November 20, 2009
 
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| But What about My Toys? |
| by John Zmirak |
| 4/22/09 |
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My church in downtown Nashua is a reverent, slightly battered Irish parish, with painted wood that bravely substitutes for marble, a bathroom that always smells funky, and a mostly empty rectory. Built for ten or twelve, the red brick fortress houses two of the best priests in our diocese, who offer the Latin Mass twice a month, assisted by a surprisingly able choir. The pastor is brisk and informative in his sermons. He's also a bit of a "card"; a late vocation who used to belong to a rock band, he's said to vent excess energies by hammering his old drum set. (At least, that's what the associate pastor says.)
This Sunday past completed the Octave of Easter, which the pastor taught us serves in a sense like one long liturgical "day." I didn't know that, I said to myself, resolving to put something extra into the basket: The laborer is worthy of his hire. But I got something more from the Mass that day, an insight into a spiritual issue I struggle with, that writhes at the heart of the things I write, the arguments I get into, the doubts I fight against. This insight came to me during the Mass, although it has taken some days to fully articulate it to myself. That in itself is unusual; most times if I can't figure out a theological problem in 20 seconds, I dismiss it as an irresolvable mystery, or at any rate something a council or ex cathedra statement will have to sort out some day.
But the conflict I encountered this past Sunday is one that pervades our life and faith as Catholics, and I don't think it's one I'll see resolved this side of the grave: the tension between the orders of Nature and Redemption, between God's Creation and Crucifixion, and the claims they make upon us.
It started with the reading from the Acts of the Apostles, which was brief and went like this:
The community of believers was of one heart and mind, and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they had everything in common. With great power the apostles bore witness to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great favor was accorded them all.
There was no needy person among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them, bring the proceeds of the sale, and put them at the feet of the apostles, and they were distributed to each according to need (Acts 4:32-35).
This apostolic model of Christian life has clearly had its echoes through the centuries in the form of monastic life and mendicant orders and the ongoing aspiration of Christian thinkers that societies formed by men of faith make provision for those in need -- something largely unknown in pagan Rome, where the only charity provided to the poor came in the form of bread and circuses, dished out to keep the mob from storming the Capitoline.
What is more, for many Christians, the fact that the Church in its earliest (and, presumably, purest) days practiced voluntary communism would serve as a rebuke, a perfect model from which the hierarchical, manifestly unequal societies of Christendom had fallen through human sin. Medieval heretics and orthodox mendicants alike aspired to apostolic poverty, and movements such as the Beghards and the Beguines spread the idea that true Christians even among the laity would share in this aspiration. The most radical of the Franciscans, who split from the recognized order and called themselves the "Spirituals," went so far as to say that owning private property itself was a mortal sin.
The political implications of this were clear, and clearly dangerous, to the Christian authorities of Church and State; as Norman Cohn documents in The Pursuit of the Millennium, most of the movements that embraced ideas like these, from the Spirituals to the Flagellants, got mired in heretical anti-clericalism and sometimes resorted to violent revolutionary politics. (They also displayed a disconcerting proclivity for attacking and sacking the local Jews.)
These movements were quashed, but their spirit reappeared with the Peasants Revolt in Reformation Germany, and again among radical Protestants in the English Civil War. The notion that inequality and property were sinful structures went on to infuse the socialist movements, until at last Karl Marx claimed as his motto, "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs."
That's almost enough to sour a soul on the ideal of equality. But still, a small voice speaks to you when you hear this Scripture reading: The apostles lived this way. Are we sure they were wrong? That their mode of life is suited only for men in religious vows? Are you sure that isn't a copout?
In fact, there is a deeply Christian impulse toward detachment from things of the flesh, toward focus on the next life rather than this one. One sees it, for instance, in the (frankly creepy) longing felt by some saints like Teresa of Avila for martyrdom during childhood. In its deeper, more serious forms (like her adult spiritual writings and those of St. John of the Cross), the urge toward renunciation, the willing embrace of suffering and mortification, make up a major strain in Catholic spirituality. Think of St. Ignatius's infamous Third Degree of Humility, the deal-killer for me at my one and only Ignatian retreat:
In order to imitate and be more actually like Christ our Lord, I want and choose poverty with Christ poor rather than riches, opprobrium with Christ replete with it rather than honors; and to desire to be rated as worthless and a fool for Christ, Who first was held as such, rather than wise or prudent in this world.
