Gothic Art

Gothic art is said to originate with the Church of Saint Denis in Paris. Clearly, though, this Church represents only a kind of symbolic beginning, the true origin of the Gothic being impossible to pin down as it developed organically out of the Romanesque. In fact, the movement was so organic that it was only centuries after it replaced Romanesque as the preferred style across Europe (especially in the North and West) that it was even given a name. 16th-century Renaissance artists who sought a return to the more strictly Classical rejected the Gothic as a "barbaric" corruption of the "purity" of more Classical forms. The term "Gothic" is, then, retrospective and pejorative, being a reference to the violent Sack of Rome by the Gothic barbarians.

In one sense, these Renaissance artists were correct. Gothic is a kind of "corruption" of Classical purity and simplicity. The Gothic is, I would argue, a legitimate development of Classical art via the Romanesque. While similar development can be seen in all the artistic media, it's most clearly seen in the two styles' monumental architecture. For instance, let's compare these two arcades, one from the Pantheon in Rome, and one from Notre-Dame de Paris:

Both have columns with bases, shafts, and capitals, supporting an architrave and entablature with similar detailing, atop which sits a cornice. Even though in the former this all supports a pediment and in the latter the structure continues upward, the only significant difference between the two arcades is that in the Gothic example the columns can be skinnier, and in exchange more numerous, as a result of the arches which distribute the weight amongst them. (This is one of the ways in which Gothic architecture is able to feel so light and airy. By splitting the weight up amongst a larger number of thin columns, one prevents the heavy clunkiness of a small number of immense columns.)

Nevertheless, development though it is, it is true the Gothic accumulates and innovates forms which "corrupt" Classical purity. Let's look at a reconstruction of the Parthenon's facade verses that of Cologne Cathedral:

I've chosen the Parthenon specifically because it's of the Doric Order rather than the more ornate Ionic or Corinthian to illustrate my point more forcefully. Even though the proportions of the two buildings are similar, this may be hard to recognize simply because of all the decoration glued onto the Gothic facade. Where Classical architecture was largely content to leave its structure as it was, for the most part adding only what was necessary to hold the roof up in a beautiful and orderly manner, the Gothic feels compelled (almost obsessively) to slap on as much ornamentation as the underlying bones of the structure can hold up.

I said the Renaissance was right to call this development a corruption. The trouble is, the Renaissance was incorrect in rejecting it. What the Gothic did was take the Classical (and true) notions of form (function), beauty (proportion), and truth (honesty of construction), and capitalized on them to create something both imminently Classical. The Gothic "baptizes" the good in pagan art which was attained by human reason, by adding the supernatural, the heavenly, the grace of Christ. Gone is the reticent austerity of Classical architecture, a building can now be a Sacrament of Truth, a material vehicle for the transmission of God's Life to us.

By virtue of the God made Man, things which were formerly unreachable, purely spiritual realities, are now accessible in and through the material world. Wood, stone, and glass are no longer mere tools to hold a roof up, but great mysteries that point to God's participation in the World. Suddenly they contain within them, analogically, hints of Christ's ongoing interaction with us. A wooden beam now calls to mind the Wood on which hung the Savior of the World. A stone, the Rock on (or out of) which Christ builds his Church. Glass, the heroes of our faith, the saintly intercessors, through whom Heaven's Light falls on the faithful. A Church building can become, quite literally, Heaven on Earth:

Suffering & Death

I like The Walking Dead. I must admit I haven't read a frame of the graphic novel, to my shame. Nevertheless, the television version is absolutely wonderful. I completely disagree with all those who would suggest this season has serious flaws. While it hasn't been as good in general as the first season, I won't condemn the show outright simply for its lack of action or whatever else. For example, I think the second season has dealt with major underlying philosophical themes and moral issues a bit too transparently, but it's still dealing with them, which is more than can be said for most of what's on television.

In last week's episode, the group were saddled with a problem. Rick had previously rescued nobly an enemy outsider who was certain to die due to a serious injury. After he was patched up, the plan was to drive him, blindfolded, 18 miles out and leave him somewhere where he would have a fighting chance at survival in a world overrun with hungry, revivified corpses. Upon arrival, though, it was discovered that the prisoner was from the area and knew exactly where the group has been camped out. Worse than that, after interrogating him when they return, it comes out that he had aligned with a very large and powerful group with little to no problem with murder, rape, and the like. How does one solve this problem?

It's clear that the prisoner is a threat. He cannot be allowed to leave for fear he will turn them over to the other group. On the other hand, he can't stay. As much as he might promise to play by the rules, he can't ever be trusted. Ever. And it's not as if the group can spare the manpower it would take to keep him supervised 24 hours a day. Even then it's still too risky. He also can't be driven further out on account of the grave peril that would present to those doing the driving. Rick resolves with the unlikely support of Shane that the only solution is to execute him.

Dale, the oldest and (usually) wisest member of the group, protests immediately, arguing that a young man's life can't simply be thrown away without a second thought. The rest of the episode Dale travels all around the farm attempting to win over the rest of the group to no avail. At sunset the entire group convenes to discuss the final decision. Though Dale argues vehemently for the prisoner's life, the rest of the group are convinced that the only viable solution to the threat is the one already decided upon. Sarcastically, Dale asks if they'll all be watching the execution too, or if they'll all go hide themselves away and try to pretend nothing ever happened. Glen rightly points out that this is the first time that Dale has ever been wrong.

This is what the Catechism of the Catholic Church explains the teaching of the Church is about the death penalty, quoting the encyclical letter Evangelium vitae of Blessed Pope John Paul II:

Assuming that the guilty party's identity and responsibility have been fully determined, the traditional teaching of the Church does not exclude recourse to the death penalty, if this is the only possible way of effectively defending human lives against the unjust aggressor.

If, however, non-lethal means are sufficient to defend and protect people's safety from the aggressor, authority will limit itself to such means, as these are more in keeping with the concrete conditions of the common good and more in conformity to the dignity of the human person.

Today, in fact, as a consequence of the possibilities which the state has for effectively preventing crime, by rendering one who has committed an offense incapable of doing harm - without definitely taking away from him the possibility of redeeming himself - the cases in which the execution of the offender is an absolute necessity "are very rare, if not practically nonexistent," (Catechism 2267).

