Saint Anselm of Canterbury

Today, April 21, is the feast day of Saint Anselm of Canterbury (c. 1033 - 21 Apr 1109), the saint I chose for my Confirmation name.

Anselm appeals for many reasons. Perhaps chief among them is his motto of fides quaerens intellectum, ("faith seeking understanding"), which posits the priority of faith in the comprehension of the divine. In our yet modernistic age, we tend to employ a more scientific methodology in diverse areas of comprehension, including religious: an intellectual examination of objective evidence will supposedly bring us to the best conclusion.

To be sure, this method is not to be discarded. Christian apologetics presents evidence to be reasoned through to persuade people toward Christian faith. Saint Thomas Aquinas asserts that a reasoned examination of the natural order should lead us to the acknowledgement of God. Saint Anselm himself is famous for his ontological proof of the existence of God.

But since the Enlightenment, the pendulum has swung decidedly away from fideism (or authoritarianism, but that is a different post) toward rationalism and scientism. The challenge for the Church today is to maintain the beneficial aspects of the application of reason while offering greater, and hopefully persuasive, emphasis on the roles of the living out of faith and Apostolic authority.

Saint Anselm's fides quaerens intellectum offers the appropriate prioritization: the fullest human understanding of God absolutely requires the setting of a lived relationship of faith with God. Though Anselm is more greatly remembered for his intellectual writings, we must never forget that it was his life as a monk, a prior, an archbishop--a life of prayer, of devotion, of faith--that provided the soil from which such understanding could grow.

Saint Anselm, ora pro nobis!

In Memoriam: Gus Conley

First of all, Gus didn't choose us. Let's make that clear. We've had dogs that contributed to the selection/adoption process...that came up to us as if to say, "Please...pick me!" Not Gus. In late 1999, when we first took him out of his pen in the shelter for a little "test walk," he couldn't have cared less who was on the other end of that leash. He just wanted OUTSIDE!

Secondly, Gus was not what you would consider an intelligent dog. Even though he lived with my parents recently, he would "come to visit" with them fairly regularly. When he came, he picked up right away on how to go out the doggie door (and often headed straight for it), but he could never seem to remember how to come back in. Again, he just wanted OUTSIDE! (and so a pattern emerges...) Also, he was convinced that he could get to the cats who lived in the rafters of a shed on Kendra's parents' farm by incessantly digging at the foundation of the shed. He was no canine Einstein.

Third, Gus was not exactly a "people" dog. Oh, sure, he'd greet newcomers to the house. He'd diligently stick by your side if you were eating something. He would follow my dad around the house from the moment he (dad) got home until he (Gus) got his walk (OUTSIDE!). But if there was no explicit means to benefit (food, walk, a scratch on the rump), Gus generally was content to be away from the people.

Fourth, Gus lacked subtlety. When he first came to live with us, he took the liberty of "marking" our bed when I was still in it. One night, when we were having a group of friends over, he stood up on his hind legs to steal from the cheese tray on the kitchen counter while we were standing in the kitchen. And then there was the time, OUTSIDE, when in a fit of doggy jubilation, he launched himself over an enormous hole (dug for a basement; again, on the farm). The last visual I had was his lanky body, squirming, mid-air, when it dawned on him that he wasn't going to make it to the other side of the hole. (By the time I got to the hole, he was unfazed...up and out the other side.) But his begging at the table probably constituted his least-subtle times: he would come up and gingerly place his drool-filled jowls squarely on the lap of whomever he sensed was most likely to give him food--at times, brand-new guests to the house--leaving a huge smear of saliva on the unsuspecting person's trousers (or, in the worst-case scenario, if he/she was wearing shorts, on their bare leg).

Fifth, Gus left a bit to be desired in the appearance department. Oh, he had a very cute face, replete with saggy ears and droopy lips, and he maintained his puppy-dog eyes (which he mastered the use of when it came to begging) all the way to the end. But on his other--shall we say, less attractive--end, he had chewed almost all of the hair off his tail, such that it appeared as though someone had replaced his real tail with one from a 50-lb. rat. He had also obsessively licked what started as a small lesion on his "wrist" to the point that it was a golf-ball sized, open, festering wound.

Sixth, Gus lacked an essential element that makes for a good watchdog: bravery. Once, a party of male college students we had at our house was "raided" by a group of girls who burst in the door shrieking and emptying cans of spray-string about our living room. We found Gus, some time later, cowering under a futon in the only windowless room in the house. While his bark was enough to ward off any would-be miscreants, if that failed, you'd be on your own--he'd be the first one out the door. And don't even mention a thunderstorm around him.

All in all, Gus was often times an aloof, apathetic, dim, unaware, obsessive, neurotic dog, motivated mostly by thoughts of food and going OUTSIDE.

