In 2013, by the Grace of God, I entered the Catholic Church. My journey to that personally momentous event took seven years (really, my whole life) and a great deal of searching. For a while I seriously considered becoming Orthodox; reading a lot of Orthodox books and, once in 2011, visiting a local Orthodox church and experiencing Divine Liturgy. Of probably every church experience I’ve had, including Protestant and Catholic (both ordinary and extraordinary forms), more than any other, that one Sunday has stuck with me. For numerous reasons I didn’t become Orthodox but I love the Orthodox Church(es). Currently, I am regularly attending Divine Liturgy at an Eastern Catholic parish and I love it. I will always be Catholic and every day I pray for the reconciliation of East and West.
The post below is from 2011 when I visited that Orthodox church. I re-post it here because I think about this experience frequently. More than this, as I have been reconnecting with my faith and going to church again I remembered this experience which then posed a question for me: Why, when the Divine Liturgy had so affected me, have I not gone to the Easter Catholic church from which I know the priest and several members? Now I am there and it means so much to me.
Visiting St. John the Wonderworker Serbian Orthodox Church
Deacon: Bless, Master.
Priest: BLESSED is the kingdom of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.
Choir: Amen.
And thus began the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom at the little and beautiful St. John the Wonderworker Serbian Orthodox Church this last Sunday of All Saints morning. This was my first time to ever cross the threshold of an Eastern Orthodox church. This was my first time to participate in an Orthodox liturgy. This was my first time to hear Russian (or was it Serbian?) spoken in a church (though most of the service was in English). This was my first time to see icons in a truly reverential context. It was an hour and a half of a lot of personal firsts.
I was very nervous about going. I am wary of both my tendencies to romanticize experiences and to be cynical. I am also a ponderer and book-learner more than a doer much of the time, which allows me to keep experiences (and their required responses) at bay. I have been reading about Eastern Orthodoxy for a while now. Why I am doing so is a long story, nonetheless I am loving it and being challenged. But I had never been to an Orthodox church. So, when a couple weeks ago my wife and a very good friend of ours visited this same church on a sudden and impulsive whim, I knew I would finally have to make a visit as well.
What did I find there? Walking to the entrance I met some friends that I did not know attended the church. That was a blessing. The church is small and, as you can see from the image above, stands out architecturally. I find it beautiful. I took my eldest daughter with me; she was eager and liked it very much. My daughter knows several of the people that were there. The service was not like anything I grew up with (Baptist/Radical Reformation). Though translated into English (and thank God for the printed handout so I could follow along) the liturgy is ancient. People entered quietly, greeted each other quietly, lit candles, kissed icons (not something with which I am familiar), and stood through most of the service. We did our best to follow, to sing the words (I found it beautiful), to cross ourselves when we should (this was another first for me), and to show appropriate reverence and not look too out of place. We did not participate in either the communion (because we are not Orthodox) or in the kissing of icons, etc. There was the constant noise of children and babies; this is a family oriented community. The interior was dim, but not dark, solemn but not dour, colorful but simple, and of course, the icons which are unique and beautiful (a common word in this whole experience). The homily delivered was excellent–a remembering of all the Saints and the martyrs that are examples to us, and a reminder that Christ’s resurrection really means something, not only in terms of final salvation, but that we are not the same because of Christ’s glory; something profound has changed within us. After the service my daughter and I spoke with Father David (I believe that is how one should address him). He made a point of coming up to us and welcoming us. We did not stay for the after-service meal, but most did. They have a large backyard with garden and play structure for the kids.
What did I think about it all? I should qualify my thoughts first, and maybe get just a little too personal. I am not a “church shopper.” I do not want to consume Christianity. I am not looking for the next “meaningful” thing. I do not want a hip church, or a programmatic church, or a second chapter of Acts church, or an un-church, or a high church. I am not searching for something new or even something old. And I do not want to make decisions based on emotions, and certainly not on heresy. I am not seeking out an “experience.” In fact, I am not really searching for a church at all. And certainly I do not want to go in any direction without my wife with me. Still, and with trepidation, I am exploring. I have been on a journey, a slow journey for sure, examining the tradition I grew up in and was trained in. I have had a lot of questions, a lot of soul searching, a lot of reading. I have tended to be wary of just about everything one finds in an Orthodox church (keep in mind my limited experience): Formal liturgy, recited prayers, icons, religious garb, incense, etc., etc. And yet, my world has been subtlety shifting for several years. I do not know where God will lead me and my family. Wherever He leads that is where I want to go.
With all that in mind, I will say two things about this one visit: a) I am still on my journey, still wondering, still studying, still praying, still seeking God’s guidance and wisdom, and b) I loved it, really loved it. I want to go back and learn more about what I experienced that first time. I want to understand why I loved it and what that means.
Final thoughts: I am humbled by how much I don’t know about Christianity, about those who came before, about the practices of Christians around the world. Orthodoxy is an entirely new study for me. I am often conflicted in what I believe, and what I want to believe. This is a bad place to be according to my past Christian training, but I have since come to believe that I would rather be in the hands of God on a surreptitious journey than out of His hands with full confidence in my beliefs. I can only praise God for His love and fall on my face and ask for His mercy. I thank Him for this church experience and I pray for His guidance.
A footnote: Take another look at the beginning of the liturgy quoted at the beginning of this post. Now consider these words by Alexander Schmemann in For the Life of the World (1963/2004, p. 28):
The Orthodox liturgy begins with the solemn doxology: “Blessed is the Kingdom of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages.” From the beginning the destination is announced: the journey is to the Kingdom. This is where we are going–and not symbolically, but really. In the language of the Bible, which is the language of the Church, to bless the Kingdom is not simply to acclaim it. It is to declare it to be the goal, the end of all our desires and interests, of our whole life, the supreme and ultimate value of all that exists. To bless is to accept in love, and to move toward what is loved and accepted. The Church thus is the assembly, the gathering of those to whom the ultimate destination of all life has been revealed and who have accepted it. This acceptance is expressed in the solemn answer to the doxology: Amen. It is indeed one of the most important words in the world, for it expresses the agreement of the Church to follow Christ in His ascension to His Father, to make this ascension the destiny of man. It is Christ’s gift to us, for only in Him can we say Amen to God, or rather He himself is our Amen to God and the Church is the Amen to Christ. Upon this Amen the fate of the human race is decided. It reveals that the movement toward God has begun.
Andrey Tarkovsky, the brilliant Russian filmmaker, kept a diary: Time Within Time: The Diaries, 1970-1986. It is filled with ideas, random thoughts, complaints about the Soviet film industry and his health, future film plans, descriptions of his family, reviews of books he’s read, and the regular inability to get the support he needed to make and distribute his films. He also talks about his process as a filmmaker and traces his spiritual journey to God.
