Way of Truth

The sequence of feasts following the solemnity of Christmas day has always interested me: St. Stephen, followed by St. John the Apostle; the protomartyr, and then the beloved. We turn from the magnificent joy of the Incarnation, to the seemingly savage brutality of martyrdom, and then to tender love of the Beloved. 

Another mind might have switched the feasts in order to preserve the benevolent visage of Christmas. And yet, sandwiched between the feasts that seemingly celebrate a more customary understanding of love is the Protormartyr, bludgeoned to death by those who refused to listen. St. Stephen was not an Apostle, not a wonder-worker, and for the most part, not even a particularly popular saint (especially now). But he was a man who refused to bend to the passions of the mob. The truth, for St. Stephen, was worth his life. He did not hide it. He did not run from it, and he certainly did not sugarcoat it for the sake of his listeners, and this steadfast faith to the truth cost him his life.

And yet, as St. Fulgentius observes, 

 Love inspired him to reprove those who erred, to make them amend; love led him to pray for those who stoned him, to save them from punishment. Strengthened by the power of his love, he overcame the raging cruelty of Saul and won his persecutor on earth as his companion in heaven. In his holy and tireless love he longed to gain by prayer those whom he could not convert by admonition. 

Love can only be love if it is one with truth. The feast of St. Stephen has as much to do with love, as the feasts that surround it. It is a call for Christians to take the grace of Incarnation as the foundation of truth and love, for Jesus is truth. He is love. And contrary to what we might expect from the death of St. Stephen, that love, that truth, that Jesus, is life.

Argument Over

MJ > Kobe

All. Day.

POLL WINNER: Lord of the Rings

Polls are fun; debates are even more fun. As I wrote earlier, the argumentation and investigation into our interests are what make these kinds of things fun. Coming up with narratives about Lebron vs Jordan, Coke vs Pepsi, the Office vs Brooklyn 99, or even ice cream cups vs cones has always been interesting to me. Now I was hoping that my little poll experiment would have generated more conversation, but alas, I was not clear enough with what I hoped. Either way, I hope it was fun for those who participated, and intriguing enough for others to participate in future polls. I will do my best to be as objective as I can.

Now as for the Harry Potter vs Lord of the Rings/Hobbit battle itself, the Lord of the Rings/Hobbit thrashed Harry Potter 31-19. Mr. Potter and his crew kept it as close as 1 vote for some time, but as time progressed, the Lord of the Rings ran away with the victory.



Here are a few observations:

- Most people (who I spoke to) who argue Harry Potter over Lord of the Rings cite two main arguments: the first is that Harry Potter is what they grew up reading, which makes sense, and the second is that the Lord of the Rings is boring.

- Most people who voted for Lord of the Rings thought it was stupid that I asked for an explanation

- More people appeared to be defensive about liking Harry Potter more; it reminded me of the feeling I get whenever I see someone I know while walking out of a McDonald's.

- 14 of 19 votes for Harry Potter were from women whereas only 7 of the 31 who voted for Lord of the Rings were women. What does that indicate? Nothing. I just thought I would exercise my ability to count.

- it would not be worth it to jump to conclusions about why only 7 of the 31 votes were female for Lord of the Rings, but it is interesting to think about

- all but one friend from California voted for Lord of the Rings; and I already regret writing that observation

And some other dumb insights:

- I have to say I am happy to be able to use the word eponymous in a sentence; as in: I wonder if a single eponymous character creates an intrinsic sympathy for that character.
- And the answer is yes: using the word eponymous does make me feel good about myself;
- But no, I do not think most people would get that joke.

- has anyone ever noticed that neither antagonist in each story has a nose? Voldemort being noseless and Sauron just...being....an...eye.

- Is there some sort of letter count for author's names? Many of these authors have initials for names: JRR Tolkien; JK Rowling; CS Lewis; RH Benson, DJ Jazzy Jeff

-  there a number of interesting side battles to this poll; Dumbledore vs Gandalf; Voldemort vs Sauron; the sorting hat vs Gandalf's hat

In the end, the Lord of the Rings was a clear winner. But the great thing about these kinds of debates, is that they never have to stop. In the immortal words of USC: Fight On!

Making Senses of It All

I am a week late, but do find it fitting to write on the feast of St. Nicholas, the same St. Nicholas who punched out a heretic.

The feast of St. Andrew on Nov. 30 begins a novena too little known in North America. Colloquially called the St. Andrew's Christmas Novena, it is a short prayer to be recited 15 times each day until Christmas Eve, to help prepare the soul for the coming of our Lord.

Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the Son of God was born Of the most pure Virgin Mary, at midnight, in Bethlehem, in the piercing cold. In that hour vouchsafe, I beseech Thee, O my God, to hear my prayer and grant my desires through the merits of Our Savior Jesus Christ, and of His blessed Mother. Amen.