Unfortunately for the prisoner in this situation, it is absolutely necessary. There is no viable alternative. The threat must be dealt with in order for the group's continued safety to be guaranteed, and there is simply no other way to do this other than to execute the man who personifies that threat. Just like in war, if the only way that the society can be truly protected from another who means to do them harm is by his death, it must be done. But only as a last resort. This is not Divine Revelation, this is human reason.

On the other hand, Dale's sarcastic comment about the group watching was, I think, apt. While as far as I am aware there is no authoritative teaching on this issue, such an execution is the public act of the community. It is only fitting that they should witness it. It is on their behalf, and for their benefit after all. This is not morbid; it is just. As Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell put it: "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Shouldn't those on behalf of whom that man acts at least witness the death of the guilty party?

Essentially, this episode of The Walking Dead is just a rehashed court drama trying a case on the death penalty. While the majority of the characters in the show come down on the right side of the issue, it's clear the message the producers are trying to send: "Dale is the valiant lone wolf upholding justice against the others who have resorted to primitive savagery to solve their problems."

At the end of this same episode a character gets attacked and mortally wounded by a walker. In agonizing pain, with the rest of the group gathered around, they come to the hasty decision that he should be put out of his misery—euthanized, in other words. This certainly seems merciful. Why should a man be forced to go through unnecessary pain if it can be avoided? What possible reason could there be for allowing an innocent man to suffer? Aren't pain and death the most terrible things a human being can ever have to go through? If we can make it any easier, by all means, let's do it.

One major question has pervaded the entire second season of The Walking Dead: Is it the characters' job simply to survive at any cost? Or are there universal and everlasting principles of justice and morality which must be upheld even when the world has gone to hell? These two notions are championed by Rick and Shane respectively. In the first season Rick led an incredibly risky rescue mission to retrieve a man who had tried to kill him and seize power only hours before. What's more, he did this right after having been reunited with his wife and son against all hope. Early in the second season, Shane shot a man in the leg and left him to be eaten alive so he could get away. This was done in order that he could bring necessary medicine to Rick's dying son, but you know what they say about good intentions. These two characters have been butting heads over this issue constantly, and an outright fight is getting closer and closer to erupting.


If Rick is right, the group should do their best to uphold things like honor in spite of a world which will kill them no matter if they do or not. Worse than that, attempting to do so will put the group at substantially more risk than if they were follow Shane's advice and throw all morality to the wind and do whatever they had to to survive.

Here's the thing, though, if Shane is right, and there is no real morality or justice, and these are only ideas contrived by society for practical purposes, where does it end? The logical conclusion of such a position is that there are no principles except the survival of the fittest. What's to stop Shane from murdering Rick and taking his wife for his own (which he would very much like to do, by the way)? You get the idea. Without objective and universal principles, there can be no society, no community, no family.

"Why don't you take a look at your khal? Then you will

see exactly what life is worth when all the rest has gone."

Now, someone might say, so what? I don't need some kind of fuzzy "companionship" to survive. I just need my wits and a weapon or two. But here's where we get to the real heart of the issue. Practically speaking, Shane is right. One would probably survive significantly longer if he threw morality out the window and did whatever he needed to keep on living one more day. But would that extra day be worth living with the knowledge of what it took to obtain it? Without others in one's life to give it meaning and purpose? Without children to live on into the future on behalf of oneself and a wife with whom to make and raise them? The final episode of the first season of A Game of Thrones has an answer.

Suffering, and that most final and powerful of all pains, death are awful, awful things. They should certainly be avoided if at all possible. But it's not possible to avoid it all, is it? Certainly not death. The zombie apocalypse of The Walking Dead is really not substantially different from our own world. Pain and death are still inevitable realities of life, even if they are somewhat less prevalent and harsh this century. What then? Do we put an early end to someone's life simply so they can avoid some pain? Here again, where does it end? The logical conclusion of this principle is the right of anyone, anywhere to end their life whenever they choose because it has gotten too uncomfortable. Even aside from the question of justice or morality, is this good for a society? How long do you think it could survive with such a policy?

Don't get me wrong, the world is a rough place, full of all manner of nasty and uncomfortable things. But isn't the point to find the good in life in spite of all the bad? In a recent interview with The New York Times, Stephen Colbert was asked to comment on the tragic death of his father and two brothers and how that painful experience affected him. Here's what he had to say:

“I’m not bitter about what happened to me as a child, and my mother was instrumental in keeping me from being so. She taught me to be grateful for my life regardless of what that entailed, and that’s directly related to the image of Christ on the cross and the example of sacrifice that he gave us. What she taught me is that the deliverance God offers you from pain is not no pain—it’s that the pain is actually a gift. What’s the option? God doesn’t really give you another choice.”

A Catholic would say that pain is a gift because it makes us like Christ, because it unites us to his suffering on the Cross. It does this because, like Christ's suffering and death, pain can be redemptive if undergone sacrificially. Like Christ, I can convert my personal suffering into something redemptive for both others and myself. How? Like he did, I can suffer for them, and paradoxically, do myself good in the process. This does not mean one should go around seeking pain. It does mean that unavoidable pain which comes our way is an opportunity. An opportunity to give ourselves away. And receive more of ourselves that we started with in return.

Like suicide, euthanasia is evil in part because it robs people of this opportunity. More importantly, though, it is evil simply because it is wrong to end a person's life unnaturally, unless the greater good demands they be brought to justice for a heinous crime they have committed because no other solution can be found. The only reason it seems merciful to euthanize someone in the first place is because, as a culture, we have forgotten how to deal with suffering—by looking to the suffering God underwent on our behalf.

Why Red Letter Bibles Are Dumb

In 1901, Louis Klopsch published the first Bible in which those words "universally accepted as the utterances of our Lord and Saviour" were printed in red—the first "red letter Bible." They've been extremely popular ever since, especially amongst Protestants. Here's the problem with red letter bibles: nothing in the Bible is more or less important than anything else. It's all the Word of God, not just the stuff presented as quotations of Jesus.

