June 8-10: Impetration, Albert Einstein, Rare Steak

Merton makes the right choice by accident . . . 

It was no longer possible to consider myself, abstractly, as being in a certain “state of life” which had special technical relations to other “states of life.” All that occupied me now was the immediate practical problem of getting up my hill with this terrific burden I had on my shoulders, step by step, begging God to drag me along and get me away from my enemies and from those who were trying to destroy me. 

I did not even reflect how the Breviary, the Canonical Office, was the most powerful and effective prayer I could possibly have chosen, since it is the prayer of the whole Church, and concentrates in itself all the power of the Church’s impetration, centered around the infinitely mighty Sacrifice of the Mass—the jewel of which the rest of the Liturgy is the setting: the soul which is the life of the whole Liturgy and of all the Sacramentals. All this was beyond me, although I grasped it at least obscurely. All I knew was that I needed to say the Breviary, and say it every day. 

Buying those books at Benziger’s that day was one of the best things I ever did in my life. The inspiration to do it was a very great grace. There are few things I can remember that give me more joy.

Had to look up the definition of "impetration."  I've been a lifelong Catholic, and, for some reason, I have never heard that term.  To "impetrate" means to beseech or entreat.  According to catholicculture.org, "impetration" is "[o]ne of the fruits of prayer and good works, especially one of the four ends of the Eucharistic Sacrifice. Impetration with right disposition and the fulfillment of prescribed conditions invariably obtains from God what is asked of him, provided it is to our spiritual advantage. It is ensured petition. (Etym. Latin impetratio, the action of procuring or obtaining by request or entreaty.)"

Basically, impetration is answered prayer.  Of course, answered prayer comes with conditions.  It requires the right "disposition," which means that you can't be praying that someone catches COVID or that Donald Trump goes to prison (although, I think there would be something pretty divine about that).  No, in order to have the right disposition, what you are asking for has to be pure, unselfish, and for the greater good of the universe.  (Again, Donald Trump going to prison seems to fit the bill, but I'm not God.)  

So, praying that a loved one who is seriously ill undergoes healing seems to fall in this spiritual spreadsheet.  However, there is the caveat:  ". . . provided it is to our spiritual advantage."  That means that the impetration mustn't harm us spiritually in any way.  Perhaps there is a reason for a loved one to suffer or be taken away.  Don't ask me to explain that part of the deal.

When my sister was diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain, I asked God to heal her.  Impetrated.  I did that a lot.  My sister never jumped out of her bed to do a "I am healed" dance.  Instead, she got sicker and sicker until she passed away.  Even now, almost six years later, I'm still trying to understand the divine plan in her death.  My family sort of fell apart after she was gone, and we're still picking up the pieces.  All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this Humpty together again.

Of course, I'm trying to understand the mind of God here.  (Does God have a mind?  That's the subject of another blog.)  There is no way really to do that.  To understand the mind of God means you can see the past, present, and future all at once.  The "big picture," so to speak.  Even saints lack that ability.  Saints are human, and human beings have a limited capacity for understanding.  Some humans have much greater understanding than others, but even Albert Einstein didn't see the potential of nuclear war when he wrote to FDR in 1939, urging the president to develop an atomic bomb before Adolf Hitler did.  Huge mind.  Human understanding.

So, impetration is tricky.  It requires purity of heart.  Selflessness.  Surrender.  In the end, it also involves acceptance--we take whatever God dishes out.  It may not be exactly what we ordered--rare steak versus medium.  Or it may be something completely different from what we wanted--egg plant instead of barbecued ribs.  We can't send it back to the kitchen.  So, we make the best of it.  Eat the meal that's set before us.  Give thanks for the broccoli because it is better for us than the banana split.

As I said, my sister will be gone six years this August.  I'm still sitting at the dinner table with this one, trying to appreciate the entrée before me.  God answered my prayer, just not in the way I wanted or understand.  I'm human.  I'm limited.  Still learning the menu.