(I was so scandalized by this that I could only retain my good opinion of the Jesuits by meditating on the exquisite Baroque churches they had built, their role in the court of Louis XIV, and their presence as chaplains on the ships of the Spanish Armada. But that's another story.)
As I chewed this biblical cud at Communion time, something else happened that brought home to me the reasons for my resistance. A mother was hauling her squirming, adorable two-year-old blonde daughter up the aisle. The child, with the face of a Renaissance angel, was terrified, and squalled with perfect clarity that echoed off the walls. "But what about my toys? I want my toys!" She was scared to leave them behind, afraid her trip up to the altar of the Lord would take some joys out of her youth.
St. Augustine might have muttered to himself (as he did when he spoke of crying infants) that original sin was clearly operative even before the age of reason. But I had a different reaction: I wanted to run up and kiss the little girl. Her reaction to leaving the pew echoed my feelings about the reading. Her fear was palpable, and her mother kindly reassured her that her toys would still be there when they got back. (How unlike certain parishes I remember from NYC . . .)
And I couldn't help thinking: Doesn't God feel the same way toward us? While surely there is evidence of the Fall in the inordinate, obsessive attitudes we can take toward earthly pleasures -- aren't they also thumbprints left behind when He created us? If pleasures are only put here as hurdles for us to jump over, snares we are meant to renounce, then how can we justify offering them to our children, our friends, our lovers? Most of the simple acts of kindness and charity we perform in daily life consist of giving each other such pleasures -- cooking a tasty meal, providing a spouse the pleasure of . . . well, let's just say a back rub. If the truly Christian thing is to disdain and despise such things, and suffering is (as the Rev. Frederick Faber once was bold enough to write) "the only currency acceptable in Heaven," then what business have we making the lives of others more pleasant?
I've written before, with blistering sarcasm:
If suffering is such a good thing, why keep it to ourselves? If it's the key to salvation, we should be spreading it, far and wide. Instead of serving as the single largest social welfare agency in the world -- running hospitals, clinics, hospices, and shelters on six continents -- all with the goal of diminishing suffering, the Church ought to be promoting it.
This tension between the wholesome, animal drives God implanted in us through His creation and the call of Christian perfection isn't one I can resolve in the next 20 seconds, so I'll leave it to the reader to sort out the conflict between the apostolic aspirations of serious Christians and the innocence of a child, "for of such is the kingdom of God" (Lk 18:16).
John Zmirak is the author, most recently, of the graphic novel The Grand Inquisitor and is Writer-in-Residence at Thomas More College in New Hampshire. He writes weekly for InsideCatholic.com. Readers have left 13 comments. Introibo ad altare Dei; ad Deum, qui laetificat juventutem meam . . . nisi voluptates debeam meas relinquere. Written by Aaron The problem isn't pleasure. The problem is attachment to pleasure. There is nothing wrong with taking pleasure in the good things of the world - in the right time, the right place and the right measure. Healthy detachment from pleasure is nothing other than maturity. It is detachment from pleasure that enables a student to stay home and study for their finals rather than going to a party with their friends. Similarly, ss enjoyable as many might find work, there are times when spending a day on the golf course would be more pleasurable. It is detachment from pleasure that enables one to get up every work day morning and go to work to earn the income necessary to support one's self and ones family. Most people do not enjoy sitting in a dentist chair, but the discipline of regular dental appointments leads to long term health benefits and well being. There is nothing wrong with going to parties or playing golf with friends and having fun, but sometimes other duties, such as studying or working, take precedence. A person detached from pleasure is able to make prudent judgments that balance the legitimate desire for pleasure against other sometimes more important but less pleasurable goods. Paradoxically, detachment from pleasure typically has the effect of opening one up to receive more, not less, pleasure. The mature disciplined person who can delay gratification lays a foundation for a more stable life and is able to acquire more of the good things - family, friends, health, financial stability, and yes, even toys - that bring pleasure. He who seeks to find his life will lose it, he who seeks to lose his life will find it. Written by Robert Leblanc Great comment Robert Leblanc. Off topic but does anyone know if or when JZ will be writing another "Bad Catholic" book? He is one of the few writers whose books I buy "new" instead of waiting for "used" prices. Written by pammie What is "creepy" about Saint Theresa's "desire" for martyrdom?  