Touching the Supernatural

May 10, 2011July 28, 2017 / J. Thorp / 2 Comments

I suspect it’s fairly common for faith-filled people to nevertheless long for a sign of some sort — something to let them know for sure that God is really there, that there’s an Almighty Hand on the tiller. I was a skeptic for a lot of years myself; even called myself an agnostic, which I thought was sensible, even clever, and didn’t recognize until later was a lukewarm atheism at best, and at worst, a lukewarm faith:

“I know your works; I know that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.” — Revelation 3:15-16

Even when I began to come around to faith, I was, like Thomas, a doubter, and wanted to touch and be touched by God. And I believe I was once — an event I recorded in an essay of sorts called Thomas and Me. (Weak title, I know, but I was emotionally weak at the time, and who ever heard of a soft-hearted editor?)

At any rate, for a few brief moments I felt full-up with God. After that, I’m been hesitant to ask for more signs.

It’s not that I don’t still wish for something tangible, or want to be closer to God. And it’s not that I doubt more or less than I used to: distance and time has diminished the certainty I felt in that moment, but in the years since, I’ve met so many people (who I know and trust) who have experienced soul-shaking, life-altering, heart-changing conversions — and yeah, even miracles — that the tendency to raise an eyebrow is now tempered.

But touching the supernatural is a scary thing. First, there’s the immensity of it all, of a God who exists outside time and created everything of which we can conceive. Then there’s that feeling of smallness, which may translate in our tiny human hearts into insignificance or desperate unworthiness, misguided though it may be. Then hits the enormity of the implications: that if we are not the be-all-and-end-all, the bomb-diggity, all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips, as it were, maybe we owe something to Someone who is…

So when a friend mentions a miracle in his or her own life, I only pursue the conversation so far, and when my own close encounters crop up, like last week’s God-Incidence, I find myself both shaken and stirred. And I don’t think this discomfort is mine alone. Another friend of mine talked about his own unease with anything to do with the Catholic Church’s teachings on the devil, demons, or even angels. And watching the mainstream media’s coverage of the beatification of Pope John Paul II, you could hear and see the journalists’ discomfort with miracles and intercession…they’d like to believe, but it would shake their very sense of who they are.

Then on Saturday morning I went to daily Mass at St. Michael’s with my bride. The gospel reading was from John, which recounts Christ walking on water, but was a telling I’m less familiar with:

That evening the disciples went down to the shore of the sea and got into a boat to make for Capernaum on the other side of the sea. It was getting dark by now and Jesus had still not rejoined them. The wind was strong, and the sea was getting rough. They had rowed three or four miles when they saw Jesus walking on the sea and coming towards the boat. They were afraid, but he said, “It’s me. Don’t be afraid.” They were ready to take him into the boat, and immediately it reached the shore at the place they were making for. — John 6:16-21

These men, who had been with Jesus and seen him perform wonders, were again amazed, this time by his appearance on the stormy waters. And guess what? They were afraid, too, and doubted as to his very identity (as evidenced by his very loving response, like a father to a child: “It’s me. Don’t be afraid.”).

I take comfort in the fact that his disciples, too, were frightened to encounter the supernatural and continuously awestruck and terrified by the power of God. But I took something else from this passage. In the better-known version (at least to me), Peter steps from the boat to walk toward Jesus, but falters in his faith and begins to sink. But John’s account is different. Read that final line again: “They were ready to take him into the boat, and immediately it reached the shore at the place they were making for.”

Here is a kind, gentle, and generous God: just welcoming Him aboard is enough to get us where we need to go.

Blessed to Bear Another’s Suffering

May 9, 2011July 28, 2017 / J. Thorp / 1 Comment

Last Thursday, May 5th, I drove to work like any other morning. The commute wasn’t great, but it almost never is; the sky was overcast, but that’s been the norm this spring, and sun was expected soon. Work was work, and I didn’t listen to the news on the way in. But as I walked from the parking garage to my building and office, I felt deeply sad. The birds were singing; the trees, finally beginning to bud; the students busy about their classes and exams — and I felt none of it. Instead a great hollow ache slowly spread within my ribs. I had no idea why.

I fired up my computer, checked my work e-mail, then logged into my Facebook account. I typed “My heart is aching today.” — then, not wanting anyone in my network of friends and family to assume I was having chest pains, amended it: “My heart is aching today (in the emotional sense). No idea why.”