Saint Marty hopes the next thing he orders comes with onion rings.

December 12: Pious Speculation and Sentiment, Phone Call, COVID-Positive

Merton learns something about Catholicism from a Hindu monk . . .

There is no doubt in my mind that plenty of our missionaries are saints: and that they are capable of becoming greater saints too. And that is all that is needed. And, after all, St. Francis Xavier converted hundreds of thousands of Hindus in the sixteenth century and established Christian societies in Asia strong enough to survive for several centuries without any material support from outside the Catholic world. 

Bramachari was not telling me anything I did not know about the Church of England, or about the other Protestant sects he had come in contact with. But I was interested to hear his opinion of the Catholics. They, of course, had not invited him to preach in their pulpits: but he had gone into a few Catholic churches out of curiosity. He told me that these were the only ones in which he really felt that people were praying. 

It was only there that religion seemed to have achieved any degree of vitality, among us, as far as he could see. It was only to Catholics that the love of God seemed to be a matter of real concern, something that struck deep in their natures, not merely pious speculation and sentiment. 

However, when he described his visit to a big Benedictine monastery in the Mid-West he began to grin again. He said they had showed him a lot of workshops and machinery and printing presses and taken him over the whole “plant” as if they were very wrapped up in all their buildings and enterprises. He got the impression that they were more absorbed in printing and writing and teaching than they were in praying. 

Bramachari was not the kind of man to be impressed with such statements as: “There’s a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of stained glass in this church ... the organ has got six banks of keys and it contains drums, bells, and a mechanical nightingale ... and the retable is a genuine bas-relief by a real live Italian artist.” 

The people he had the least respect for were all the borderline cases, the strange, eccentric sects, the Christian Scientists, the Oxford Group and all the rest of them. That was, in a sense, very comforting. Not that I was worried about them: but it confirmed me in my respect for him. 

He did not generally put his words in the form of advice: but the one counsel he did give me is something that I will not easily forget: “There are many beautiful mystical books written by the Christians. You should read St. Augustine’s Confessions, and The Imitation of Christ." 

Of course I had heard of both of them: but he was speaking as if he took it for granted that most people in America had no idea that such books ever existed. He seemed to feel as if he were in possession of a truth that would come to most Americans as news—as if there was something in their own cultural heritage that they had long since forgotten: and he could remind them of it. He repeated what he had said, not without a certain earnestness: 

“Yes, you must read those books.” 

It was not often that he spoke with this kind of emphasis. 

Now that I look back on those days, it seems to me very probable that one of the reasons why God had brought him all the way from India, was that he might say just that. 

After all, it is rather ironical that I had turned, spontaneously to the east, in reading about mysticism, as if there were little or nothing in the Christian tradition. I remember that I ploughed through those heavy tomes of Father Wieger’s with the feeling that all this represented the highest development of religion on earth. The reason may have been that I came away from Huxley’s Ends and Means with the prejudice that Christianity was a less pure religion, because it was more “immersed in matter”—that is, because it did not scorn to use a Sacramental liturgy that relied on the appeal of created things to the senses in order to raise the souls of men to higher things. 

So now I was told that I ought to turn to the Christian tradition, to St. Augustine—and told by a Hindu monk! 

Still, perhaps if he had never given me that piece of advice, I would have ended up in the Fathers of the Church and Scholasticism after all: because a fortunate discovery in the course of my work on my MA thesis put me fairly and definitely on that track at last. 

That discovery was one book that untied all the knots in the problem which I had set myself to solve by my thesis. It was Jacques Maritain’s Art and Scholasticism. 

Bramachari (and Merton) are not impressed by money or stained glass or pipe organs with five registers.  Notre Dame's Rose Window wouldn't have caused either of them to pause.  But an old woman, sitting in the back pew, head bent, praying, begging for forgiveness or asking for healing, she would have made them both fall to their knees.