Written by angelus man What is "creepy" about Saint Theresa's "desire" for martyrdom? — angelus manI think John is being both sarcastic and honest in his opinion here, Angelus Man. Imagine you have an 8-year-old daughter who comes to you every few days saying, "Daddy, I hope I am martyred for God when I get older!" I can't think of anyone who wouldn't find that a little creepy! If God's grace worked in all of us exactly as it has worked in the lives of many mystics, perhaps we wouldn't find such things a bit creepy. It doesn't, however, so contemporary people tend to be a bit surprised when confronted with God's grace so directly. This doesn't make us less Catholic, however, but simply human. Written by Kevin in Texas If I remember correctly, the disciples were of the belief that the Second Coming was going to be in their lifetime, so a complete abandonment of corporal pleasure wasn't necessarily an unreasonable conclusion. However, we who are still waiting have the struggle of figuring out how God calls us to His Will. For some, I can see a totally "spiritual" life is best. For most of us, it's a balancing act-in what proportion, we must figure for ourselves. I believe that if you truly strive to do everything for love of God, balance and peace will be found. Written by Melissa How’s this? The telos, or end, for which God created us was – well, it was for Him, of course, but should that telos be achieved, its subjective expression for us is captured, more than any other, by the word joy. So granted our foundational distance from God at birth via Adam’s curse, we are nonetheless bombarded with a panoply of sensual delight – colors, sounds, warmth, and the rest, leaving aside the touchier (forgive me) matters aside for the nonce – throughout our lives, and all of which are, to speak philosophically, ontologically good, just as we are. It would thus seem fair to propose that all these sensual wonders, in themselves, are an expression of, if I may, His creative personality; and our pleasure in them accordingly manifests a wholesome yearning for the Source of the pleasure they impart. Aquinas, of course, is famous for having noted that even most sin is a truncated yearning for God. Yet being but an expression of something more, the sensual glories are only hints of happiness; and so I suppose that’s why saints embrace suffering, of the sort Ignatius encourages, in order, painfully, not to rely on the passing pleasures, since even when good in themselves, they can be deceptive by hinting at a joy they are in themselves unable to provide. Such an aspiration is to be sure problematic on many levels, but not least the temptation to pride that can attend it, which doubtless accounts for such perversions as the fraticelli and so many, Christian and others, have manifested in its pursuit. As to the little girl, she was clinging to her short-term grasp of happiness, just like most of us do, and, given our fallen state is surely, as Dr. Zmirak notes, on the whole a good thing; it keeps us in the race so to say, even as it can kill us should we finally confuse its temporary quality with reality. Yet the fleeting and also deeper joys can serve, if you will, as Aristotelian stepping stones to their fullest expression, even if most will doubtless need purgatory to reach that fullness. The saints are wiser – as I expect those in purgatory are too painfully aware – for directing their will toward their end while here; and while the early Christian communities were sufficiently focused to be untroubled by the comparative toys, one doubts that lasted very long, if long enough to set a foundation for the rest of us, midst the complexities of both suffering and joy, to keep our eyes on the prize. Written by antigon Thanks, everyone, for the thoughtful reflections. Pammie, the Bad Catholic's Guide to the Seven Deadly Sin will come out in Spring 2010. Thanks for buying NEW rather than used. That's the way to ensure such books continue to be published. Buy feminist/pro-abort/leftist/otherwise deeply evil books you need to refute USED, solidly Catholic books NEW! Written by John Zmirak Robert Leblanc is spot on, and I like what antigon said too. Notice that a key feature of created, earthly pleasures is that they are limited, both in degree and in duration. They appear intrinsically oriented toward teaching us to be detached from them, and in this they point beyond themselves. The human heart is made for the Infinite. That we grasp at the small goods as if they were the Real Thing is a sign of our perversity. Like children who refuse to put down the cotton candy for the steak dinner in the next room. LG Written by Lawrence Gage Perhaps I am too late here to be noticed. But I'll mention anyway that the manner in which real communities of religious life live lives of shared resources in deliberate imitation of the Apostles does not look like communism. I don't know if John was thinking this way, but, "Each according to his need," in religious life does not mean that, say, if there are 20 members in a religious house you simply divide up the community's resources and each gets a share (or a right to use) of an equal one-twentieth of the kitty. There is always a prudential judgment in effect (by the superior) as to what constitutes "need" for each individual. Many things go into such judgments. These include the particular apostolate a member is engaged in (are there travel expenses, the need for certain types of technology, etc.?), as well as a prudent consideration of each member's ability to live material poverty. Augustine's rule addresses this; a formerly wealthy person and a formerly very materially poor person come into a religious community with very different