True Blue

I sometimes wonder, do human beings really,

Really want to be made happy? Really?

We say we do, we get all touchy feely

Fluffy-pinky, winking and laughing hollow

Laughter after drinks and intercourse.

Of course we do!

     (But really?)

  I don’t mean wanting

The way a man wants ice cream after dinner.

But more like hot red beef wants salt, like fire

Wants wood, like heart wants pulsing blood, like blood

Wants fire and burns for battle, broil and brawl.

Like home wants ruddy ember glow, like farm

Wants wet warm springing days of living green,

Like crops want rain, and farmer crops, and drops

Of dew coalesce on thirsty emerald leaves

For love.

                Gloomy blue gray days of moping

Hopeless funk, portend our self-important

Snobbish refusal of color.

                                             Until one day,

A rescuer! Flashing fierce St. Elmo’s fire, singing

Metallic odes on jaw wire; lightning shooting

Neon pain, a feast of feeling, knocks me

Reeling, electric blue bright sparks impart

The truth of Blue.

       A toothache is,

          at least,

real.

Why I don't Argue on the Internet

The internet is a funny place. In some ways it resembles real life. People interract, they communicate, share ideas, thoughts, emotions. People develop real relationships on the internet, although necessarily they are not the same kind of relationships that they develop in face-to-face social interractions. You cannot literally have coffee with someone on the internet, but you can talk with someone else who is also having coffee (or tea, if, like me, you do not regularly drink coffe.) There are limits to the level of interraction you can have on the internet. Hugs don't really translate well, among other things. This does not necessarily mean that the relationships that develop on the internet are fake, only that they are different.

In other ways the internet is a totally different kind of world, the sort that simply couldn't exist without the barrier of distance and anonymity that the internet provides. It is a world without filters, where all sorts of filth and vulgarity can be produced and consumed. It is a world without consequences, where you can say whatever you like to whomever you like. A comment that I would justifiably punch you in the face for in the real world can be made with perfect safety on the internet. My fist will never travel down the signals of wi-fi and fly at you out of your computer screen.

Alas.* :-(

In a way the internet is a fantasy land. It is the imagination of millions upon millions of people made visible and audible. If the imagination of the person creating that particular site or post or comment is a beautiful imagination, the internet allows him to express it in ways that would not otherwise be possible. A prime example would be the incredibly talented artists who post their music on youtube, sharing it with the world for free. Writers who cannot afford to publish or who don't have the time or personality to deal with the cutthroat world of the publishing industry can still share their writings with a world-wide audience. On the other hand, if the imagination is sick and twisted, or even just plain self-centered, what comes out of it will reflect that.

Well, here we are with this fantasy land, the absolute freedom to put whatever media our minds can invent on it, to be seen by anyone in the world. Small wonder if, once in a while, you run up against someone who disagrees with you. The disagreement can run the gamut from "You know, you make a bunch of good points, but I couldn't help noting..." to "U R sch a ----ing morron i bet u never went to school i bet u never had a job why dont u get a ----ing clue!"

On the internet, as in life, it's all in how you respond. The difference between the internet and real life is that on the internet, I rarely respond at all, and I never argue.

I rarely argue in real life, but sometimes I will make an exception. On the internet, however, I've learned to bite my tongue (or my fingers).

Part of that is simply time. I just don't have the time to get sucked into a long term argument, especially at the pace most arguments maintain on the internet. My responses might take a week to come, and most people would lose interest in that time.

But more than that, it just doesn't do any good. I have argued many arguments over the years. Since I joined the army I have spent countless hours debating with my fellow soldiers in the barracks, in the trucks, in the field, in garrison. I also spent far too many hours debating with atheists, protestants and other Catholics on the internet. As far as I can tell, which, admittedly, is not very far, not one single person has ever grown wiser because of those arguments.

Seriously, when have you ever had an argument on the internet in which someone said, "I have to admit, you've stumped me. I concede that you are right. I will no longer (dis-believe in God, argue about 2nd amendment rights, wear a bikini, etc.)" That doesn't even happen in real life.

In other ages people knew how to argue reasonably and dispassionately. As C. S. Lewis said, they knew when a thing was proven and were prepared to change their behavior because of it. We don't know how to do that. In our society argument has the exact opposite effect. Instead of making people better acquainted with the other person's views, it makes them more certain of their own ironclad rectitude. In all the arguing I have done I have never once truly listened. I only listen when I do not argue. I listen when I shut up.