Shortly after I woke today, I received a phone call from the hospital.  This past Tuesday, my son slept in until almost noon.  He never sleeps in.  When he woke up, I took his temperature.  It was 100.7°.  He went back to bed for most of the day.  The next day, he still had a temperature, but he was feeling a little better.  By Thursday, he was feeling fine, but I had already made an appointment for him to have a COVID test.  He had the test.  Last night, my daughter came down from her bedroom and told me that she had been feeling achy and tired for two days.  "You probably just have the same cold your brother had," I said to her.  "You'll be better soon.  He's alright now."

"Hello," the nurse on the phone said this morning, "can I speak to the guardian of--?"  She said my son's name.  

"I'm his father," I said.  I sort of already knew what was coming.  It had only been two days since my son's test.  It was the weekend.  It was only 9 a.m.  

The nurse informed me that my son was COVID-positive.  She asked if any other family member was symptomatic.  I told her about my daughter.  We worked out the time frame for quarantining and isolating for everyone.  I thanked her for her help, and she said, "Best of luck."  I hung up the phone.

I sat there for a few minutes, a little stunned.  I know that the virus is spreading like Christmas fruitcakes, but I honestly didn't think it was going to cross our threshold.  I've been so careful since the start of the pandemic.  I was wrong.

My son is blaming himself, started crying when I told him that he was positive.  He kept saying, "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."  I did the best I could to comfort him and make him realize that it wasn't his fault.  

"Buddy," I said, "it's okay.  You're going to be okay.  Everyone's going to be okay."  

I spent the rest of the morning, into the afternoon, making phone calls and sending texts.  I was supposed to play the pipe organ/keyboard at two different churches this weekend.  I have four library events coming up this week.  I have to finish writing my Christmas essay, address my Christmas cards, and finish my Christmas shopping.  Not to mention planning library events for next month.  

Now, I am supposed to isolate until January 2.  That will mean the loss of quite a bit of money, at a time of year when things are already getting tight.  The checks from the university will stop.  Now, no church cleaning or organ playing.  

Yet, all of that seemed stripped of its urgency and importance after that phone call.  Sort of like the way I feel on Christmas Eve.  After all of the wind up and preparations, the best part of the entire holiday isn't the presents or cookies or decorations or parties.  It's that moment, sitting on the couch in the glow of the Christmas tree lights.  After a candlelight church service that ends with the singing of "Silent Night."  Everything just falls away, and what's left is a holy kind of silence.  

What remains for me tonight, after all the urgency and worry of that early morning phone call, is this:  wellbeing and love.  The wellbeing of my kids and wife.  The love of my friends and family.  It's that simple.  I don't need fractured stained glass light or a forty-voice choir backed up by pipe organ.  Just health and love.

My sister-in-law (who's been like my little sister for over 30 years) brought us dinner and groceries.  Close friends have sent me text messages and emails, expressing love, concern, and support.  My boss at the library offered to drop off anything we needed.  I have felt upheld these last twelve hours.  Reminded of God's all-encompassing intimacy.  

My son and daughter and wife are going to be alright.  I'm going to be alright.  We're going to be surrounded by answered prayer every minute of every day.  

As Merton says in the above passage, that is the vitality and nature of true faith.  It's not about pious speculation and sentiment.  It boils down to surrender.  Trust. 

And for that miracle, Saint Marty gives thanks.

April 23: Your Caring, Saint George, Dragons

Your caring may be the answer to someone's prayer.

Aficionados  of The Catcher in the Rye are probably scratching their heads right now and thinking, "Where the hell did he get that quote from?"  Well, I can tell you I found it in my copy of the book.  It doesn't come from Holden or Phoebe or Ackley.  It isn't a memory of Jane or Holden's brother, Allie.  That phrase came from a little slip of paper I've been using as a bookmark.