Recently, I’ve been rereading his diaries and a passage jumped out at me.
Lord! I feel You drawing near. I can feel Your hand upon the back of my head. Because I want to see Your world as You made it, and Your people as You would have them be. I love You, Lord, and want nothing else from You. I accept all that is Yours, and only the weight of my malice and my sins, the darkness of my base soul, prevent me from being Your worthy slave, O Lord! Help me, Lord, and forgive me! (February 10, 1979)
Wow.
This was written about three months before his film STALKER was released in May of 1979. The film had already had a famously tumultuous production and now Tarkovsky was facing issues with the authorities about the film’s final edit and whether it would actually ever see the light of day.
Fortunately, the film was released and the world was given one of cinema’s greatest artworks.
“Because I want to see Your world as You made it.” When Jesus took Peter, James, and John up the mountain and was transfigured before them, they saw something of that world. “His face shone like the sun, and his garments became white as light.” (Matthew 17:2) What an experience that must have been. Art, at its best, gives us hints at the transcendent, calling us to something greater within us, to what we were created to be.
Tarkovsky’s films have never ceased to impact me. Each viewing offers new depths of meaning. Each film is utterly unique. His best films are like no other films. STALKER is one of my favorite films and at times it feels like a religious icon offering a kind of window into another realm, a higher realm of spirituality and beauty while simultaneously harrowing my soul and preparing it for death. This is, to me, the essence of a truly “faith based” film.
I have been reading The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I do not believe I was ready to read it before, though I tried several times. But now I am truly amazed. Every page has depth, riches, and profound psychological and spiritual characters studies. And the descriptions of life in 19th century Russia are utterly fascinating.
Perhaps I am ready to read this masterwork because I have been diving into Eastern Orthodox Christian spirituality. My mind and heart have been coming alive as I’ve explored the Divine Liturgy, monasticism, prayer, and the lives of the eastern saints. Naturally, this has led me to the Slavic (especially east Slavic) countries and their lived experience.
A Monk (Aleksandr Kosnichyov, 2006)
And then this passage caught my attention. It is showing the mind of Alyosha, a novice in the local Russian Orthodox monastery and the hero of the story:
Oh, how well he understood that for the humble soul of the simple Russian, worn out by toil and grief, and, above all, by everlasting injustice and everlasting sin, his own and the world’s, there is no stronger need and consolation than to find some holy thing or person, to fall down before him and venerate him: “Though with us there is sin, unrighteousness, and temptation, still, all the same, there is on earth, in such and such a place, somewhere, someone holy and exalted; he has the truth; he knows the truth; so the truth does not die on earth, and therefore someday it will come to us and will reign over all the earth, as has been promised.” — from The Brothers Karamazov
The Sick Husband (Vassily Maximov,1881)
I think of how desperate we all are to know that somehow the promises of God are true, that they will be fulfilled someday, and that He can be trusted. I look at myself and see a wretched sinner and I think the world cannot count on me to be holy enough or faithful enough such that truth will not die on earth. But if I am not attentive I might think of myself as different than that simple Russian and start to believe that, perhaps, I don’t need the saints. But I know in my heart the world needs holy people, saints, living and dead, that can be counted on. And as I see them I see too that the promises of God are true and good.
[published on the Feast of the Holy Cross]
Procession of the Cross in Kursk Province by Ilya Repin (1880–1883; Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow)
But far be it from me to glory except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. (Galatians 6:14)
Increasingly I have been drawn to examples of monks and saints who gave up everything for Christ, that is, they died (or are dying) to the world. I read the words of Saint Paul above and I think, “I, and nearly every Christian I’ve ever known personally, have never taken those words seriously.”
I have written a lot on this site about my journey of faith from Protestantism to the Catholic Church. I have covered topics about tradition and liturgy, politics and culture, scripture and prayer, and a lot of other things of interest to me. I regularly read the Bible and pray, I go to confession and I go to Mass/Divine Liturgy, I even sang in the church choir for a while, but I feel as though I’m always standing at a threshold looking in the direction of some deeper desire that I am perpetually unwilling to fully acknowledge and embrace.
For if I do embrace it… I know I shall die.
And he said to all, “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23)
Slowly, every so slowly, I’ve been coming to the realization that the answer to LIFE is DEATH.
Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life. (John 12:24-25)
Can I truly fully acknowledge and embrace these words of Christ, words that, having read many times over, I rationalized and never accepted their clear demands? Am I willing to die, to give up my passions, to die to the world? Am I willing, even able, to hate my life? And if I am, what will that look like, what will be asked of me? What are the actions, the tasks, the daily choices I must make? How do I commit to such an endeavor? This, I believe, is that threshold before me.
Beneath the brittle surface, The vain, self-interested, clinging love, The maddening longing, Which only obscures what lies below, There is a silently flowing river: A river of compassion, bowels of mercy, A feeling of the other’s pain, Flowing into a vast, vast ocean of sorrow. It is the sorrow of a great funeral: The death of sensual self-love. Although it is a sorrow, One enters it willingly, with joy, For there is such tenderness in its pain. And at last, in this sorrow, There is perfect freedom. This is the love that never dies, never fails: A proof of immortality. This is the pain that the everlasting Way Embraced willingly, sharing our pain. This is the cross that He asks us to bear. This is the death that He asks us to die. And at last, in this death, There is perfect peace. (from Christ the Eternal Tao, chapter 39, by Hieromonk Damascene)
From the movie THE BRUTALIST (2024, dir. Brady Corbet)
The 2024 film, THE BRUTALIST, brought into focus a kind of 20th century modernist architecture that has polarized people from day one and continues to do so up to today. That style of architecture is known, rightly or wrongly, as brutalism. The film’s main character László Tóth (Adrien Brody), is loosely based on several modernist architects, one of which is Marcel Breuer, a Hungarian-American modernist architect and furniture designer. One of Breuer’s more famous works is Saint John’s Abbey Church (discussed below).
It is not uncommon for people to point to modernist architecture as visual examples in massive concrete of all that has gone wrong with society as a whole. Many Catholics have lamented the loss of traditional style churches for modernist designs and brutalist churches get the most derision. Personally, I love brutalist architecture. I don’t consider myself a modernist, though I’m also not a traditionalist. I love old churches. I love Gothic cathedrals. But I also love at least some of the brutalist churches.
But there is always an important question when it comes to any kind of church architecture: Is the design properly suited to the purpose of the space? The old Gothic churches certainly are suited for Eucharistic worship and prayer, but many modern churches are not well suited and some are very poor indeed.
Are modernist buildings good places to pray? to celebrate the Eucharist?