I have learned that people are not convinced by facts. Seeing is not believing, not to us. Believing is seeing. People are convinced by action, by consistency, and most of all by relationship. Argument hardens our positions, relationship opens them. If I try hard enough I can find something to disagree about with any person alive, but is that really going to bring anyone, least of all myself, closer to the truth?

Only in real life or in academia does argument have a legitimate use. In academia it is useful because the arguers may not be emotionally invested in the argument. In real life it may is only useful if there is a context of trust, a relationship that gives you a reason to listen and really try to hear what the other person is saying. In the end, the only reason to argue with someone is because you love them. If I don't love you in some way, I simply won't argue with you, because you will have no reason to listen.

But of course, the arguers will argue (and I argue it myself). Of course we have to love them. That's called charity. It doesn't mean you get all sappy about them, but you have to do the right thing and share the truth with them. That's what love really is.

Ah, but you see, there is a hidden danger there. The fact that charity does require us to do good for someone is no guarantee that just because I am telling the truth I am necessarily doing so out of love. There are a million reasons why I could share the truth with someone that have nothing to do with love. I have seen the truth used as a hammer to beat people over the head. That certainly is not love.

More to my point, even if I truly do love someone, real charity is hard fare. The supernatural virtue of charity, the hard, fierce, burning love that ruthlessly acheives the good for the beloved at any cost, is beyond me. I am not ready for that and neither, I suspect, are most humans. There is a reason that God dilutes His love. Instead of hitting us in the thundering cataract of total self gift, He allows it to come to us by degrees, in softer ways. Sunsets, pizza, beer, hugs, handshakes, music, babies laughing, being in love, all of these are ways for Him to tone His love down to our level. Even if I truly do love someone and want to see them get to Heaven, hitting them in the face with that may not necessarily be the way to go about it. Perhaps what they need is not a lecture on why it is wrong to receive Communion in the hand. Perhaps what they really need is a cup of tea. Or to watch a movie. Or just to be listened to.

We don't convince people by speaking to them. We convince them by listening to them.




*Since someone will undoubtedly think this means that I routinely punch people in the face for disagreeing with me, let me assure you this is not so. Not that I have anything against punching people in the face in principle, but there is a time and a place for it, you know.

On the Rocks

Last week I started a Military Mountaineering course. The first week was mostly individual skills, knots, ropes, systems, etc. but on Friday we went out to the rocks in a canyon to practice placing protection and building anchors. It involved no real climbing, but lots of scrambling around some class 4 terrain. (Class 4 terrain is considered the highest non-technical terrain. After that it is classified in 5's: 5:1 being like a rather rough, broken staircase to 5:15 which is more like a wall of glass at vertical or greater.)

So I was scrambling my way up these slopes which a few weeks ago would have scared me a bit, but after a week in Oregon doing actual climbing, these slopes were just fun. I wasn't wearing any gear, hiking boots instead of climbing shoes, no ropes. I was just friction smearing my way up the rock like spiderman, running on up that thing like it was my job. We did a run through the canyon earlier in the week, and I was flying up some fairly technical terrain in nothing but shorts, t-shirt and vibram five-finger shoes. One of the guys spent his lunch hour bouldering without gear.

And suddenly, despite my fear of heights, I could understand why people climb for fun. I have only spent six or seven days on the rocks in my life, training up for this course, and although I was terrified half the time, just touching the rock again was exciting. After climbing 5:7's and 5:8's (and top roping 9's and 10's just to look like an idiot) that little 5:0 scramble was nothing. It was fun. Rock climbing has given me an awareness of my body that is unlike anything else I've ever done. I have done weightlifting, martial arts, running, swimming, hiking and kettlebelling for years, and each one has heightened my physical awareness in its own way. At the peak of that awareness, for instance when pulling off a smooth transition to the mount, or throwing in an armbar, or snatching a kettlebell with absolutely perfect form, there is a feeling of quietness within the storm of energy and movement all around. In a way it is analagous to the love I have for really, really tough mental problems. If the problem is tough enough it takes up my entire brain, so for that time when I am working on it my mind is quiet.

Rock climbing is like that. It is utterly focusing, physically and mentally. The feel of everything is enhanced. The sound of birds, the smell of the dust and wind, and especially the feel of the rock under my hands. I have always been an extremely tactile person. I love the feel of things.