personal relationships to material things. What may be needless and inappropriate luxury for the former peasant (and thus potentially dangerous coddling) could be a real suffering for the formerly wealthy man. Different spiritual gifts and abilities to tolerate certain things are present in the individual members. So, there is always an ongoing discernment taking place as to what the overall base-level standard of material poverty needs to be for a given community. But along with this, particular individuals may live somewhat more materially poor than the community as a whole (because they are able to do so and thus can do so gladly and with spiritual fruitfulness), and others may live with a little bit (but only up to a point if it is not going to become a betrayal of the religious ideal) more of a share of the community's material resources. And, if this is done in a healthy, appropriate way, neither deviation from the overall norm (toward more or less material poverty) is extreme. And, neither is flashy or obvious. If my memory serves, Augustine mentions the distribution of food in a religious community. Some brothers can fast in a more extreme way, taking less while still remaining good members of the community (without complaint or excessive irritability, etc.). And some brothers need more food, being constitutionally unable to fast in the same way because of their personal backgrounds. Augustine advises that each brother should not be harsh in judging another because he receives more. Rather, there may be cause for some pity on behalf of the one who receives more because he cannot fast like some others can. But all should be regarded with fraternal charity, peace, and equanimity. Likewise, an elderly, spiritually mature and saintly member who no longer has an external apostolate and whose life has become mostly one of prayer at home can live with less than a younger individual who travels to preach and give retreats, teach, etc. But the more externally active individual has to be constantly on guard that his apostolic activity does not become an excuse for a lifestyle that is indulgent and unrelated to his apostolic fruitfulness. Hence, one of the reasons for complete transparency with one's brothers as to how community resources are being used--the superior especially. Pleas also note that there is also feasting (within reason and propriety) in religious life. Christmas and Easter, for example, are celebrated in an appropriate way as the community is able. Is there a cycle of fasting and feasting under communism? So, I wanted to make this comment just to point out that in real religious communities, the specific form of "to each according to his need" has a legitimate breadth for flexibility in keeping with the genuine charism of a particular community and the particular situation of each individual member. It is nothing like stories I have heard about people in communist countries being allowed only x amount of rations per each person, or each person earning the same wage no matter what their work. Written by Scott Johnston I also would like to point out that the way in which material poverty is lived in a community of religious life (whose members are celibate and live in common), is not, nor should it be, the same way in which lay persons--especially families--are called to live material poverty. The invitation Jesus made to the rich young man to sell what he owned and to come join Him is traditionally seen as an invitation to what we would call now the consecrated religious life--to the "evangelical counsels"--not a general calling to all Christians in all states of life. Indeed, it is possible for a saint to live with significant material riches while maintaining detachment from them (i.e. being spiritually poor). We need discernment and grace. To some, God may give the grace and the virtue to be able to handle wealth so that they may be generous to others, to support many good works in the name of Christ. But, this is probably a grace only given to a few. For most of us, we should desire what we need to support our families appropriately, but not to want too much more. Coincidentally, yesterday Dawn Eden posted an excerpt from St. Maximillan Kolbe on her blog that gives excellent food for thought on this whole topic of equality. I recommend checking it out. See http://tinyurl.com/d6dxtm Written by Scott Johnston Creation spirituality has its attractive side, but one is driven at once to embrace suffering with renewed vigor when one contemplates the fate of becoming a Mystical, Musical Bear. Written by Jeff If this comment was made earlier, please forgive the duplication as I saw your article in another forum and just wanted to comment quickly before starting some "housewifey" stuff: The first disciples' voluntary poverty doesn't bear any resemblance to taxation and redistribution! It would be nice to see this plainly stated in the text of the article. One of the most secular and "New World Order," pro-abort, feminist types of professors I had in grad school made the same "first disciples were socialists" argument in class. Although I couldn't articulate it at the time, I felt strongly that she was wrong. One day it dawned on me: So-called "redistributed" taxation resembles true (voluntary) charity about as much as prostitution resembles marriage. Both involve the marital act, but only one is true, sacramental love. Written by Interesting |
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