Saint John’s Abbey Church, architect: Marcel Breuer, source and overview
I may be somewhat of an anomaly. On the one hand I am an advocate of Traditional Catholicism, including Traditional Catholic architecture designed to serve Traditional Catholic worship which, it must be said, is actual and proper worship. On the other hand I love much of modern architecture. I love many buildings that many others do not like. I grew up in a modernist house, I studied modern art and architecture in college, and I have been a fan of early twentieth century and mid-century modern art and design. With this in mind, I found this lecture about one of the more famous (infamous?) modernist churches to be quite fascinating, not only for its informative content, but also because the lecturer gives a highly (almost ecstatically) positive perspective on exactly the kind of church design many would deride without hesitation.
Saint John’s Abbey Church, architect: Marcel Breuer, source and more images
This lecture below is by monk, educator, and artist David Paul Lange, OSB. Whether you agree with his assessments or not, this is an excellent overview of modernist principles in architecture, especially at the mid-twentieth century point, and why it made sense to people at that time to build a church according to those principles. It is also an excellent “unpacking” of the design, and the ideas behind the design, of a particular church, the Saint John’s Abbey Church:
I find Brother David Paul Lange’s speaking style to be a bit too breathless for my tastes, but he is a great evangelist for the modernist perspective in architecture, and for this church. But I have some questions:
Is his understanding correct about both modernist architecture and his interpretation of this church? I think absolutely.
Is this church a good representation of modernist architecture? I say, yes.
Is this church worthy of praise? As an example of modernist thinking, yes. As an example of excellent construction, yes. As a place for worship, you tell me, but I think no, at least not within a proper understanding of ideal Catholic worship.
Therefore, does this church represent a different ideal of worship than traditional Catholic worship? I think definitely so. But you tell me.
Notice a few things:
He speaks of praying more than worshiping. This makes sense given this church is for a monastic community which is focused a great deal on prayer, but it is also significant. The focus is more about the nature and needs of praying than offering a sacrifice to God. Praying in a church is a good and normal thing. However, prayer is a part of worship, but not the only part. Many spaces can be prayerful. Only specific kinds of spaces serve the needs of worship.
He speaks a lot of his own feelings. In a sense this entire talk is an explanation of his personal experiences of this church, and his feelings during and about those experiences. There’s nothing wrong with that up to a point, but as a Catholic would it not be better to also foreground the Body of Christ as a corporate entity a bit more? In that sense he would then speak more of the nature of man in general and his relationship with God. And then tie it back to this church and how it functions. The 20th century “turn” in the Catholic Church was arguably away from Eucharistic sacrifice and towards communal meal as the primary meaning of the Mass. I believe this radically changed Catholic’s focus towards their feelings and personal experience rather than the duty of giving Christ His due and seeking union with God.
This is more about a “modernist space” than a church (hence the title of the lecture), even though it is a church where the Eucharist is celebrated. He points out the way the outside comes into the church interior, reminding those inside of the connection with nature, what time of day it is, what weather is outside, etc. In this sense I gather the space functions a bit like stepping into a forest and praying. I like this in up to a point, but when I think of celebrating Mass I wonder about the idea of Heaven on earth and the traditional way churches close off the outside world and creating a space that is more heavenly than earthly.
He speaks of the honest use of materials, and how older churches seem dishonest somehow, using paint to create false impressions and faux marble, etc. This is a particularly important part of the lecture. I too love the modernist focus on materials. I also don’t believe such focus is necessarily bad for church design, but a church interior should be (traditionally speaking) a kind of three-dimensional icon of Heaven. Rough, earthy materials that evoke nature have their place, but they should serve a heavenly image, no? Here’s something I might explore in another post, but consider this: Is not a statue of St. Michael (for example) fake because it is not actually St. Michael? Same for the Holy Mother, etc? Would not any church that aspires to create a sense of the heavenly liturgy within its walls be a dishonest use of materials? Maybe. But perhaps that’s a “dishonest” use of the word dishonest.
The bell tower, he argues, with its horizontal lines, points to (or mirrors) the horizontal earth rather than to God. He claims it reminds him that God is everywhere and in all things, and perhaps that’s a good reminder, but this is a curious claim and raises the question, in my mind at least, what is the purpose of a church? To call us to the earth or to call us to Heaven? Do we not minister to each other (horizontally) because we have first sought out and worshiped God—a vertical action? If we do not begin with the vertical does not our horizontal orientation eventually become skewed?
He also mentions that the population of monks used to be 350, but now are only 150. They don’t need such a big church anymore. Only by way of correlation, but still interesting (and troubling): They commit themselves to modernist ideas, they build a modernist church to symbolically represent that modernist spirit, and not long after they lose 60% of their members. Apparently modernism doesn’t need monks. Perhaps modernism doesn’t really need man either. This is too big of a topic for a mere blog post.
At the end of the lecture, just before questions, he jokingly apologizes for going a bit long and keeping the Downton Abbey fans from their show — a show whose popularity arose from a longing for an earlier time, represented, in part, not by modernist architecture, but very traditional architecture, and clothing, and customs, etc. Will future generations swoon over the modernist mid-twentieth century in the same way? Perhaps Mad Men did some of that (but what a dark show), and perhaps The Brutalist does so as well.
The first question at the end, by another monk (I believe), is exactly my question, and worth the time for watching this lecture. I have never been in this church, so I have no way of saying what my thoughts would be, but I also wonder if such a place is naturally conducive to prayer, or liturgy at all for that matter. And I truly get the experience from having studied art and swooning over art that others think is stupid or meaningless. And I also find the questioner’s reference to the new cathedral in Los Angeles being obvious a place of prayer puzzling, since it also has been roundly derided for its modernist and non-Catholic design. The answer to his question included: “Do people get modernism? I think the answer is no, by and large,” and “Until I explain this…” In other words, modernist art and architecture requires explanation in order to appreciate it. This is one of the attractions and weaknesses of modern art. I have experienced exactly that feeling of “getting it” after studying it. And yet, I think this may be why modernist architecture is not a good choice for Catholic churches. He also says we are not actually living in a “modernist” society. In terms of art and architecture this may be true specifically in light of design principles–modernism, from an art historical perspective occurred at a time in history which is now past. However, the spirit of modernism as a philosophical and theological undergirding of society and the Church is still very pervasive. How modernism in ideas and modernism in design interrelate is a fascinating topic too big for this post.
In the end I find the Abbey Church a beautiful and amazing space I would love to visit. However, I do believe it is probably best suited as a performance space than as a church. I would not advocate a church being built along these lines. Rather, I think we should be informed more by the needs of the Traditional Latin Mass (or the Divine Liturgy of the East) with its focus on God rather than man, uniformity with the Church through history, and creative use of new and old materials that look to the past for inspiration and the future for permanence and authentic timelessness — which can only be done by beginning with a true understand of both God and man.