Even though the Gospels are eyewitness accounts, and we believe the Apostles were given a special grace to be able to recall all of Jesus' teachings and recount them faithfully (cf. John 14:26), the Gospels aren't word-for-word, moment-by-moment, exact histories of what happened. The Gospels are history, yes, but the Apostles didn't conceive of history in the same way we do. I'm not suggesting that what they say happened didn't happen. I am saying that they're not, nor were they ever intended to be, perfectly factually accurate accounts with exact quotations.

To say that everything the Bible says is the Word of God and absolutely true is not to say that every part of it should be interpreted in the same way. Obviously the Gospels aren't the same kind of literature as 1 Corinthians or Revelation. Different books and sections of the Bible have to be interpreted in light of how they were intended to be read.

For example, when John says that angels in heaven are singing (cf. Rev. 5:8-13) he clearly doesn't mean that literally, because it's not possible. The angels are purely spiritual beings, they have no bodies. A being without vocal cords can't sing. What John is saying is something like: "the angels declare the glory of God and worship him." In order to get this idea across, he likens it to human songs of praise. In other words, it's a metaphor. It's still absolutely and undeniably true. But it's true metaphorically, not literally.

This principle must be extended out over the entirety of Scripture. The question is, How do we determine which parts should be interpreted in which way? Well, there are several answers. First, the Church, carrying on the Apostolic Witness to Christ, guided by the Holy Spirit is custodian to the truth of the Word of God, of which Scripture is the special, written testimony. Second, theologians determine how we must interpret particular passages of Scripture in light of what we know to be true about God and Christ. Third, bible scholars, archaeologists and the like are always coming up with new information about the people and times which produced Holy Scripture, giving us new insight into their culture and, as a result, literature.

To be sure, there are portions of Scripture which it's less crucial to read than others. Someone once suggested a new Christian read the New Testament twice before he ever read the Old Testament. Obviously, every last ceremonial precept in Leviticus and Deuteronomy don't need to be memorized to get the idea. Nevertheless, we ought not to treat the "words of Jesus" in the Gospels as exact quotations. Nor should we devalue the rest of Scripture as any less authoritative (when interpreted properly).

Heaven's Light: The Supernatural in Disney's Tangled, The End

Tangled ends with the unlikely hero Flynn dying on the floor, stabbed by the evil, sorceress step-mother in order that she may keep Rapunzel's regenerative powers from doing any one any good but herself. Rapunzel cuts a deal with her step-mother: she will submit to slavery if only she is allowed to heal her knight-in-shining-armor, which she proceeds to do despite Flynn's protest. In the end, Flynn sacrifices himself on behalf of Rapunzel's freedom, cutting all her hair short and robbing it of its healing magic. Rapunzel cradles her dead Beloved in her arms and sheds a tear:

Flynn knew that in order for his beloved to "have life, and have it abundantly" (Jn 10:10), he needed to give up his own. Yet, surprisingly, after he does so, at that moment when it seems all hope is lost, Rapunzel's tear falls on his cheek. Turns out they too carry the "light of the Sun" and Flynn is healed.

September 14th is the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. This is followed immediately by September 15th's feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. When the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph went to the Temple, as was the custom, to present the child Jesus to Simeon the High Priest, he prophesied Jesus' death on the Cross. In the same breath he said to Mary, "A sword will pierce through your own soul also," (Lk 2:35).

There is a parallel being drawn here between Christ's sufferings on the Cross and Mary's at his feet. As Christ's "soul" was pierced by Longinus' spear, so his Mother's soul would be pierced in sorrow as she stood at her dying son's feet. Of course a mother would grieve for her son dying in horrible pain, but does this passage point to something else as well?

Recently we took a look at rood screens and their place in traditional ecclesial architecture. What we didn't talk about is why they're called rood screens. Atop a great many of these screens or beams stands the Rood, Old English for cross. Inevitably, under the cross on either side stand Our Lady and John, the Beloved Disciple:

It is significant that it is John specifically, continually referred to as "the disciple whom Jesus loves" that stands at the foot of the Cross with Our Lady and his Mother. Of course, God loves all his children, but, as Jesus himself said, "Not every one who says to me, 'Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of Heaven, but he who does the will of my Father," (Mt. 7:21). But what is the will of the Father? St. Paul tells us that "we are children of God, and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him," (Rom. 8:16-17).

In other words, our salvation is dependent on our suffering like Christ: humbly, lovingly, and on behalf of others. St. Peter tells us that "one is approved if, mindful of God, he endures pain while suffering unjustly," (1 Pet. 2:19). Like John, if we are to be faithful and "beloved" servants of Christ, we must stand with him in his agony. We must live a life of humility and suffering as he did.

Amazingly, though, according to Paul, our suffering can do even more good than just getting ourselves into heaven: "I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake, and in my flesh I complete what is lacking in Christ's afflictions for the sake of his body, the church," (Col. 1:24).

Wait a second. Did he just say what I think he said? How can it be that "Christ's afflictions" on our behalf "lack" anything? Of course, strictly speaking, they don't. Christ's sacrifice was all-sufficient. What, then, could St. Paul mean?

What is lacking in Christ's afflictions is the application of his grace to the individual. Christ's death on the Cross redeemed the world, it didn't save it. In other words, Christ did everything necessary for it to be possible for us to be reunited with God, but it is up to us whether we will take advantage of the redemption he offers or not. St. Paul is telling us how to do that: be like Christ, humbly submit ourselves to the pain the world has to dole out, unite our sufferings to his, and so become true Christians, or "little Christs."

In this way, we participate in Christ's redemption of the world. Not adding anything, for one cannot add to something infinite. One can, however, cooperate with it. The love and suffering of the Church makes Christ's sacrifice effective in the world, just as Rapunzel's sadness brought about the happiness Flynn's sacrifice had made possible.

If, by our suffering, we can cooperate with Christ in the salvation of the world, surely the Blessed Mother, forced to witness the brutal death of her sinless, divine Son, should be the preeminent cooperator. This is what Simeon prophesied, and why Catholics name her Coredemptrix.