Sometimes, I get too wrapped up in myself to care about other people.  I get wrapped up in my little problems.  Money.  Teaching.  Job.  All the things that preoccupy the normal working person.  Of course, it seems like I never make enough money.  Of course, I look at my friends who are full-time professors and get jealous of their teaching loads.  Of course, when I drag my butt out of bed at 4 a.m., I hate my job.  Those are my daily concerns.  Sometimes hourly and minutely and secondly concerns.

Then I run into someone who's living with terminal pancreatic cancer.  Or I see a person rummaging through the garbage at the university, looking for pop cans to return.  Or I see a special news report on the TV about a bombing at the Boston Marathon that kills three people and injures hundreds of others.  That stuff unwraps me, opens my eyes to caring.

It doesn't take much to care.  A smile.  A nod.  A few minutes of time, listening to someone else's worries.  It's that simple.  You don't have to be Mother Teresa or the Dalai Lama.  You don't have to be a saint.

Today is the feast of Saint George, patron of England.  Not much is known about George.  My Lives of the Saints says, "...certain Acts forged by ancient heretics have cast no little obscurity over his life."  We know he was a martyr.  We know people pray to him in battle, most likely because he was a soldier.  And we know that he's usually depicted in combat with a dragon.

Dragons come in all shapes and sizes.  Dragons can be great evils, like Hitler or Stalin.  Dragons can be small pebbles in a shoe, like not having enough change to buy a Diet Coke on an early morning.  We battle dragons all day long.  Saint George probably knew this.  His dragons may have been tiny (a splinter in his thumb) or huge (execution at the hands of Diocletian at Nicomedia).  The difference between being a saint or a son of a bitch is simple.  Caring.

I care for my wife and kids.  I care for my friends and family.  My coworkers.  My students.  Despite all the dragons in my life, I can make a difference.

Saint Marty can be answered prayer.  He can start by smiling.

What does your dragon look like?

December 23: Bust in the Jaw

“Yeah, I got a bust in the jaw in answer to a prayer a little bit ago.”

George and the answer to his prayer

George at his lowest.  He has just “rescued” Clarence the angel from drowning, and they’re warming themselves by a fire.  George still thinks his life has been a waste.  He still thinks he’s going to jail.  And he still thinks that everyone would be better off without him.  Clarence asks George about his bloody lip, and George provides the above explanation.

I think we’ve all been in the place where George is when he says this to Clarence.  I was there just a few days ago when I found out that our mortgage refinance had been denied.  I’d been praying that God would somehow help us with our finances, give us some relief from our monetary stress.  When the letter came a couple of days ago from the credit union, it seemed like a “bust in the jaw” in answer to my prayers.  I know that God had nothing to do with our denial, but, at the moment, it sure seemed like He was the chief loan officer.  I was angry and confused, just like George.

As a Christian, I try to live a good life.  When I walk by Salvation Army bell ringers, I always give them money.  I contribute to the church love fund for people in trouble.  I drop my envelope in the collection plate every Sunday.  I sing in the choir.  I play in a Praise Band.  I’m the head of the freaking Worship Committee at church.  I do my best to treat everybody I meet as if they are Jesus Christ in disguise.  (This last thing is the one at which I fail most frequently.)  So, when I suffer some kind of setback, I think to myself, “What in the world did I do wrong, God?”

Of course, I didn’t do anything wrong.  The denial of our refinance is not some kind of divine punishment.  My prayer is still going to be answered, just like George’s prayer is answered.  George’s answer isn’t the one he’s looking for.  My answer is still coming.  A lot of people labor under the mistaken impression that, because you’re a follower of Christ and have been saved, your life is going to be blessed and easy.  That ain’t quite the way it works.  Jesus was the Son of God, and He still had a pretty rough Easter weekend once.

It’s all a matter of faith.  When George learns what real success is (his friends and family), he learns to trust in God.  He learns that God doesn’t answers prayers by busting your jaw.

Saint Marty lost sight of this fact a little while ago.  He just needs to keep his eyes peeled for his Clarence now.