Finally, I wonder if much of the problems with using modernist design principles and materials for Catholic churches could be solved if the liturgy was the Traditional Latin Mass. In other words, imagine if Vatican II never happened, and the Novus Ordo Mass never promulgated, could churches have been designed in somewhat contemporary and modernist fashion and still fulfill the needs of the TLM? Can architects build “honest” churches and still be Catholic? I think so. But also keep in mind that the St. John’s Abbey church construction began on May 19, 1958, and lasted until August 24, 1961 — well before the council even began, and long before the Novus Ordo Mass was promulgated.
WHAT DO YOU THINK? LET ME KNOW IN THE COMMENTS!
Also, if you want to know a bit more about the architect Marcel Breuer:
If you want to know a bit more about the building of the church:
Beautiful snow-capped mountain peaks jut into a glorious blue sky. Climbers, dark silhouettes in the clear air, make their way up a ridge on their way to the summit. Their movements are slow and methodical yet graceful. Distant peaks ring the horizon like stunning diamonds. This is an image of freedom. In fact, one of the most popular mountaineering books in English is called “Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills.”
Alison Hargreaves in 1986 on a first ascent of a hard route on Kangtega (6779), Nepal. Hargreaves was one of the most accomplished high alpine climbers with a stunning carreer. In 1995 she would die at age 33 while descending K2, thje second highest mountain in the world, leaving behind a husband and two children. Source: https://alpinist.com/features/freedom-in-the-hills/
A sailboat glides along the rolling waves of a blue sea under bright sunny skies. The sails are full of wind and the boat leans gracefully as it moves quickly through the water. The crew sits along the windward rail as they scan the undulating surface of the sea. This too is an image of freedom. In fact, “freedom” is a common word in sailing book titles, sailing social media account names, boat names, and sailing videos.
When I was younger I climbed mountains and I am still an armchair mountaineer. But these days you will more often find me and my family on our little sailboat at our local lake. From experience I can attest to the beauty of these sports. I can also attest to what freedom actually means when climbing mountains and sailing boats. It’s not exactly the romantic image of freedom of the book cover or poster. And here lies a lesson on true freedom compared to the popular libertine and libertarian concepts of liberty we often find today.
Both of these analogies of freedom offer us images of people who have left behind the cares of the world. Life is more simple, it seems, when one hikes the hills and sails the seas. In a real sense that is true. But it’s also deceptive. At every moment the mountains and the seas put up challenges and dangers that are very real and often require strict movements and calculated responses. In fact, each sport has its own highly specific tools, knowledge, actions, and language. Make a mistake and one will suffer, perhaps even die. That sounds rather harsh but it is, in fact, part of the appeal. It is also, ironically, where one finds freedom.
These little scenes are much like life, but we often don’t see it that way. Freedom, we are told, is to be able to do whatever one wants without restrictions. Yet this kind of freedom quickly becomes a form of slavery to one’s passions. True freedom comes from stripping away everything that is unnecessary, everything that is unfruitful. But that only makes sense when one seeks a goal of great value.
Around 600 A.D., John Climacus wrote his famous ascetical treatise, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, outlining thirty steps upwards towards the perfect model of perfection, Jesus Christ. Those steps are the virtues that counter the passions, and by overcoming the passions we increase in righteousness and begin, by God’s grace through the saving actions of Jesus Christ, to enter into the process of theosis. That ascetical work, hard as it is, leads us towards the freedom from sin and into the joy of union with God. That ascetical work is like the limitations self imposed by the mountaineer and sailor done to ensure success.
The 12th century Ladder of Divine Ascent icon (Saint Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai Peninsula, Egypt) showing monks, led by John Climacus, ascending the ladder to Jesus, at the top right. Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ladder_of_Divine_Ascent
For the Christian the goal of great value, also called the pearl of great price, is theosis. More than being free of sin and going to Heaven, although that is part of it, theosis is about partaking in the Divine Life. We are told by Christ that the first shall be last, that only the man who gives up his life will find it, that the seed must die in order for the tree to grow, to take up our crosses and follow Him. Emptying ourselves we will receive a fullness beyond compare. Only in giving up our freedom will we receive true freedom. These are hard words to take. In fact, they are impossible to accept unless the Holy Spirit softens our hearts because it is so unnatural to us sinners.
If we are to be like God, to partake of the Divine Life, then we must give up everything that is not a part of God. We must give up our passions, that is our pride, anger, vanity, lusts, and self-centeredness. We must become poor in spirit, mourn, be meek, hunger and thirst for righteousness, be merciful, be pure in heart, be peacemakers, be willing to be persecuted because of righteousness, and accept that others will insult us falsely say all kinds of evil against us. In broad strokes this is the “ladder” we must climb if we are to reach the summit.
Although we need to be reminded of this regularly we also know it to be true, our consciences bearing this out. If we reject our consciences then we are rejecting our salvation. This is the height of foolishness. We become like ships that founder and sink.
This charge I commit to you, Timothy, my son, in accordance with the prophetic utterances which pointed to you, that inspired by them you may wage the good warfare, holding faith and a good conscience. By rejecting conscience, certain persons have made shipwreck of their faith[.] (1 Timothy 1:18-19)
Mountaineers and sailors know that accepting severe limits on their freedom within the context of mountaineering and sailing is the only way to achieve true freedom and thus true joy in those endeavors. Only through sever limits do we truly live. By analogy it is also the way for the disciple of Christ, the one who takes up their cross and follows Him.
G345XN AJAX NEWS PHOTOS – 10TH SEPTEMBER,1974. SHOREHAM, ENGLAND. – WRECK SALVAGED – 741009/741109/GR1. A DIVER FROM THE SALVAGE BARGE SURVEYS ALL THAT REMAINS OF THE HULL OF MR HEATH’S YACHT MORNING CLOUD AS SHE WAS BROUGHT INTO SHOREHAM HARBOUR. THE £45,000 OCEAN RACER, THE THIRD WHICH MR HEATH HAS OWNED, WAS WRECKED IN A GALE OFF THE SUSSEX COAST ON SEPT 2ND,1974. TWO MEN LOST THEIR LIVES IN THE TRAGEDY. A YACHT SURVEYOR AT THE SCENE IN SHOREHAM SAID THE BOAT WAS A TOTAL LOSS. MOST OF THE STARBOARD SIDE WAS MISSING AND THE MAST AS WELL AS THE ENGINE HAD GONE. PHOTO:JONATHAN EASTLAND/AJAX REF:7410. Image shot 1974. Exact date unknown. Source: https://www.pbo.co.uk/seamanship/lessons-learned-from-the-sinking-of-morning-cloud-3-88859
Not long ago I had the opportunity to read an email that had been sent by a parishioner to his priest and also to members of that parish’s pastoral council, of which I was a member. I’ve removed the parishioner’s name, the name of the priest, and the name of the parish for reasons of confidentiality. I believe there is something important in this letter and I feel the need to pass it on. In particular, I believe the sentiments expressed are common to many Catholics, and not merely older Catholics, the so called “boomer” Catholics, who lived through and promoted the changes after Vatican II. Here is the letter:
Dear Fr. [REDACTED],
I have made the decision to leave [REDACTED] Parish. Please accept my resignation from the Pastoral Council, the Lectors, and Sunday Hospitality. Additionally, please stop my Sunday envelopes.