This prayer will always have a special place in my heart because of the man who encouraged me to pray it in the first place: Father Abbot Hayes, O. Praem. And although it does have special resonance for me since it came from him, I also love this prayer because it situates my focus and attention on the very wonders, and also the very grittiness of Christianity. I love my religion because it not only soars into the heights of transcendent wisdom, it also descends upon the common place features of the natural world.

There was an hour and moment, sanctified by the presence of the Son of God for sure, but still a moment, and an hour.  There was a virgin, most pure, which speaks of the wonderful and the beautiful, but she was young, fragile and yet strong.

There was a place, an actual place, in Bethlehem, not some made up imaginary dreamland, but a place which could be touched, seen, smelled, felt. It felt cold; piercing cold. It would be easy to look at some of the beautiful nativity scenes and forget it was still a poor place: a barn or a cave. Nevertheless, it was cold. It perhaps smelled of animals, and everything that comes with being surrounded by animals.

And yet, this little child, this little baby with His mother, is God. He can be held, seen, felt, smelled, touched. The very warmth of his little body; the coos of his little voice; the gentle and yet exhausted smile of His mother; the wonder and awe of his father. This is the place of Christmas, the experience of Christmas, that God became man in the humblest of places, of times. He is beyond expectations. He is Wisdom. He is God. And when Christmas comes, we are reminded in a very real way, He is also man.

Beautiful Things

I just saw an ad for a parish which uses an image of a church which clearly does not belong to the parish itself. Instead of the modern, plain, glorified recreation room featuring a few replica paintings, the ad showed a majestic, Gothic cathedral with beautiful columns. The church in the image, is truly majestic.

Now the point of this post is not to highlight hypocrisy or even false advertising; I simply want to illuminate that beauty matters when it comes to liturgy. And it is a great discredit to our faith, and to our religion in general when that part of liturgy is ignored, or even worse, forgotten.

I mean, when was the last time you went to Mass and felt anything resembling positive awe? When was the last time you went to Mass and felt like something bigger than your own perception was happening? When was the last time the Liturgy lifted your heart to Almighty God?

Yes, as Catholics, we must never forget we are sojourners, and that the ultimate goal, the ultimate beauty, the ultimate liturgy is in heaven, but the Liturgy must be a window to heaven. And yes, it is very difficult, let alone inexpensive, to find and purchase the beautiful, magnificent art that adorns the old cathedrals and basilicas in Europe. It is difficult to learn Latin, let alone Gregorian Chant.

But if the mindset going into Liturgy is simply to get through it, to be good enough, for choirs simply to get through the hymns; for art to be good enough; for altar servers to stand at the right spot and just do what whatever they need to do at the correct time, then liturgy will just get done; it will just be 'good enough.'

If there was a more concerted effort to recognize the sacredness of music, if there was a more vested interest in training altar servers to be more attentive to what and how they participate in heaven on earth, if there was a greater push and desire for more beautiful art and churches, then that effort would reflect into a more beautiful liturgy.

Of course, I understand that we cannot add to the intrinsic value of Christ's sacrifice on the cross, but that does not mean our own personal effort cannot add to others' ability to recognize, and even more importantly, be taken into that sacrifice. It takes just a little more effort, beginning with ourselves.

Our own interior disposition is more important than any art piece or chant; but that disposition, at least my experience, tends to move towards the beautiful.

the Joy of Losing

The tradition on American Thanksgiving points to what professional sports is supposed to be, and I pray, nothing more. This point came to me while I sat on a bench overlooking a small valley lamenting my poor sports luck in 2011, and again when I saw the Canucks live against the powerhouse Penguins and Jets in the last two months.

But first, some context.

I entered a monastery in Southern California in 2010 so you can understand the sinking ironic feeling, when I discovered that not only were my beloved Vancouver Canucks good, they were dominant. In my then 27 years of being a fan, my beloved Canucks reached the Stanley Cup only once, in glorious 1994. In fact, there had been so many years of frustration, it is not immediately clear to me if they had even got past the 2nd round of the playoffs in all those years. 

The other teams I follow performed somewhat similarly in the following years: the Pittsburgh Steelers ended up in another Super Bowl; the Notre Dame Fighting Irish reached the BCS National Championship; the Pac-10 turned into the Pac-12, and somehow, several teams ended up taking center stage in the national championship; the Seattle Seahawks created a dynasty-worthy team, and even my high school won the provincial championship after being a perennial contender.

It was humorously frustrating; I leave the world, and all of a sudden, the teams which I followed all flourished in some way.

I realized, however, that what I truly love about sports, is not the sports themselves: it's the camaraderie; it's the sharing of joys and sorrows seeing teams succeed or fail; it's the discussion and playful argumentation of who's the greatest; it's the instant discussion starter, the emotional connection and identification. It was, simply speaking, not merely the sports themselves.

Being back in the world has allowed me to follow sports again, and not ironically enough, the Canucks are back to being terrible. But winning isn't what's desirable: it's going through the wide arrange of success and failure with with those happy enough to share it with you.