Why should Rapunzel's tears make her Beloved well again? Why should suffering heal? How is it that our suffering and, primarily, that of our Blessed Mother can work good in the world? Because it makes us like Christ. When we suffer willingly and in a good spirit, not seeking it out, but accepting it when it comes (and it will come), we hang ourselves on the Cross with Christ, which is exactly what he told us to do: "Take up your Cross and follow me," (Mk. 8:34). Thanks be to God, "as we share abundantly in Christ's sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too," (2 Cor. 1:5).

Of Rood Screens

The chancel screen at Westminster Abbey. It might say

something about the state of the Church of England that

they erect a temporary altar here and cut the church in half

so it doesn't seem so cavernous when no one shows up.

In a great many churches there is a screen, or at least a beam, dividing the nave (where the people do their thing) from the chancel (where the ministers do their thing). A lot of the time this screen is all the average parishioner would be able to see. At King's College Cambridge the rood screen is actually a wall 6 feet thick. You may have noticed at the Royal Wedding that the screen at Westminster Abbey is so thick one passes under it via tunnel and the orchestra camp out on top. It even has a gate in it.

There is something to be said for this separation of the average Joe from the most sacred action being performed up front. Wait a second, you might say, isn't it important for all of us to see what's going on and be a part of it? Isn't Church all about coming together and being a community? Doesn't "liturgy" mean "work of the people"? Yes, but that is exactly what it means: work of the people, not you, or me, or anybody else considered singly. Worship is the eternal work of God's People, the Church Universal, enacted here and now by her ministers, not us.

We laypersons play a part in this action of worship, but in a very different way. We are participants insofar as we are members of the Universal Church, and it is the action of the Church which is being undertaken. In other words, our participation in the worship of the Church doesn't depend on us doing anything; it depends on us being something: namely, a baptized Christian. The sacred ministers, on the other hand, (those in Holy Orders) are they that actually perform the work, if only on behalf of all of us (the Church on earth and in heaven). Nevertheless, it is only they which can do so, never us, for they are the only ones who, by virtue of their Ordinations, have been given the ability to stand on behalf of the Church Universal. I can only act as an individual.

This is why the Sacrament of Holy Orders has the name it does. Because by bestowing on individual men the ability to act on behalf of the whole Church, it creates order out of chaos. And that is how St. Paul tells us we must worship: "decently and in order," (1 Cor. 14:40).

UPDATE: Great Commentary On Papal Infallibility

À la the last post's dealings with the Catholic doctrine of Papal Infallibility, I highly recommend The Sacred Page's running treatment of the subject:

Part 1

Part 2

Head on over and check it out. It's simple, thoughtful, and concise.

UPDATE: Part 2a and Part 3 have been added recently.

Heaven's Light: The Supernatural In Disney's Tangled - The Beginning

So, turns out the Disney Film Rankings need to be updated a bit. Tangled is definitely Top 10. I'm gonna go ahead and put it in between Peter Pan and 101 Dalmatians. Yeah, #5. It's that good.

The first thing I have to say is "Wow!" It's kitschy, I know, but really. I'm not the first person to talk about Disney Magic, but it really is apt here, seeing as Tangled is the first Disney film since The Lion King to have it. Hunchback, Mulan, and Tarzan come close, but they don't quite get there. Mulan and Tarzan try and fail by being derivative, and Hunchback, while suffering from some of the same issues, fails in the end by being quite unlike any other Disney film.

So far, most of the features which have had that magical quality have done so on account of their romance, by which I mean to refer to the genre of Medieval, Renaissance (and, later, Romantic) literature and NOT contemporary "romance" novels. The classic fairy tales on which many of the great Disney films are based can themselves be considered more or less great romances: Beauty and the Beast, Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Little Mermaid, and, finally, Rapunzel.

Though the specific works from which Disney draws its material are individually more or less directly connected to these Medieval and Renaissance tales, all of them can trace their lineage, at least stylistically, to these works. It is the Medieval romances which are responsible for our (rapidly disappearing) cultural association of the Middle Ages with daring knights, evil witches, and damsels in distress; or, to quote Belle, "far off places, daring sword fights, a prince in disguise!" Through revivals in the Renaissance and the Romantic Age the specific form of the romance shifted quite drastically, several important elements remained the same.

The most important of these is a preoccupation with the supernatural and fantastical. The Middle Ages lived in a world alive with divine and demonic power, in a world where otherworldly forces intervened regularly, pulling Mankind back and forth between Heaven and Hell. What we consider "fantastical" was not at all so for them. It was simply life. There is something to be learned from this perspective.

Tangled begins when a drop of sunlight falls from the sky and enchants a flower with endless healing powers. This flower is later used to heal Rapunzel's mother in order that she may successfully deliver Rapunzel, who then inherits the flower's abilities. Whenever a special song is sung, Rapunzel's hair begins to glow with sunlight and heals anything it touches.

There was once another Woman who received a drop of Son-light (sorry) and was henceforth granted the ability to heal all she touches: "And a great portent appeared in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars. ...She brought forth a male child, one who is to rule all the nations with a rod of iron." (Rev. 12:1,5). This "woman" may be interpreted as the nation of Israel, from whom Christ the Physician issued:

"Surely he has born our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that made us whole, and with he stripes we are healed," (Isa. 53:4-5).

The Incarnation is the single greatest event in history. God, perfect Love and Being itself, descended from Heaven like a drop of light, and became Man, taking a body like ours. This body was that of an Israelite, fulfilling the Old Testament prophecy that Israel would become "blessed above all peoples," (Deut. 7:14).

But, the redemption Christ brought is not just one of ideas and abstract principles, it must be a bodily one as well, for we are persons composed of body and soul. As such, Christ took a body, and by it, he heals our bodies, along with our souls, if only at the end of time when all shall be brought to glory as his body was at Easter.

The Woman can also be the Virgin Mother, whose God-given virtue allowed her to become the very vessel of redemption and grace:

"My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has regarded the low estate of his handmaiden. For behold, henceforth all generation will call me lessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name," (Lk. 1:46-49).