I am sixty-six years old. I was an altar boy during the sixties. I remember the pre-Vatican2 church. It has been over fifty years that the institutional Church , as we know it, has functioned in the light of the Second Vatican Council. Yet, since coming to [REDACTED] and belonging to [REDACTED], I am slowly watching the institutional Church in our Parish retreating backward as demonstrated in the frequent Latin Masses, the men’s Schola, the effort to re-locate the tabernacle back to the center of the sanctuary (at an exorbitant cost, I might add), and … now you speak of reinstalling the communion rail. I don’t see myself participating in any of it. I happen to appreciate the Church for what it is. I considered doing research to dissuade you from the path you are on but then I realized the voices you are listening to are louder than mine. In my opinion what you are doing is not in the spirit of Vatican 2 and that grieves me.
Thank you for the rich homilies; they offer the Parish more that you may think.
Respectfully, [REDACTED]
Before I comment I should say that the church did eventually move the old and beautiful marble altar and tabernacle, which had been moved out of the sanctuary in the early 1970s, back to the center of the sanctuary for a very reasonable cost and, by the way, at the request of the bishop. (But what is cost when compared to reverence for our Lord? We could ask the woman with the alabaster box.) Altar rails, which had been removed in the early 1970s, were also eventually reinstalled. The men’s Schola ceased during Covid and has not restarted. Regardless, it was a wonderful opportunity for men of the church to gather, fellowship, and sing old hymns and chant at the 7:30 AM Sunday Mass. (Why this is an issue I don’t know, except that they did sing old songs and prayers.) I know I was deeply blessed to be in the Schola. And there was never “frequent Latin Masses” at this parish. At most there was, perhaps, a couple of Novus Ordo masses done in Latin, and never on Sunday mornings, and never an actual TLM.
There are many Catholics, especially those older Catholics who lived through the changes of the post-Vatican II era, and who are still active Catholics (of course, a staggering number left the Church since the council), who look back fondly on that era and still believe to this day that those radical changes were the best thing to ever happen to the Church. As they see it, the spirit of Vatican II is wonderful, and they love that the barriers came down, the stuffy altar was replaced by the communion table, the priest finally turned to face the people who could now see what he was doing, and they even love its music, fondly humming its (objectively) poor and insufferable tunes. Many of these Catholics are looked down on and summarily dismissed as “boomers” (a term used pejoratively) by so many today including members of the so-called traditionalist movement. And many traditionalists are waiting for that generation to die off so the Church can finally return to its roots and become more traditional again. Personally, I don’t like this attitude. I think many older parishioners, like this man above, probably sharply feel that dismissive sentiment aimed squarely at them and that their voices are ignored.
I believe this parishioner’s frank frustration, blunt verbiage, and his sudden resignation is exactly the kind of reaction that many Novus Ordo but tradition-leaning priests fear. There are very few parishes in the world today that are not fundamentally “spirit of Vatican II churches,” that is, they have been built on the modernist traditions of the past 50 years (and arguably the past 200 years). It is what they know, it is their life as it were. This means that any priest who discovers the rich traditions of the Church and comes to see the need to reintroduce those traditions into their parish, and then tries to bring changes to his parish in light of those traditions, is likely to have at least some, and perhaps many, parishioners reacting as our letter-writer did. Or perhaps the frustrated parishioners don’t leave the parish; perhaps they even don’t let the priest know how they feel. They may instead just work to undermine his efforts in any number of ways and eventually get him ousted. I imagine this letter cut to the heart of the priest and was grieved over. I do not know the outcome of what happened next. I hope reconciliation can happen. I doubt it will. But I do appreciate letter-writer’s forthrightness.
I believe the Traditional Latin Mass is fundamentally and in nearly every way far superior than the Novus Ordo. I am even inclined to believe the Church has substantially and spiritually suffered because of the Novus Ordo. However, I am not a RadTrad as some traditionalists call themselves positively and others call them pejoratively. In fact, I go to both the TLM and the Novus Ordo for various reasons (mostly availability) and I have been blessed by both. [Note: lately I’ve been attending a Byzantine Catholic church and loving the Divine Liturgy, which is even older than the TLM.]
I have never been someone who loves tradition either merely for aesthetic or nostalgic reasons. I’m not into tradition in the way some men love 1957 Chevys or others collect vintage radios. I came to a love for tradition because my life’s journey took me, as a parent, through the world of Christian classical homeschooling, which begins with the nature of man and his purpose in relation to God. I began to critique my presuppositions in light of my experience of living in a post-modern world, growing up Baptist/evangelical, and being curious about history, philosophy, and the arts. Within the Protestant milieu I experienced an anemic stance towards holiness, a total absence of the concept of theosis, personally fashioned images of Jesus, and a profoundly false anthropology. I experienced worship redefined as pop-music and sentimentalism rather than sacrifice. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Then I came into the Church (God be praised!) and I saw this same spirit of the modern Protestant and American culture substantially infused (though often as a poor imitation) syncretically throughout the local parishes I visited. The leaven of the modernist world had worked its way into so much of the Church. (Forgive me if I come across as though I view myself as an expert in these matters. I am not.)
I also noticed both a mix of blindness to the syncretism and a thorough love of it. Parishioners were not chafing under the weight of modernism corrupting the Church, they were loving it. Or, at least, that’s how it looked to me. And remember, people can believe and be committed to any number of half-truths, lies, and crazy ideas and still be the most wonderful people in the world.
Pope Paul VI: “We would say that, through some mysterious crack—no, it’s not mysterious; through some crack, the smoke of Satan has entered the Church of God.”
I felt like the bank teller who has learned to identify counterfeit bills by first becoming highly familiar with the real thing, but in this case I knew the counterfeit all too well and was only coming to learn of the real thing. I was just so happy to be in the true Church that I let a lot slide for a while— and I still do, and I’m still happy. I love being Catholic, not merely for the joy I find, but because Catholicism is true. Also, I am no expert. And who am I anyway? And yet, I feel that God has given me the eyes I have, formed on the journey I’ve traveled, to see some things that others might not; perhaps especially so-called cradle Catholics. I believe that the long tradition of the Church, especially that old “stuffy” Latin Mass, lived out in love and relying on the Holy Spirit, is an antidote needed for the world today — not just the for the Church, but for the world.