But he was also exuberant, hopeful, and in one particular time with my mom, extraordinarily compassionate. He had a wonderful howl-song he woooooo-ed at you when he was excited. As a young dog, he would gleefully tear around the house, leaping down half-flights of stairs and "dinging" his tail against a metal pole in our living room. When he especially wanted something from you, he would left-handedly paw at you in a very convincing (and very endearing) way. And he had about the cutest head-tilt I've ever seen.


In sum, he was ours.

And we couldn't have loved him more.

Gus Conley

January 31, 1998 - April 19, 2012

Philosophical Reflections: "It Can Happen" by Yes

Having the right music playing when you’re huffing and puffing at the gym can make a tremendous difference. In the mishmash of musical albums and genres on my iPod, I’ve found myself coming back again and again to the Yes album 91025 (released in 1983), and specifically to the song “It Can Happen.” There’s just something about that particular song that I can’t seem to get enough of as I’m sweating it up on the elliptical machine. It’s one of those songs that, once it begins to fade, I go back and restart. Of course, given who I am, when such an anomalous habit takes shape, I have to wonder why. Why does “It Can Happen” so captivate me?

Is it the lyrics? I don’t think so. To be honest, I’ve only just now looked carefully at them, and though there are a few flashes of poetic promise, I don’t find myself gripped as if they’ve finally put some deeply held, yet elusive truth into words for me. It seems a bit more like they’ve paired some tangentially related, abstract phrases in an effort to appear deep and esoteric.

Is it the tempo? The beat? Well, to be sure, these things help in getting through my workout. And there is something about a bass cranking out repeated quarter notes on the tonic in a driving rock-and-roll song that connects with my spirit. Still, it’s not that alone.

A magazine article I read a couple of years back introduced me to the musical representation of philosophical, theological, and metaphysical concepts through the way the composer (the article was speaking of J. S. Bach) utilized dissonance and resolution: an extended period without resolution set the listener up to yearn for the return to the root chord, which, even with vast departures from it, seems to stick in the residual memory. When resolution comes (if, indeed, it does), it is like a fulfillment of the very yearnings the composer has created within us through dissonance.

Believe it or not, this is what I find in “It Can Happen.” In fact, it is the repeated return to resolution—to the base key—in the song that I find myself greatly anticipating through the wandering verses and solos. But when it comes, it comes full-on, each time better than the last: the aforementioned driving tonic bass notes, the complementary harmonies (vocal and instrumental)…it’s like coming home after a long journey, it’s a resolution to disparate, even seemingly irresolvable, tensions.

And of course, this gels well with my worldview. Saint Thomas Aquinas put forth an exitus-reditus schema to creation: all things flow out from God and are drawn back into God. The consummation of all things will be marked by a unity—a union, in fact—of God and man through Christ (cf. Ephesians 1:7-10).

Were these types of things intended by Yes in composing and performing the song? Doubtful. Still, the song speaks to me in this way…and whether such a metaphysical statement is consciously intended or not, given the way our universe is structured, It Can Happen! See what you think…

The Triduum According to Mary

On the eve of this Triduum, I am struck by the thought that Jesus accepted beatings, scourging, a crown of thorns, and the Cross as someone’s son. I’ve been contemplating what Mary must have gone through, seeing her only son—knowing he was completely innocent—mocked, beaten, and tortured to death. Soul-piercing sword, indeed.

Noble fathers can be imagined to give their lives sacrificially in defense of their children. Loving mothers protect and watch over to the point of death. Even not-so-noble, not-so-loving parents are generally expected to precede their children in death. It is an aberration of the natural order for parents to outlive their children, especially once the more vulnerable stages of infancy have passed.

Yet Mary watched as her adult son underwent unspeakable cruelty. While others laughed, he bled. While others mocked, he breathed his last. I imagine Mary unable to weep, so paralyzed by the depth of her anguish.

In Catholic theology, Mary is not only the Mother of God, she is the Mother of the Church—mother to us all. These next three days, may we have but a taste of her tremendous grief, may we have a mother’s love for the afflicted Jesus, that we might share in her exuberant joy at the Resurrection.

Blessed Mary, our Mother, grant us through thy intercession the grace to walk these sorrowful days with your love in our hearts.

A Reflection for Advent, 2011

As Christmas draws ever nearer and the shopping fervor kicks into high gear, we tend to hear more religious messages dissuading us from our rampant consumerism and reminding us of the “Reason for the Season.” And this is as it should be, given how we are often easily taken in by the mad dash to make sure everyone on our gift list is accounted for, not to mention making sure we’ve put the finishing touches on our own gift list! Surely the gift God gave to humankind in the birth of Jesus is incomparable, and it is all too easily lost in our overly commercialized holiday celebrations.

