embrace in the form of our own individual crosses—that bring about our renewal. Easter celebrates our renewal from sin and fear. This catharsis is a source of joy and satisfaction untouchable by my family, my friends, my work, or any other influence of this world. This catharsis is the reason why Holy Week is my favorite week of the year.