Thus I am bothered by the letter above. I see it run through with problems, false assumptions, ignorance, and immaturity. I want to be dismissive.
And yet, and yet…
Two things: First we must look for the silver linings. In many ways the Church needed to be challenged. Before the Spirit of Vatican II there was the Spirit of the Counter Reformation. This spirit built a powerful, almost fortress-like Church. But, I believe, it was becoming hollow within. Bishops were used to being unchallenged and, it seems to me, too often didn’t distinguish between the core faith that could not be changed and cultural norms that could. Many men became priests and young women nuns for cultural reasons. Prayers were recited because that’s what had always been done. When I hear about bishops sometimes ruling over over nuns in harsh and tone-deaf ways and then those nuns pushing back I tend to side with the nuns. I believe the Church needed to be shook up. The question is how far does one go with that shaking?
Second, I (and we) must have compassion for those who love the Novus Ordo and its music and its culture. For that’s what it is, a culture and it has shaped them. Culture arises from cultus. How we worship, including the nuts and bolts of our liturgies, form us. Lex orandi, lex credendi. Even what direction the priest faces during the Liturgy works within us at such a deep level and in such a precognitive way that the simple fact of orientation teaches us about God and man, saying one thing or another thing. How we receive the Blessed Sacrament, whether on the tongue or in the hand, whether standing or kneeling, teaches (instilling within us) us at a deeply subconscious level knowledge (true or false) of Christ and our relationship to Him, saying one thing and not another thing. At the end of Mass, when we are told to go out into the world, we take with us that cultus which has formed deep within us, formed even minutes before, and so deeply that much of it is subconscious and intuitive and works on our minds to such a degree that what seems right to us seems so as though from the foundations of the earth. But this is not the same thing as being right, for we can be formed by a bad cultus just as easily as a good cultus. And even the best Catholic cultus has to contend with the world’s cultus, which smothers us nearly every minute.
The power of formation is not primarily at the conscious level. Much like the bank teller intuitively knowing a good bill from a false one, the well formed Catholic recognizes truth and error, depth and shallowness, beauty and mediocrity, faith and sentimentality, in an almost precognitive manner. (Oh that we were all that well formed!) Overwhelming evidence declares that Catholics can be poorly formed. Our sensibilities can lead us to wrong understandings, poor interpretations, and misguided evaluations. And our conclusions will feel absolutely right. We almost can’t help it; no one knowingly believes falsehoods, we can only believe what we believe is true. Therefore, we must have compassion and empathy for others. We must seek humility. Our true battle is not over liturgy, or tradition, or theology. Our true battle is against Satan and his devils, against the forces of sin within us, and against the temptations of the world. We are in a profound spiritual, physical, and metaphysical battle for our faith, the Church, and our souls. That battle, of course, plays out much of the time within the physical realm, including the realm of liturgy, culture, and even politics, but we must seek to have eyes that see and ears that hear, we must seek soft hearts and and sensitive souls, so that we may know where the real battle lies, otherwise we will miss it — perhaps even joining an enemy who tricks and beguiles us.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner.
If you watch documentaries about the 1960s, such as Ken Burns film The Vietnam War, especially the parts that focus on the homefront in the US, or the PBS documentary Woodstock: Three Days that Defined a Generation, you can’t help but feel for the youth caught up in the spirit(s) of the age. There was little chance of any young Catholic at that time, living in the midst of that culture, who would not have also interpreted the post-Vatican II changes, especially those done under the spirit of Vatican II mantra, as utterly comprehensible and necessary. Many of these young Catholics supported refocusing the Church towards the burning issues of the day and, more importantly, defining the approach to those issues in the same terms used by the campus radicals, the feminists, the neo-socialists, and especially those of the anti-war and civil rights movements.
Consider this truly amazing time-capsule below from 1968. This NBC documentary shows us the world in which our letter writer above was formed and of which he clearly is still fond, much like an old man remembering the glory days of his youth. Keep in mind that the Novus Ordo was not promulgated until 1969, so this is even before the new Mass radically changed the Church.
This video feels like a crash in slow motion. I am aghast at the naivete and delirious utopianism expressed, and yet… I too would have likely joined in with enthusiasm if I had been a young adult Catholic at that time. But this is where we need to understand clearly that what is often called the “spirit of Vatican II” was really just the spirit of the age. What was new and “alive” then seems dated and, at best, quaint today. But let’s not be too sentimental, it was also a tragedy in the making.
The goal wasn’t just a matter of getting rid of what was old. Underneath it was the belief that what we call traditional Catholicism was being fundamentally incompatible with the modern age and, thus, being a barrier to spiritual growth, a meaningful relationship with Christ, evangelization, and even authentic Catholicism (nevermind the saints, great and small, who knew nothing else but traditional Catholicism because it was just Catholicism). Traditional priestly garb and religious habits began to look more and more like anachronistic costumes, almost laughable; Latin like a language mummified. The key word in the documentary is “relevant.” The Church must become relevant. The disease of relevancy infected the Protestant world too, something I experienced growing up.
As a side note: Look up each priest and bishop interviewed in the documentary above and see how many were eventually laicized and got married in less than ten years of this film.
With time, statistics, and much wide-eyed hand wringing we have come to see that the radical experiments of the 1960s and 1970s largely failed and a great deal has been lost, not least are increasingly diminishing numbers of faithful Catholics in the pews and vocations to the priesthood and religious life. But also so much depth and richness has been lost. It was, it would appear, the Church declaring that the Real Presence was dogma but not really true, and that faith was merely a matter of personal preference after all. Our priests, by no longer having the Traditional Latin Mass available to them, perhaps have suffered the most for they are no longer being fed daily on the more nourishing food of tradition (such as the profoundly rich prayers of the Extraordinary Form) but rather “eating” a less spiritually enriching fair that is bound to leave one at the very least rather anemic. And if one has never eaten from the sumptuous feast’s table one will neither know the riches available or the true depth of satiation.
The Novus Ordo is a living culture and it produces sons and daughters of itself. It is an engine of formation. I believe that many priests have gone into the priesthood thinking and hoping that within the Novus Ordo culture they will become the kind of men that only a TLM culture can produce. (I experienced something similar coming into the Church as a convert.) Many, many things went terribly amiss during the frantic hubbub of the radical sixties. Much good has been destroyed. In one generation enough destruction and spiritual darkness was unleashed that it may take five generations to recover. The “good” bishops and popes have been trying to fix it ever since — tinkering here, adjusting there, moving slowly out of caution? concerns? fear? Of course, I don’t have the answer, and who am I anyway?