But lately, especially in this season of Advent, I’ve been reflecting on the whole idea of longing. Often accompanying the admonitions of fellow Christians is the offering of assurance that all of our deepest longings are filled not in those things which fill our stockings, but in Him who fills our hearts. Well, I would say, yes and no.

I can, without reservation, say along with Saint Augustine that “Our hearts are restless until they rest in Thee.” I hold that human beings have an innate longing for God which we try to fill with a variety of things which seem to promise happiness—power, fame, sensual pleasure, and yes, material possessions. Each and all of these end up being vain pursuits, never delivering true peace for the soul. In this regard, I agree with those brothers and sisters of mine I’ve mentioned above: a reconciled relationship with God, made possible through the One born in Bethlehem is what we truly seek, and entering into such a relationship squelches the potency of these earthly longings.

I would hasten to add, however, that that is not the end of the story. Beginning and deepening a relationship with God decidedly does not mark the end of all our longings. Instead, as we walk with God and as our wills are conformed ever more greatly to His, we find that our longings change. While our longings for those false lures to happiness decrease, other longings appear and increase: the very longings of God. These include longings for peace, for reconciled human relationships, for an end to wars, violence, and injustice, for suffering to cease, for no more sickness, dying, and death, and for a deep, profound love to be shared between all who are made in their Creator’s image.

Contrary to what I used to think, these longings cannot be passed over with a blind optimism which merely imagines either the day we individually pass on into the life everlasting and everything is as it should be, or when Jesus triumphantly returns and sets things right. Instead, these are precisely the longings that come to inhabit our thoughts, our prayers, our very lives. We pray “thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” and we mean right here and right now. What’s more, we also mean in us and through us. We are both the object and the instrument of that prayer’s answer.

Longing for the things God longs for in no way diminishes our hope in the resurrection or desire for the return of Christ. Rather, it prepares us for it by stirring us to greater partnership with, and deeper dependence upon, God. May this Advent see our hearts ache for God’s kingdom to come, his will to be done.

“Graciously grant us peace in our days.”

History and the Christian

One of my growing convictions is that we, as human beings, are undeniably historically contingent: what has come before us—culture, language, philosophy, etc.—has contributed to us—to the very makeup of who we are.

My time in Evangelicalism had a strange interaction with this assertion. On the one hand, it stressed the absolute necessity for faith of the historical Jesus: his life, death, and resurrection. And rightly so, as orthodox Christianity is unabashedly forthright about the necessity of the historicity of its claims, as in the ancient creeds. But what Evangelicalism failed to convey, and only rarely acknowledged, was the ongoing influence of history on and within the life of the Church, and how that influence affected the faith. In lauding the Bible alone (rather than the alongside the Tradition of the Church) as the only reliable authority on divine revelation, Evangelicalism tenaciously clings to a strange and extreme interpretation of that medieval humanist cry, “Ad fontes!” (“To the sources!”) Rather than looking to Scripture and the early Fathers to correct and guide the admittedly sometimes far-reaching speculation of Scholastic theology, contemporary Evangelicalism, like its neighbor, Fundamentalism, can often rest content with only chapter-and-verse for a bed. Of course, while exegesis is often seen as necessary, there is little admission of the continuing historical role of hermeneutics, except insofar as the individual student of the Bible arrives at the “correct” interpretation of the Scriptures through prayer and diligence. As the bumper sticker read, “God said it, I believe it, that settles it.”

The beauty I’ve found in embracing a sacramental practice of the Christian faith is that history becomes the ally to faith it is intended to be, without diminishing the centrality of the Scriptures. The Eucharist which shapes our very being, for example, is resolutely tied to history: it is at once linked with Calvary and the Parousia, but inasmuch as it is entrusted to the historical Church, it also ministers throughout the ages, and that ministry shapes what it is today. Moreover, the whole Church is present at each Eucharist: the Church Triumphant (those in heaven, as signified by the censing of the altar), the Church Suffering (the souls being made ready for heaven in Purgatory), and the Church Militant (the Church of our day, fighting the good fight). The historicity of St. Paul, St. Perpetua, St. Augustine, St. Anselm, St. Francis, St. Thérèse, Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, and Blessed Teresa of Calcutta has played—and still plays—a part in how they now celebrate the Mass, present with us. Far from being historically selective, and not at all denying history, the Eucharist converges and manifests the historicity of Christianity in our very midst. And we, as historical beings, partake!

Judgment Day: Maybe Today, Maybe Tomorrow

May 21^st, 2011—the date that “graced” billboards across the nation as the date of the Biblical Day of Judgment—has come and gone. The world did not end. Judgment Day has not commenced. All of the hullabaloo that was made over the date on Facebook, on morning radio shows, in casual conversation, and even, notably, by major international news organizations (e.g. the BBC) will likely quickly die out and the public’s attention will move on.