A friend, L, suggested it was the Rainy-Day Blues and assured me that “The sun’ll come out tomorrow!” I told her that a colleague had written the very same thing on my white board earlier in the week, but that this felt deeper (and more soulful) than the weather.

Then another friend, B, made this observation: “Maybe you’ve been blessed with bearing someone else’s suffering for the day…what a gift!”

That struck me, not only as especially Christian and profound in some sense, but as true — I thanked her, and fell to contemplating who it might be, and whether one so blessed could ever learn whose suffering he bears.

Not an hour later, a dear friend of mine learned that her mother, who has been battling cancer for some time now, was dying. She dropped everything to book a flight down South. It was the same colleague who had left the sunshine-y message on my white board. My friend B was right: I knew it now, and I believe my colleague thinks so, as well.

This is not to suggest my momentary sorrow compare to hers in any way. I don’t know how much of the load I carried — in the big scheme of things, perhaps it was only the last straw. But it’s tweaked my thinking, about friendship, and prayer, and suffering, and especially coincidences. I knew something was wrong that morning, and that it wasn’t just the rain.

My love and prayers go out to my friend and her family in this time of loss. I’ll bear whatever I can — whatever I’m blessed to — for you.

There Be Dragons

May 7, 2011 / J. Thorp / Leave a comment

Just returned from the movie in the trailer above, There Be Dragons, based on the early life of St. Josemaria Escriva, who founded Opus Dei (God’s Work). This post is not a review, and contains no plot spoilers — but lots of people in our parish are interested in the film and want to know how “strong” a PG-13 it is, and I wanted to capture a few thoughts before I lose them.

I would rate it a solid PG-13. It is violent and emotionally intense at times, and characters are juxtaposed to show virtue and moral ambiguity. Numerous people die in battle, and others die from assassination, murder, suicide, illness, and (thankfully) natural causes. Most of the deaths are not dwelt upon, however, there are a few relatively brief but bloody scenes. There is no nudity, relatively little sexuality (implied or actual), especially for a PG-13 movie in 2011, and a sprinkling of strong language throughout (it is a war movie, after all). Our 13-year-old, Brendan, will see it tomorrow with a friend of ours and her son. Our almost-11-year-old, Gabe, wants to see it, too, but despite his desire to be a priest, and the film’s beautiful portrayal of the priestly vocation, he will wait until we can rent it and I can watch and discuss it with him, pausing as needed.

I knew very little about Fr. Escriva, Opus Dei, and relatively little about the Spanish Civil War, and yet followed everything well enough. The structure of the movie, which features a handful of complex relationships between people shown at different ages and times, and used flashbacks and a present-day narrator to convey the story, can be a little disorienting, but again, I followed well enough. I was struck early on that this is a film shot in an old way: somehow it looks to me like a classic film of the 1960s, and some of the scenes (particularly of the main characters as children) seem more deliberately acted, almost theatrical. It occurs to me that this may help convey the sense of a young boy’s memories, but I will admit, I noticed it as film-making (assuming it was intentional).

Two final thoughts:

First, another friend at the same showing said he enjoyed watching it so soon after Blessed John Paul II’s beatification. I missed the beatification coverage, but not long ago, listened to the JPII biography Witness to Hope, and you can definitely see parallels between the lives and priesthoods of the late Fathers Escriva and Wojtyla.
Second, there is a powerful scene following a heartbreaking act of violence in which Fr. Escriva teaches his followers how close the edge truly is, and how any one of us might slip into darkness and violence. On the heels of Bin Laden’s death, that scene was particularly thought-provoking to me.

The reviews I’ve seen for this movie have been mostly mediocre to terrible.* I thought it was a very good movie, but I’m Catholic and had some idea what I was getting into and what I hoped to get out of it. See it!

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*The USCCB has a complete review of the film online, which may also help parents decide which kids to take. I find they are more conservative than me, and they suggest that older teens could see it, so I think we’re in the ballpark…

Book Break: Three Little Books

April 14, 2011 / J. Thorp / 1 Comment

I’m playing catch-up on a few recently completed books, lest you think (aside from The Brothers Karamazov) I haven’t been reading in the past year. All of them are “little” books in one sense or another, but none are insubstantial; in fact, all three have Catholic or spiritual underpinnings and overtones. I shall write about them in the order that I completed them, though the last one I began reading even before Dostoevsky.