The “boomers” and the rest of the Novus Ordo crowd (I also frequently attend the Novus Ordo and just missed being called a boomer by only one year, and not all boomers are pro-Novus Ordo culture) are not the enemy. Even if you are a staunch traditionalist you ought to see them as our brothers and sisters in Christ. One might choose to “fight” for the great traditions of the Church, especially the Traditional Latin Mass, to return in a big way, but one must not fall into a hardened “us and them” mentality. And you ought to love them. They have been taught and formed by the Church and their culture, just as we all have. Their formation, good or bad, falls largely upon the shoulders of those bishops who had that responsibility and who eagerly welcomed the spirit of the age into the Church and often veered wildly beyond the councils documents.
Our job is to love God and each other. We are to seek unity in love, with humility, and with total faith in God — which means we need patience and know that it is God who fights our battles. But the older crowd are not the only ones who love the Novus Ordo more than the TLM. Even many younger folks do so as well, for reasons I can’t quite fathom. People love things for different reasons. And they don’t love other things for different reasons; sometimes merely out of ignorance, sometimes because of their formation, and sometimes for good reasons. But this is a larger topic.
I feel for the man who wrote the letter above. I believe he wrote honestly from his heart. I believe his grievances came from real grieving. I also wonder, without wanting to psychoanalyze him, if his grieving doesn’t come from having had a kind of “mountain top” experience in his youth (think of those in the 1968 documentary above), being caught up in the spirit of the age and feeling like he had truly received a “new Pentecost,” which has stayed with him and sustained him for many years, and now he feels it’s being taken away. I’m sure he’s not alone.
But I don’t feel too sorry for the guy. His letter is also an expression of ignorance, selfishness and shows lack of empathy for those suffering under the revolution he so loves. That parish he left was very accommodating and, it turns out, he wasn’t. His letter was heartfelt and honest but it is also an expression of myopic self-centeredness. I hope* he found a parish with the felt banners and Marty Haugen hymns he’s used to, and with the tabernacle hidden somewhere to the side so as not to conflict with the worship. I’m sure he did, there’s still a lot of them around.
The icon of the Transfiguration by Theophan the Cretan depicts the event where Jesus Christ is transformed, revealing his divine glory to his disciples, Peter, James, and John, on Mount Tabor. Theophan the Cretan, also known as Theophanes the Greek, was a renowned iconographer of the late 14th and early 15th centuries. His Transfiguration icon is known for its use of color, particularly warm earth tones and gold, to unify the heavenly and earthly realms depicted in the scene.
May grace and peace be multiplied to you in the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord. His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence, by which he has granted to us his precious and very great promises, that through these you may escape from the corruption that is in the world because of passion, and become partakers of the divine nature. (2 Peter 1:2–4)
Many times I read over these words from Saint Peter but I never paused to contemplate the phrase “become partakers of the divine nature.” The very idea of becoming partakers of the divine nature, though boldly stated here, was never a topic of preaching or teaching in my Protestant upbringing. And later, when I first heard the words of Saint Athanasius below, I was shocked.
“God became man so that man might become god” (St. Athanasius, On the Incarnation 54:3)
These words have rung like a bell down through the history of the apostolic Church(es) ever since they were penned in the 4th century. Alas, they have also been forgotten by many who call themselves Christian and some have even felt themselves scandalized by those words. I know the Protestant world from which I came would have rejected such ideas. And yet…
Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ. (1 Corinthians 11:1)
Are we not to be imitators of Christ? Yes! Is He not the Son of God? Of course! But these words roll off our tongues too easily. Have we not become complacent, given over to excuses? I have.
If imitation of Christ is about checking the boxes of moral perfection it’s easy to back away a bit. No one can reasonably expect me to actually check all those boxes. Right? But if imitation is to become divine… that sounds very interesting.
“You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.” (Matthew 5:48)
But what is this perfection? I was always taught being a good Christian is to seek moral perfection. And that is true but that is only part of the picture. When something is perfect it is, in the ancient and Biblical sense, to be brought to its proper end, to be finished, completed, lacking in nothing. For humans it means to be what a human is meant to be, that is, fully human as God intends. This is the telos of salvation. To seek it is to seek God, to desire to be like God, to be the Image of God finally and fully realized. So yes, it does mean moral perfection because it means total perfection, to be as God is, perfect.
This is theosis. This is what being a disciple of Christ is all about. This is the pearl of great price.
I’m not writing this to say anything new or profound, rather I want to point to a book and two videos that have helped me to understand that the burning in my soul is my desire for theosis.
The book is: Called to Be the Children of God: The Catholic Theology of Human Deification Edited by a friend of mine, this book looks at the concept of theosis/deification/divinization from the Old Testament down through the centuries, much of it as understood within the Catholic Church. It’s an excellent overview with countless quotes from the Bible and Church history. For a Christian not familiar with the concept of theosis (so easy to be ignorant these days) this book might blow their mind.
The videos, which are from the Eastern Orthodox viewpoint and are also excellent, are here:
Blessings to you.
[Third Sunday After Pentecost, Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, Apostles]
We used to be in the Christian Classical Home Schooling Movement. We home schooled our three kids until they moved over to public high school. I wrote the article below in 2011. I think it still holds up. In fact, as I re-read it today, I feel convicted. I need to follow the great saint’s teaching myself. I don’t so much of the time.
I do not know if Saint Paul ever developed a detailed educational foundation or curriculum or program in the way that we might today. He may have in person as he spread the Gospel, but he certainly didn’t in his letters. And I doubt he ever founded a school (of course, if he did he would not have needed to use the word “classical” in its name). I guess that for Paul “starting” this thing we call Christianity was enough to keep him busy and get him killed (of course he didn’t start it but he was a laborer laying the foundation). But still, as I ponder what Christian Classical Education is or might be, I wonder what Paul would contribute. Without trying to turn this into an overwhelming project for which I am unprepared, I want to briefly look at only a couple of verses from Paul’s letter to the church at Philippi. He writes in Philippians 4:8-9:
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you. (ESV)
Consider this list:
What is true
What is honorable
What is just
What is pure
What is lovely
What is commendable
What is excellent
What is worthy of praise
What do we do with such a list? Imagine going to your local school board and proposing that the district’s curriculum be revamped to begin with this list. Ha! I dare you.
Paul says to think about these things.
To think. In the minds of our modern educators, and most of the rest of us, thinking is almost tantamount to doing nothing. Ever see someone thinking? What are they doing? On the outside they are often quite still, maybe staring into the distance. In effect, they are doing nothing. And yet, they are doing a great deal. Now, if they are not thinking alone, staring placidly off into space, then they are probably in dialogue with someone. But a true dialogue can seem to be unfocused and wandering, which is also antithetical to teaching in the modern sense. Our modern education system is partially based on a sense of urgency–we cannot afford to waste time with thinking when we have so much knowledge to get into those little brains. It is a system that must swap dialogue with lecture. But this modern system denies the existence of the human soul. Is that what we want?