Then there is the internal awareness of my body's strength, flexibility, weight, balance, movement. The physical knowledge my body has of how to shift my weight, keeping pressure on the hand or foot that has traction, while flowing steadily into the next move is amazing.

And I am not even a good climber. I am strong but I am also heavy, 215lbs most days. I am not tall so I lack the reach that might balance out the weight. But when I climb an easy route, well within my ability level and just flow up it like water, I can see why the real climbers, the guys who weigh 140 or less, keep on doing it over and over, every day. It makes you feel alive.

So although I know next week and the weeks following when I am climbing serious rocks again, back up in the 5:7's and 8's, hundreds of feet up with exposure that would make an eagle woozy, I will be terrified. I will get halfway up and the only thing I will be able to think will be, "I want to go home." I know I will have to force my mind away from pointlessly dwelling on how much I don't want to be up there, and that I will want to quit. But God willing I won't quit. On the other side I will be more alive than I am now. Even if I plummet to my death. ;-)

The glory of God is man fully alive.

Desert Evening

Over the last week I was doing a training event in New Mexico. Since I was not one of the primary players being trained, I got to spend most of that time pulling security, which involves sitting in the turret of a gun truck and watching the desert for hours on end. With temperatures topping out in more than the usual number of digits, and sun that hot on me pate, I felt a lot like a piece of meat in a broiler. In a strange way, though, I enjoyed it. The desert is so huge. It is open and arid and inhospitable, and that makes it beautiful. (It wasn’t designed with white people in mind, I can tell you that.) There is something about the emptiness that encourages emptiness of soul, or at least some emptying of the soul, which is a step in the right direction.

The silence is good for me. The heat is good for me. The discomfort is good for me. SPF-50 sunscreen is also good for me. My Irish/German heritage is highly evidenced by the fact that after three weeks out here I am only a half a shade darker than I was in rainy Washington.

The last night in the desert God put on a bit of a show for us. The sky started clouding over around six, and then right about sunset it started to get cool and windy. I could see the thunder storms raging miles away around the mountains. The clouds seemed to be bigger than the mountains themselves, and underneath the clouds were great gray sheets of rain. And then, the wind changed direction, and started sweeping the storm clouds away from the mountains to the north, driving them south across the desert. The next thing I knew I was being pelted with raindrops the size of Chihuahuas, and as thick as thieves. If you can imagine a crowd of soaking wet thieving Chihuahuas freefalling on your head, you will get the idea.

The first thing to do, obviously, was save the gear. So I jumped out, ran around to the cargo area on the back and grabbed out my med bag and our three-day bags (nope, not waterproofed. I mean, this is the desert, right?) Then I ripped the tarp out from behind the radios and bungee cords from the back and quick as a flash rigged up a little cover over the turret. It was large enough to cover the whole turret, tight enough so that it didn’t flap in the gale force winds, and still allowed me to see out over the gun and rotate the turret 360 degrees or more. And there I stood, a little damp and chilly, but none the worse for wear. I turned the truck on, turned on the heater (never thought I’d use that on this trip) and listened to the drumming of the rain on a synthetic canvas roof.

Presently, the rain ceased. The cloud ceiling stayed, but it wasn’t dropping more than the occasional sprinkle. The wind was soft, now. Not just soft as in no longer ripping the hat off my head and trying to snap bungee cords. It felt not simply gentle, but soft like a woman’s hand. There was a tangible quality of softness, like velvet, or felt, or mullein leaves, brushing across my face as if that was its sole reason for existence. There is an intention in the wind, a purpose. It has meaning, and the meaning of that wind was a caress. The sun was behind the clouds, but I could see the rays of light stabbing through to the earth. “God’s Eyelashes,” I used to call them when I was younger, because to the ten-year old me they looked like the eyelashes of a half-closed eye. I don’t see the resemblance that much anymore, but I still call them that, because I haven’t thought of a better name.

As the sun sank lower and lower behind the clouds and the sky grew darker and darker, those rays of light slanted wider, and their fingers reached closer to me. Someone rolled up on the dirt bike asking if I wanted to be relieved, but I said no, I would prefer to stay and watch the sunset.