It is through the Blessed Virgin that Christ's spiritual and bodily health was made able to come to us. As Catholics, we believe our Blessed Mother sits at the right hand of her Divine son in Heaven, interceding to him on our behalf, raining showers of love and grace down on us all the time. It was us to whom Christ was speaking when he uttered these last words upon the Cross, "Behold, your mother!" (Jn. 19:27).

She may also be the Bride of Christ, the Church, within whom Christ resides, and thereby grants the ability to transmit his healing grace to the world:

"Jesus said to [the disciples], 'Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.' And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said to them, 'Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained,'" (Jn. 20:21-23).

Evangelism: A Linguistic Approach

Our word "evangelism" entered into the language in the early 17th century, coming ultimately from the Latin evangelium (Gk. evangelion), meaning "gospel." "Gospel" itself comes from Old English godspel, from god "good" + spell "story, message;" i.e., "good news."

But what is the "good news" that we have heard? When the Magi arrived at the Epiphany, representatives of the Gentile world, what was the gospel that they received? Was it a set of ideas, a system of moral and theological principles to which they were now bound to ascribe? No. It was a person, the arrival of the true God-Man. To be sure, his arrival necessarily refers to a set of ideas and theological principles. Nevertheless, these are not primary. These flow from who he is, not the other way around.

If evangelism is sharing this Gospel with others, how, then, are we to go about it? Blessed Cardinal Newman distinguished two types of conversion: intellectual conversion and "real" conversion. Intellectual conversion is the simple fact of accepting Christianity as true according to the dictates of logic and reason. This is necessary and related to "real" conversion, but it is not its essence. Real conversion is imaginal, meaning, to be really converted to Christ does not primarily mean accepting the theology. It involves this, but primarily it means the submission of one's very self to Christ, body and soul, so that one lives and breathes the Truth, quite literally seeing it in the world around oneself all the time.

This is exactly what the Catholic Church professes to do. By means of the operation of the Saints, the Sacraments, the Church itself, and the Holy Spirit the Church brings Christ himself to us continually. Our Lord even uses the Church to come to us in his very flesh. It is this Personhood of Christ, transmitted through the Church that we are called to bring to the world. This is why after Communion Mass wraps up fairly quickly. The Church is encouraging us to take what we've received, to take Christ himself: body, blood, soul, and divinity, out into the world without delay or hesitation. And this means a life lived in love (caritas), and loving sacrifice, even unto death.

Our first, most fundamental, and most important task when it comes to sharing the Gospel is living Christ in this way, so that we become conduits of not only the intellectual principles of Christianity, but the Truth himself. We must unite ourselves to him and his life so completely that others see him through us, as we live a life of love, service, and sacrifice.

To be sure, we must "always be prepared to make a defense to any one who calls [us] to account for the hope that is in [us]," (1 Pet. 3:15). But it is the Person of Christ which we are to transmit primarily. In other words, we are not called to argue people into the Church, but to love them into it. After all, that's how he goes about it.

The Top Ten Creatures I Can't Buy A Good God Created, Part Two

The world isn't the way it's supposed to be. Let's look at childbirth by way of example. The first commandment God gave us, way back in Gen. 1:22 was to "be fruitful and multiply." We should remember that God's commandments are not arbitrary. That is to say, moral imperatives are not dictated down from on high for no reason. On the contrary, morality stems from Nature and Being itself. In other words, when Scripture tells us God has commanded us to do something, it is not because that's what God wants, it's because that's what God is, or because that's what we are.

It is of God's very essence (and therefore ours as well) to bring forth life. This is why doing so is an explicit commandment in Scripture. This idea is perfectly consonant with what modern science tells us. Procreation is the earliest and most fundamental aim of evolutionary development, the most basic reason for our existence. The pagan philosopher Aristotle said the same thing almost 2400 years ago when he named the propagation of the species as the ultimate telos (end, goal) toward which all life tends. All of this is to say that, if the world were the way it was supposed to be, childbirth would be the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Unfortunately, like so many other things, it's one of the biggest struggles in life: "in pain you shall bring forth children," (Gen. 3:16).

But it wasn't just humanity that was harmed by our sin: "cursed is the ground because of you; in toil you shall eat of it all the days of your life," (Gen. 3:17). For example:

the star-nosed mole,

this mutant dog thing,

possums,

and cat lady. Messed up as they are, as mammals (and marsupials), this group of horrifying creatures (along with those we saw in Part One) are actually the least horrifying of all.

After God finished his work of creation, he entrusted all of it to Man: "Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth," (Gen. 1:26).

Much has been made of the word "dominion." What the Hebrew writers of this passage would have meant, and what Western Christians would have understood it to mean until relatively recently, was not a "master/slave" relationship but something more like a "husband/wife" relationship. St. Paul explains Christian marriage in a similar fashion, saying, "Wives, be subject to your husbands," (Eph. 5:22). Of course, he balances this verse with the complementary commandment to husbands, "Husbands, love your wives, as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her," (Eph. 5:25). The relationship is one of self-gift, each living for the other. In the same way, Man is lord of creation in the same way Christ is Lord of us, by sacrificing himself for it. It is a lordship of love and self-gift, our "dominion" is that of the servant, the caretaker, the Lover.

As Man fell, so fell the World. Our sin could not help but affect our most intimate companion, Nature itself. Scripture confirms this when it prophesies that the New Creation will be quite different from the one we currently inhabit:

"The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them. The cow and the bear shall feed; their young shall lie down together; and the lion shall eat straw like the ox. The sucking child shall play over the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the adder's den. They shall not hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain; for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord," (Isa. 11:6-9).

If the recreated order after the Parousia is perfect, and in it lions don't eat antelope, it must not be perfect for lions to eat antelope. We saw last post that all this ugliness can't have come from God. Where, then, did it come from? Us. By our sin, evil entered the world and corrupted the operation of Nature. Suddenly only the fittest can survive and things with fangs and claws and venom start popping up. But wait, the fossil record teaches us that fangs, claws, and venom predate Man. It turns out, then, that we just complicated matters and death and destruction entered into the world another way.

Stay tuned.

UPDATE: Part Three to be found here.

One Night Only

For those in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, a special seminar presented by The Walsingham Society. It's the last in a series on the Anglican Patrimony and will focus on C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, the other Inklings and Anglicanism in the 20th century.