Paul says to think about these things.
What is thinking? I know nothing about the brain as a subject of scientific study. I know there are chemicals and electrical impulses involved, but more than that? I know nothing. However, I gather thinking is a mystery of our minds, of our humanity. I use the word mystery because I doubt science can ever, truly plumb the depths and workings of thinking. Thinking is a mystery because it is a force of great power that seems to have no substance, no true existence, no way to completely contain it and control it as a totality. We can guide it, use it, encourage it, welcome it, and share it, sometimes even fear it, but we cannot subdue it. To think is to ponder, to wonder, to suppose, to engage, to meditate. More importantly, thinking is to take an idea into oneself, into one’s soul, and turn it over and over and make it one’s own, or to reject it in favor of another.
So then we ponder and wonder, suppose and engage, meditate and bring into one’s soul
What is true
What is honorable
What is just
What is pure
What is lovely
What is commendable
What is excellent
What is worthy of praise
Can you think of any better education? I can’t.
Paul could have left it there, but he goes on. He writes, “What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me…” Consider this, Paul is able to confidently write that the Philippians have directly experienced him in such a way that they have:
learned from Paul
received from Paul
heard from Paul
seen in Paul
This list is somewhat cryptic, but I think we can get a glimpse into how Paul was a teacher. First the Philippians learned from Paul. He saw himself as a teacher. He had intent. He knew what he wanted to teach them. And he taught them thoroughly enough, with enough feedback, to know that they leaned. Then he says they have received. This implies a giving, a handing over. There was something that he left with them, something they now have. He can write to them because he knows they have what he gave. In this sense they are more like Paul than they were before. The goal of the classical educator is that his pupils will one day become his colleagues. The Philippians are now that much closer to being colleagues of Paul; they have something that Paul has. Third he says they heard from Paul. Teaching often involves speaking and hearing, but sometimes we forget what a gift is language. If you are like me then you love Paul’s letters, but you would really love to hear him speak, to ask him questions, to sit at his feet. Paul engaged their minds as God intended, as their minds were designed to function, by using language. Speaking also requires presence. Paul was with the Philippians, in person, in the flesh; they heard his voice, knew its sound, picked up on nuances of meaning in the subtleties of his voice. To hear in this way, that is to listen to ideas spoken, is a profoundly human experience. We do not know if the Philippians heard Paul specifically because he preached, or perhaps led them in Socratic dialogue, or even just through conversation, but they heard. Finally, and this may be the most important, they saw. Paul presented himself as an example. He lived what he taught. Or better yet, he embodied the Logos. The Gospel, the message, the content that Paul taught, handed over, and spoke, was also visible in his life and actions. Paul could rightly say, “look at me.” The best teachers embody the logos.
Can we find more about how Paul taught? Yes, I’m sure we can. But just from these two verses we get something profound. We find that Paul, with confidence, can say the Philippians
learned from Paul
received from Paul
heard from Paul
saw in Paul
And what did they learn?
What is true
What is honorable
What is just
What is pure
What is lovely
What is commendable
What is excellent
What is worthy of praise
From this alone we can know that Paul was a master teacher in the fullest Christian Classical model. How this will look in your own teaching will be unique, but there is no better foundation that I can find.
And then Paul writes:
“…practice these things…”
Paul both taught in person and was writing to the Philippians with an Ideal Type in mind, that is the complete or perfect Christian, that is Christ. Christ is the logos. We, because we are Christians, because we are disciples, seek to embody the Logos in our lives. It is not enough to find the idea of the Ideal Type good or fascinating or excellent. One must put it into practice and live it. To practice is to work and persevere at imitation. To imitate is to behold, to embrace, to take into one’s being and seek to embody the Ideal Type in one’s life and actions.
David Hicks wrote: “To produce a man or woman whose life conforms to the Ideal in every detail is education’s supremely moral aim.” (Norms and Nobility, p. 47) Is this not also the passion of Paul, that the Philippians live’s would conform to the Ideal of Christ in every detail? And how are the Philippians to do this?
“…practice these things…”
Now, if you haven’t noticed, I have not defined what Christian Classical Education is or how to do it. Partly this is tactical; I don’t have a clear answer. On the other hand I will offer a quote from Andrew Kern:
Education is the cultivation of wisdom and virtue by nourishing the soul on truth, goodness, and beauty so that the student is better able to know and enjoy God.
I cannot think of a better, more fundamental description of what a Christian Classical Education is all about. There is a lot in there, and a lot of room for developing strategies of teaching, but if this is what we are aiming for, if this is what we are building on, if this is our longing, then consider again the words of Saint Paul:
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me—practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you.
Now to Him who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that works in us, to Him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen. Ephesians 3:20-21
On Corpus Christi Sunday* my teenage son and I joined in our local Corpus Christi procession. This was a joint effort between several parishes and the route traveled over 6.8 miles between our two metro-area cities. My son and I only walked the first part (about 2 miles) because that’s all my bad knee could handle. It was a joyful affair with much singing, mostly in Spanish, and recited prayers, mostly the Rosary. We also stopped in front of the jail and prayed for the inmates. We had great police support as we walked down blocked off streets through the center of the city.
All in all, this was a kind of culmination of a great several days for me.
The procession makes its way across a footbridge over the river.
I have written previously about coming back to the Church. This return has been a true joy for me.
On Saturday before Corpus Christi Sunday I went to confession for the first time in a long time. What a blessing! Later that day my Father’s Day gift arrived in the mail; three icons and some candles (that quote from Ephesians above came in the packaging). I put the icons on the wall near my desk for my prayer corner. Sunday morning I went to church, this time to a parish I had not visited for a long time and things had changed… for the better! What a reverent and beautiful Mass. It was a Novus Order Mass done mostly in Latin, with Gregorian Chant beautifully sung, lots of incense, the priest facing Ad orientem, ten male altar servers, and recently installed altar rails where I received the Blessed Host on the tongue. I’m not waving the traditionalist flag here, just noting that reverence due is helped by reverent forms of worship. Then, that afternoon, was the procession. I would say that was a great several days.
The procession walks along the river on the way to the next city.
*What is Corpus Christi? Here is a statement from the Archdiocese of Portland’s website:
The Feast of Corpus Christi, also known as the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, is a Catholic celebration of the real presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist—and thus a sacred reminder that, in every Mass, Jesus’ one sacrifice of Calvary is sacramentally made present and offered anew for “the forgiveness of the sins we daily commit” (CCC 1366). While Holy Thursday recalls Christ’s institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper, Corpus Christi gives Catholics a joyful opportunity to honor our Eucharistic Lord Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. This includes public devotion apart from Mass.
pilgrimakimbo 