I have wrestled with how best to respond to the phenomenon of the prominence of this prediction. As a theologian and scholar, I disagreed with Harold Camping’s numerological methodology of interpretation of the Scriptures. I did not expect Judgment Day to come on the 21^st—well, no more so than on another day. And therein lies the rub. As a Christian I was dismayed at the easy target Camping’s prediction made for would be mockers and scoffers of Christianity in general, yet I hold an adherence to the general principles which lie behind it.

It is incontrovertible that, according to the Bible, there will indeed come a time of judgment, often represented by what the Old and New Testaments call “the Day of the Lord/Lord Jesus” (e.g. OT: Isa. 13:6, 9; 58:13; Jer. 46:10; Ezek. 13:5; 30:3; Joel 1:15; 2:1, 11, 31; 3:14; Amos 5:18, 20; Obad. 1:15; Zeph. 1:7, 14; Zech. 14:1; Mal. 4:5; NT: Acts 2:20; 1 Co. 5:5; 2 Co. 1:14; 1 Thess. 5:2; 2 Thess. 2:2; 2 Pet. 3:10). What’s more, both the Apostles’ and the Nicene Creed speak of Jesus returning to judge.

Equally, people are urged to be prepared for the coming of this Day (e.g. Matt. 25). To bolster this urgency of preparedness, the Scriptures highlight the imminence and unknowability of Jesus’ return. Essentially, Mr. Camping’s campaign sought to dispel apathy and increase faithful response by naming a date for Judgment Day. The Scriptures, by not naming a day, are not seeking to waylay urgency but rather to intensify it: “You don’t know the day or the hour, so be ready now,” is their message.

So, while I found no validity in Camping’s specific prediction, I sought not to belittle the concepts behind his teaching. I sought not to defend, but neither to mock. Moreover, I will endeavor to live in great anticipation of the Lord’s imminent return today (May 22^nd, 2011) and every day. Maranatha!

A Meditation for Holy Week: Love and Death

But God shows his love for us in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us. - Romans 5:8

Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. - John 15:13

Christ on the Cross is the perfect sacrifice because he there embodies perfect love. The immense power of all the wickedness, scorn, and sin of the ages, when heaped upon his broken body, is met with a power infinitely greater: Love. Perfect love. And love covers all offenses. Christ’s death was not merely necessary to satisfy justice, but since only through death—a good, sacrificial death—is wickedness definitively undone, his perfect death provided true atonement for the wickedness of the ages: the sin of the world vanishes before the death of Christ as a wisp of smoke before a gale-force wind. In the beauty of God, Death, the last enemy, the wages of sin, is precisely the vehicle through which Death is overcome. Love is the giving of oneself for the sake of the other. Perfect love is giving all; perfect love is self death.

When we are baptized, we are incorporated into Christ’s death. It is no coincidence that water, the matter of baptism, is simultaneously a symbol of chaos and evil in ancient Hebrew thought and a sign of cleansing in the Law and the Prophets. Christ’s side would not have been pierced but for the evil of humanity, and yet evil is drowned in the flood which flows from him. It is no mistake that water both flooded the earth in God’s judgment and flowed from Christ’s side in God’s mercy. God’s great mercy could not have been fulfilled without God’s judgment upon the sin of the world, yet mercy triumphs over judgment. Perfect love undoes Death through Death.

What’s more, when we are joined to Christ’s death through baptism, we ourselves assume the character of perfect love, for he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. God’s righteousness is the victory of perfect love, which we cannot claim for ourselves unless it should become the character of our life. As Bonhoeffer said, "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” True love is death to self. Our Christian lives therefore evince the perfect love of God through the sacrificial nature of our deeds, empowered by our incorporation into Christ’s death through baptism, by the working of the Holy Spirit.

It should come as no surprise, either, that baptism is essentially a communal sacrifice: the one baptized is incorporated into Christ’s death and into his Mystical Body, the Church. Perfect love cannot exist with a subject alone. When we are incorporated into Christ’s death, and we assume the character of that death, it can mean nothing else that we assume his perfect love for the Father and for all of humanity. As his body breaks and blood flows to reconcile the world to himself, who lives in perfect love with the Father, we who are incorporated into his body through baptism are entrusted with the message of reconciliation.

And how do we manifest that message? No other way than always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. The Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian life precisely in this way—it molds the Church, the Body of Christ, into a cruciform shape. As we are nourished by Christ’s body broken for us and his blood shed for us, our mortal bodies take on the essence of perfect love, of the death of the self for the sake of the other. Only this perfect love—but certainly this perfect love—is able to be the eternal unmaking of sin and death, and moreover, to restore to us our true and eternal self.