Tonight, Tuesday, 6 September 2011 at 7:00pm

Church of the Holy Cross, Dallas

Click for Map

Great Commentary On Papal Infallibility

À la the last post's dealings with the Catholic doctrine of Papal Infallibility, I highly recommend The Sacred Page's running treatment of the subject:

Part One

Part Two

Head on over and check it out. It's simple, thoughtful, and concise.

Why Natural Family Planning Isn't Contraception

There are those who would suggest that Natural Family Planning (NFP) is really just Catholic contraception. A loophole by which the Popes can avoid the ridiculous number of babies without having to embarrass themselves and admit they were wrong.

Yes, that is the Pope in a Santa hat.

One of the most common points of misunderstanding when it comes to Catholic doctrine is that of Papal Infallibility. Contrary to popular belief Papal Infallibility does not mean that whatever the Pope says might as well issue from the mouth of God. In fact, the Pope is only infallible when he solemnly proclaims something which the Church has always believed to be true. That is to say, it is primarily the Church (as present in Scripture and Tradition) which is infallible, the Pope is only infallible insofar as he operates as the Church's spokesman, which he is empowered to do by virtue of his office. In other words, the Church has always believed and taught that contraception is objectively evil. The Pope can no more overturn this teaching than he could proclaim that Jesus is no longer the Second Person of the Trinity.

Why, then, does NFP not qualify as contraception? After all, used correctly, it's just as effective in preventing pregnancy as the pill (99%) and more effective than condoms. In order to answer this question it will be necessary to examine the Church's rationale for outlawing contraception in the first place.

Holy Matrimony, the sacramental union of a man and woman with one another, is one of the most sacred institutions there is. Scripture itself teaches us that this is so because Christian Marriage symbolizes "the union that is betwixt Christ and his Church," to quote the English Prayer Book. Like the union of Christ with his Church, the marital union is always in effect. There are, however, regular occasions of special solemnity at which the union is consummated in a special way. For the Church it is the Holy Eucharist, which the Book of Revelation refers to as the Marriage Supper of the Lamb (Rev. 19:9). It is at the Eucharist that Christ and the Church come together in love. This is one of the reasons why in many churches there is a canopy over the altar:

The baldacchino at Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome.

It is the canopy over the marriage bed upon which Christ and his Beloved consummate their union.

Contraception hinders the completeness of the union between husband and wife. Certain types of contraception put up a physical barrier between their union. Others put up a chemical barrier. When contraception is used, it is as if the husband and wife are saying to one another, "I love you. I want to be one with you, just, not completely. I'm gonna hold this piece of myself back from you, because it's inconvenient."

The loving union between husband and wife is meant to result in a new life (cf. Gen. 1:22). If you think about it, this makes all the sense in the world. It is the union of Christ with his Church that brings new life to the world, for that is what grace is, new life: "If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation," (2 Cor. 5:17). Due to the natural cycles of fertility and infertility the marital embrace will not always result in conception. This is really beside the point. The Church doesn't say that marriage should only be consummated with the express intent to conceive. It does say that the couple must be open to life, which is to say, marriage shouldn't be done halfway. You've gotta mean it.

The substantive difference between NFP and contraception is NFP doesn't throw up a barrier between husband and wife. While capitalizing on the natural cycles of fertility and infertility in order to run the family responsibly, it still allows for the complete union, body and soul, of man and woman to be enacted.

The Mountain Goats’ "Sax Rohmer #1" As Tragedy

Around the middle of the last century, T.S. Eliot and C.S. Lewis found themselves on opposite sides of an important literary debate. Lewis thought that the matter of Modern and post-Modern Literature was inherently flawed. That is to say, he was convinced that no literary device, conceit, or convention was worth it's salt unless it preceded 1517. (This position is analogous to that of many hyper-Traditionalists as regards the Liturgy and Duncan Stroik as regards ecclesiastical architecture.) Eliot on the other hand saw nothing wrong with adopting the style of Modernity, as illustrated by his plays and poetry. Why should these materials, this style be any less capable of incarnating reality than the older? Eliot himself proved his hypothesis to be correct, and it is largely as a result of his literary corpus that I agree with him.

A particular style is relatively arbitrary when it comes to a work of art. That is to say, a particular work of art could utilize any, so long as it appropriately incarnates the vision of the artist. Pop music is no exception. There is no reason at all why it should not be possible to produce art in this style. In an effort to show that it is possible and has, in fact, already been accomplished many times over, here beginneth a new feature here at PopSophia: Tunesday (awful, I know), in which I shall endeavor to feature relatively contemporary music which I believe attains to the level of art.

To start then, a song from The Mountain Goats' album Heretic Pride. The full lyrics are included below the embedded mp3. I suggest reading along as you listen. Here's the direct link to the music video in case the audio doesn't work for some reason.

Fog lifts from the harbor, dawn goes down to day
An agent crests the shadows of the nearby alleyway
Piles of broken bricks, sign posts on the path
Every moment points toward the aftermath
Yeah

Sailors straggle back from their nights out on the town
Hopeless urchins from the city gather round
Spies from imperial China wash in with the tide
Every battle heads to war, surrender on both sides

And I am coming home to you
With my own blood in my mouth
And I am coming to you
If it’s the last thing that I do

Elves move in the tower, wolves howl in the hills
Chalk marks show up on a few high windowsills
And a rabbit gives up somewhere, and a dozen hawks descend
Every moment leads toward its own sad end
Yeah

Ships loosed from their moorings capsize and then they’re gone
Sailors with no captains watch awhile and then move on
And an agent crests the shadows and I head in her direction
 All roads lead toward the same blocked intersection

I am coming home to you
With my own blood in my mouth
And I am coming to you
If it's the last thing that I do