The sky at this point was almost completely clouded over. It looked, for all the world, like a gray bowl overturned on top of the earth. I imagine if you lived inside a snow globe and had really bad breath it would look much the same. There were still storms carrying on in the distance on all sides, except to the west, hanging down in gray, amorphous sheets like a curtain from the edge of the cloud bowl. On the west side, though, just where the sun was going to set, there was an opening. As the sun began to dip below the edge of the bowl it was as if the whole world was transformed right before my eyes. The underside of all the clouds nearest to the sun was shot through with red. Pinks and lavenders stretched around the edges of the bowl, almost meeting in the back, fading into the deep blue slate of the clouds. The rain storms flushed and then glowed bright rose red. From twenty to fifty miles away I could see them embraced by the light and shifting with the wind, like a slow, graceful love dance. Behind me, on the eastern side there was a pair of rainbows arching off the scrubby pastureland below the mountains to the northeast, disappearing into the clouds, and then descending in parallel curve to the ground to the southeast. Two rainbows, one inside the other, perfectly parallel with each other, forming a double arch exactly over that point on the eastern horizon where the sun would rise the next day.

The whole brilliant display lasted only three minutes, and then faded to purple, and then deep, bluish black, and for the few minutes I was trapped inside that glorious ceiling of cloud, I felt as if the whole thing was for me; I felt very small, and very young, as if the clouds were the arms of God, wrapping around me for a brief moment in a gesture of love. Not simply love, but specifically affection, the humble, earthy, human feeling of familiarity and comfortableness. Like when you are a little kid and your Dad hugs you and says, “It’ll be okay.”

That is fatherhood. The love that I do not deserve, and could not exist without.

Through the Gate

“Truly, Truly I say to you, he who does not enter the sheepfold by the door but climbs in another way, that man is a thief and a robber; but he who enters by the door is the shepherd of the sheep, and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.” John 10:1-3

This passage has been on my mind since Saturday afternoon. I read it after confession on Saturday, again at Mass on Sunday, and again at Bible study last night. I didn’t really start forming any opinions about it until last night. I was trying simply to listen to it (the actual passage I had read was much longer, going all the way to verse 18.) After listening to all the points of view at Bible study last night I am full of amazement at this passage. It is so deep, so rich, so multi-layered. On the most obvious level there is the message that Jesus was conveying directly to the Pharisees and elders of a synagogue (see chapter 9). He was calling upon the rich religious and covenantal significance of the word “shepherd” and the image of the people of Israel as God’s chosen flock. He was tying together three themes from the Old Testament:

1)    God as the Shepherd of His people, (example Genesis 49:24, Psalm 23:1, Psalm 80:1, Ezekiel 34:11-15)

2)    The priests and prophets as the shepherds of Israel, (example Jeremiah 23)

3)    The ruler (especially David) as the shepherd of Israel, (example 2 Sam 5:2, 7:7, Psalm 78:71)

Jesus draws all of these themes together and unites them in Himself, casting his pharisaic listeners as the false shepherds of Israel declaimed by Jeremiah and Ezekiel, and Himself as the Good Shepherd foretold by Ezekiel and Micah (Micah 5:2-4).

Jesus is never simple, though. If it were simply a message meant strictly for his immediate hearers it would never have been recorded since, presumably, the Pharisees never read the New Testament. It was recorded for our sake and so Jesus spoke with me and my friends specifically in mind. It is also a parable about the Church. We are the sheep, He is the good Shepherd who calls each of us by name. The sheepfold is the Church, but it is also the kingdom of Heaven. Any attempt to force our way into Heaven on our own merits is doomed to failure. Worse, we are thieves and liars if we try it. We are no different from Adam and Eve, reaching out to grasp and take what has not been freely offered. We must go in and out through the gate.

The idea of the gate, though, has been turning over and over in my head since last night. Some people might consider a gate a symbol of enclosing and limiting, but it isn’t. It is an image of freedom, specifically the only true path to freedom. It is a symbol of consent. When Jesus speaks those words about entering by the door and calling His own by name, the most powerful association in my mind is with the Song of Songs.

“You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride;
you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.
Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates
with choice fruits,
with henna and nard,
nard and saffron,
calamus and cinnamon,
with every kind of incense tree,
with myrrh and aloes
and all the finest spices.
You are a garden fountain,
a well of flowing water
streaming down from Lebanon. Song of Songs 4:12-15

These are the words of the bridegroom, who is variously either a human lover of a human woman, or Jesus, the lover of souls. Throughout the Song both interpretations are ever present, and in fact, inextricably united. One does not exist without the other. But for now let this be the voice of Jesus, calling His own by name.