As expounded eloquently by Dustin Hoffman's character in Stranger Than Fiction, if Tragedy were reducible to one fundamental element it would be death. Death as inescapable. “Every moment leads toward its own sad end.” In Tragedy time always seems to be running out. It presses on the protagonist, reminding him there’s only so much left. The Tragic protagonist is pursued relentlessly be the agents of death and damnation. The entire song encapsulates this feeling of impending doom: “Piles of broken bricks, sign posts on the path / Every moment points toward the aftermath.” Enemies are everywhere. “Agents” and “spies” always upon us. Nature itself seems evil and unhinged, turning on itself and the protagonist with ferocity: “Elves move in the tower, wolves howl in the hills / . . . And a rabbit gives up somewhere, and a dozen hawks descend.” Life becomes but a horridly painful struggle. There is no grace, no mercy, no salvation: “Every battle heads to war.” Even more than that, the song speaks to this struggle’s Tragic futility. Ships are engulfed while leaderless sailors watch and do nothing. No one cares about anything or anyone else because there is no meaning. “All roads lead toward the same blocked intersection.” There is no right choice. No matter what I do, I end up gone, swallowed by the Abyss closing in around me. Soon I will be done for. For what? Nothingness awaits me in this life and the next.

Why, then, would anyone still fight? Why not just commit suicide and be done with it if there's no point to anything and it's all going to end up in death anyway. The refrain offers a glimmer of hope—the person waiting at home. To get back to her. It’s going to cost me dearly—blood at least, if not my life. But there’s nothing left to try for except to get back to her. She is Cordelia to my Lear, Antigone to my Oedipus (see Oedipus at Colonus), there to wrest me out of the arms of Nothingness. She is the one agent of grace left in the world, the only chance to make something of life. And death. To give it meaning and purpose. To make the fighting, the suffering, the humiliation that is life count for something. She is the Beloved of Scripture and countless lyrics. She is the Church, the Bride for which Our Lord lived our wretched life and died our wretched death, thereby making it possible for our life and our death to become a participation in the Divine life and death.

Tale As Old As Time

All works of art, no matter what the medium, are at the same time both new and old, both novel and traditional. As William Faulkner put it in his speech upon accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1950, one of the artist’s primary tasks is to “[leave] no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed.” All artists ever do is tell a very old story in a new way—for a new time and place. Drawing on their own particular experience of the world, artists retell “the old universal truths” insofar as they have experienced them. To use Michael Oakeshott’s term, artists “re-create” the world and the human condition according to their own experience of it, and insodoing, they give life to and delineate the eternal principles of Truth underlying all that exists.

In his essay Tradition and the Individual Talent, T.S. Eliot called this simultaenous perception in the artist of both the universal past and his own particular present the “historical sense.” “The historical sense compels a man to write not merely with his own generation in his bones, but with a feeling that the whole of the literature of Europe from Homer and within it the whole of the literature of his own country has a simultaneous existence and composes a simultaneous order. This historical sense, which is a sense of the timeless as well as of the temporal and of the timeless and of the temporal together, is what makes a writer traditional. And it is at the same time what makes a writer most acutely conscious of his place in time, of his own contemporaneity.”

This is the principle which Joseph Campbell picks up on in his work in comparative my-thology. All myths, all great stories are really just different cultures’ takes on the same fundamental ideas and principles. All stories have their foundation in the same basic human experiences, thoughts, and desires. More than that, they have their foundation in the same truths of the world in which we live. That is what artists do, tell very old stories with new characters and new imagery based on their own personal experience of the world. That is what they must do, for art re-creates the world, and the truth in the world never changes, it merely takes on new shapes and faces.

Take for instance one of Campbell’s own favorite myths—the heroic journey. All heroes follow the same simple pattern: Battle, Journey, Homecoming. Though the pattern expresses itself differently across different times and cultures, nevertheless the pattern remains the same. Let’s look at a few specific examples:

Odysseus cleansing his house of the suitors.

Odysseus left his home, wife Penelope, and son Telemachus in Ithaca for ten years to fight in the Trojan War. After his victory, he had to travel another ten years in order to reach home. The point of this journey was that the hero should learn how to leave the Battle behind and prepare the way for a life of peace. Upon returning home, Odysseus finds his house overrun with potential usurpers. He applies the things he learned on his journey to the cleansing of his house, setting it in order once and for all.

In The Divine Comedy, Dante must fight his way through Hell, literally. He must then journey up Mount Purgatory, being purified more and more along the way, allowing himself to be prepared for his eventual homecoming in Paradise, in which he is granted the vision of God himself.

Christ our Savior came down from Heaven to do Battle against Sin by dying on the cross, even to the point of descending into Hell. Like Odysseus, Christ waits in order that the victory he won may be perfectly applied to his Body the Church through his heroic patronage, until the time is right for him to return and set his house in order once and for all.

Like every element of art and literature, this heroic pattern contains inherant within it implications and meanings beyond a simple tale being told. This is not to say that the any work of art proposes to send an explicit message. If that were the case it would be mere propaganda. That being said, by virtue of the truth that lies in its characters and events, it can be more than just characters and events. These characters and events, insofar as they are representative of larger truths and realities, are able to signify them, stand for them, personify and incarnate them.

In this case of the heroic journey, we can draw an analogy to the general experience of Mankind. All men must fight their own Battle for the principles of Truth, Jusice, and Honor. All men must endeavor on the Journey to bring the victory home, work to restore order to their sphere of influence. And it is the Homecoming, the setting into Order of our household for which we fight, and for which we hope. By extension from this analogy, we are all called to be heroes, in our own specific times and places—we are all called to live a heroic life, especially in those mundane things which occupy everyday existence. We must fight for Truth, Justice, and Beauty, sacrifice our lives to the principles which are greater than us, and the people whom we love. More than just being true for us men, however, we have seen how this heroic journey is true universally and eternally by virtue of the Christ having lived it out himself.

It turns out, then, that his is the Truth that poets, painters, composers, and authors have been recreating over and over again throughout history, bringing it to us in new ways, for new times and new peoples. Insofar as any character (fictional or real) is heroic, then, he is Christ-like, and the title of an old film about his life seems all the more apt—The Greatest Story Ever Told.

The Fundamental Problem With The DC Comics Reboot

Article first published as "The Fundamental Problem With The DC Comics Reboot" on Technorati.

Many good points have been raised both for and against the upcoming massive, universe-wide reboot. If you ask me, I think the Cons far outweigh the Pros (see this article from ComicBookMovie.com), but that’s really beside the point. A reboot like this hits at the heart of what comic book superheroes are.

As soon as superhero comics started catching on in the 1930s, they began to carve out their place in the American mythos. To put it simply, more than anything else, they are our heroes. They are beginning to occupy a place much like that which Achilles, Odysseus, Ajax, Hercules, and all the rest did in Ancient Greece. That Greek literary tradition developed gradually and organically over many hundreds and thousands of years, being retold again and again from generation to generation. Over time the stories and characters were reshaped many times, refined, tested by the ages, and perfected into those we have today. This process is admittedly ugly, time-consuming, and, at times, confusing. It might seem like a much better idea to simply start from scratch and make up the whole thing at once, start to finish. It would certainly all be much more coherent and cohesive, but the authenticity gets lost in the process. No one person or small group of people can accurately represent the mindset of an entire people. This is to say nothing of losing the organic and fluid nature of the traditional method, which allows the characters and ideas to be honed and polished, at the same time that it fosters novelty and creativity.

Stupid - Image courtesy of ComicBookMovie.com

It was in the 80s that superhero comics finally grew out of their infancy and proved that they could make their mark as a legitimate art form. Usually this level of quality and substance is not achieved except by a graphic novel or limited series, but that is not to discount the value in the ongoing continuity. Frank Miller’s work in Batman: Year One or The Dark Knight Returns could be considered analogous to that Homer did when he adapted the historic and noble tradition of Greek history and mythology into his own, stand-alone work of art. The Iliad and The Odyssey don’t displace the entire Greek literary tradition, they merely augment it.

In his Essay on the Development of Doctrine, Blessed John Henry Newman expounds the Christian position on how it is that doctrine develops over time. He explains that “when an idea...is of a nature to arrest and possess the mind, it may be said to have life, that is, to live in the mind which is its recipient. ...When some great enunciation, whether true or false, about human nature...is carried forward into the public throng of men and draws attention, then it is not merely received passively in this or that form into many minds, but it becomes an active principle within them, leading them to an ever-new contemplation of itself....” That is to say that influential new ideas and doctrines (like those proposed by early Christianity) do not lie dormant over time. Instead, they take on a new life within those who contemplate them. “At first men will not fully realize what it is that moves them, and will express and explain themselves inadequately.” In the beginning, a new idea will be poorly and incompletely understood. All new ideas have implications beyond their explicit original content. Over time “new lights will be brought to bear upon the original statements of the doctrine put forward; judgments and aspects will accumulate. ...Thus in time it will have grown into [a body of thought].” Experience, knowledge, and wisdom originally exterior to a new idea will, over time, be compared against it.

Throughout this process the idea grows and flourishes into its full self. The body of thought produced has not added anything which the explicit original content of the idea did not contain implicitly and in germinal form. “This body of thought, thus laboriously gained, will after all be little more than the proper representative of one idea, being in substance what that idea meant from the first, its complete image as seen in a combination of diversified aspects, with the suggestions and corrections of many minds, and the illustration of many experiences.” In other words, the body of Catholic dogma as it exists today is in fact no more than that which was there implicitly from the beginning having been fleshed out to a greater degree and with more clarity “through the contemplation and study of believers who ponder these things in their hearts.” Authentic development is not addition or subtraction, but “the germination and maturation of some truth or apparent truth on a large mental field.”

While Newman treated of this principle of development especially as it pertains to doctrine and theology, he does not limit its sphere of application to these only. On the contrary, the same can be said of many things, including a body of literary and mythological tradition.

The fundamental problem with the DC reboot is that it attempts to do exactly what Descartes set out to—rewrite the whole of Philosophy (or in this case, the American mythology) singlehandedly. Insodoing, DC is turning its back on almost a century of tradition, of natural and organic growth and development, of progress and refinement, not to mention its own fans. Insodoing, DC has caused countless hours of artists’ sweat and toil to count for nothing, and, more than that, DC has cheapened its comics’ appeal, quality, even their very nature.

Talk On The Anglican Patrimony

The Walsingham Society has uploaded the audio from a talk they hosted a couple of days ago. It was the first in a series of four on the topic of the "Anglican Patrimony."

Mosey on over to their iTunes store and download it for free.

Can't get a better deal than that.

Where Do We Go When We Die?

"Now if Christ is preached as raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised; if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain. We are even found to be misrepresenting God, because we testified of God that he raised Christ, whom he did not raise if it is true that the dead are not raised. For if the dead are not raised, then Christ has not been raised. If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished," (1 Cor. 15:12-18).

Fr. Tim Finigan over at The Hermeneutic of Continuity has an excellent post on the way many have come to treat death these days.

I knew a priest who told me a story once about when his father died. At the burial service, a family friend approached him and asked if he "knew where his father was," to which the priest responded, quite simply, "Yes, he's there in the ground."

In his work Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis famously said that "we don't have souls. We are souls. We have bodies." This is simply mistaken. We are neither our souls nor our bodies. Angels are souls, "spirits," if you prefer. And rocks are bodies. We are neither. We are humans. Composite beings composed of two principles, one material, one immaterial--a body and a soul. Each is equally important, intimately bound up with the other, and dependent upon it.

At death, our souls are separated from our bodies. This is an unnatural event. It should not occur. Our souls are not designed to exist outside our bodies. The only reason it is possible is due to the grace of God. In a very real sense, then, when we die, that is us there in the ground. Of course, it is also us that goes, God willing, to be in Heaven. This lasting connection is why we mark graves, erect shrines, and venerate relics.

This is why death is both a time to grieve, and a time to take solace in the hope we have in Christ and his Church. Our loved one is dead. His body, his self, has died. Each death we experience throughout our lives is a reminder of our own death to come, and that the days we have been given to "work out [our] own salvation with fear and trembling" grow ever shorter, (Phil. 2:12).

Nevertheless, after death, by the grace of God, our souls continue to exist. More than that, we believe that one day this event will be undone. Our bodies will be resurrected from the ground and reunited with our souls as Christ's was on that Easter morning 2011 years ago (or so).