She responds:

Awake, north wind,
and come, south wind!
Blow on my garden,
that its fragrance may spread everywhere.
Let my beloved come into his garden
and taste its choice fruits. Song of Songs 4:16

And again He speaks:

I come to my garden, My sister, My bride,
I gather my myrrh with my spice,
I eat my honeycomb with my honey,
I drink my wine with my milk. Song of Songs 5:1

No matter how many times I read through the Song of Songs it never ceases to amaze me. Amaze is the wrong word. It never ceases to captivate me.

This is the most amazing thing about our God. The image of the sealed and locked fountain (whether the soul that Jesus longs to enter or the heart of the woman the man in the poem loves) is an image of something that is unattainable; something that, no matter how hard you try, can never simply be achieved. I can achieve many things by my own efforts. I can learn a language, or a martial art, or a recipe. If I wanted to I could earn a million dollars, or save up to own a Ferrari, or a cabin in the woods, or a mansion by the sea. What I can never do, however, is achieve love. I can never compel someone to love me. I can only ask permission. It will be either given or not. If it is not free it is not love. If it is truly love that I want then that freedom is the only possible condition for it to exist.

This should not be surprising for me, a mere human, but for God? God is the creator of the universe, of All That Is! How is there anything that He cannot achieve simply by willing it? And yet, there is. In His love He has created something that is forever beyond the reach of even His power: the human heart. He cannot force entry into it. He cannot climb the fence, for that would destroy the very thing that He longs for, which is love. Love, by its very nature exists only when it is given freely. Unfree love is simply a no-thing, a thing which is not. So He does not force entry, or climb the walls, or dig under the fence. He stands outside and calls. And we answer. Or not.

“I slept, but my heart was waking.
Hark! My Beloved is knocking.
‘Open to me, my sister, my love,
My dove, my perfect one.” Song of Songs 5:2.

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. Revelations 3:20

There is so much more here, but this blog is already too long.

Like I Mean It

I know a non-Catholic who has been exposed to the Catholic faith pretty heavily for years, but who still has no interest in becoming a Catholic. When asked why he answers, “Because Catholic worship is so boring. It looks like there is no feeling, they are just going through the motions.”


The typical response to this would be an explanation of the liturgy, and how worship is an action of faith and will, feelings are secondary and accidental. This would be a true response, but let’s take a look at it from another angle for a second. Truth be told, most of the times when I go to Sunday Mass, if I pay attention to the people around me it doesn’t often look as if they are especially interested in what they are doing. Hardly anyone sings, the responses are mumbled, someone is picking his fingernails over there, someone else is playing peek-a-boo with the toddler in the seat in front of her. Before and after Mass the church often sounds like a meeting hall, to the irritation of those who have the desire to pray, but lack the focus to ignore the noise. Then, when I look at myself (because, after all, what am I doing watching everyone else) I find I am doing all of those things (except playing peek-a-boo.)

Granted that I am not a charismatic, and don’t very much value emotional thrills, yet still I can’t help but think that if we stopped and thought, really thought what we were doing, it ought to make a difference in how we act at Mass. I should be worshipping like I mean it. That difference ought to be noticeable. I think of the worship of cloistered nuns or even the discipline of Buddhist monks. I doubt anyone watching Zen monks meditating (which is not even worship) would be inclined to doubt the sincerity, whatever their thoughts about the theology of it.

But then, this is really only a part of the question. If you are a person that God Himself invites to His table, if you are the person who has received Jesus in the Eucharist, that really ought to mean something for the rest of your life. And yet so many of us act as if we were just killing time at Mass, and only really come alive outside the church. Instead it should be the other way around. The protestant who comes to Mass might not recognize the depth and passion of a beautiful liturgy, and almost certainly will not recognize the Sacramental reality that takes place regardless of how beautiful or how sloppy the liturgy is. It is quite fair for them to complain about a “Lack of feeling” at Mass, but the witness of the rest of our lives should be an answer to them. Worship does not end when we leave church. The hidden interior joy we receive at Mass (sometimes whether we know it or not) should slowly bubble its way to the surface over the course of the day and the week, until it overflows in a good life, lived with excellence and fun and style. We should live every day as if Jesus came that we might have life and have it abundantly.

Because as it turns out, He did.