Parish Priest: Father Michael McGivney and American Catholicism by Douglas Brinkley & Julie Fenster is a short biography of the founder of the Knights of Columbus and an intriguing glimpse into the struggles of American Catholics in the nineteenth century. Fr. McGivney, like many priests of his day, died young, but nevertheless transformed the communities of which he was a part, and ultimately re-envisioned the role of Catholic men in America. The authors admit he left few personal papers or other items behind, and at times, it felt as though the material on Fr. McGivney was a bit thinner than the book. I was particularly struck by several points, however:

Fr. McGivney’s gifts as a parish priest, and his ideas behind the Knights of Columbus, first manifested themselves at St. Mary’s Catholic Church on Hillhouse Avenue in New Haven, Conn. Interestingly (to me, at least), when I was at Yale, this was a church I walked by on a daily basis, and when I met my bride and began (occasionally) to attend mass, it was at St. Mary’s. As a result, the book was full of names and places I knew and could envision from my college days.
Catholics in America were subject to discrimination; however, New Haven’s sophisticated liberal leanings made the community quite tolerant of its Catholic immigrants. On the other hand, when I was at Yale, the community’s sophisticated liberal leanings caused the students to look sideways at the priests and parishioners at St. Mary’s.
Fr. McGivney’s desire to start the KCs stemmed from the problems he saw in his Irish Catholic community, including poor widows, fatherless children, and men who wanted something more than their workaday lives, but were seeking it in the bottle and secret societies that separated them from their faith and their families. As they say, the more things change…

The book was a quick read, and especially for Yale Catholics and my KC brothers, I recommend it.
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Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince is a grown-up fable masquerading as a children’s book. It’s a book I’ve seen often and have often wanted to read based on the whimsical illustrations alone, but until I recently heard an interview about the book on the local Catholic radio station, I’m embarrassed to say I knew almost nothing about the book or the author. I found a like-new, soft-cover, second-hand copy at The Sixth Chamber in St. Paul, brought it home, and did something I certainly haven’t done since Trevvy learned to read for himself: I began to read to the kids after dinner.

It’s neither overtly Catholic nor overtly religious. It is beautiful. I won’t tell you a thing about the story; I knew very little, and I found my voice choking with emotion throughout as I discovered my kids, and especially myself, in the characters in the story.* I will say only that it is worth reading and worth sharing. Everyone, from six-year-old Trevor to Jodi and I, loved the book. Gabe says it may be his new favorite. Our teenager said, “Will you pick another book, Dad? I really like this!”

If you want just a taste, my good friend Fr. Tyler wrote about The Little Prince, as well, on his Prairie Father blog. The excerpt he used is one of my favorites, too. Read this book!
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Finally, the other night at Adoration I finished Introduction to a Devout Life, a Catholic spiritual classic written in the early 17th century by St. Francis de Sales. The copy I have is a pocket-sized hardcover; an undated old printing of an old translation, I suspect. The book is available for free in its entirety on several web sites; CatholiCity.com describes it this way:

Introduction to the Devout Life is the most popular Catholic “self-help” book of all time. First published in the early 17th century, it has proven its value as a daily spiritual guide and helpful reference for living an authentic Christian life. Written specifically for laymen, it began as letters from Saint Francis to a married woman who was seeking holiness amidst the distractions of her life of wealth and status. It contains treasures of wisdom for every reader, from eager beginner to lifelong Christian.

I came late to the Church and was confirmed as a young husband and father and an aspiring writer.** I picked St. Francis de Sales as my confirmation saint, primarily because he is the patron saint of writers. I read a bit about him and learned that he had a privileged education and upbringing, and he was looking for signs all the time…so it took him awhile to come to the decision to serve God. (That seemed appropriate.) Once he became a priest, he went into fairly hostile areas to convert people, and often used his writings to do so. These details, plus the fact that Francis is a family name on my father’s side, seemed like good reasons at the time. (I never even considered any of the numerous St. Jameses.)

It wasn’t until years later that I realized St. Francis de Sales was a doctor of the church and decided I should probably read my patron’s writings. I searched for a copy of the book and wound up with two (one in English, and one in French, which I don’t read or speak. I’ve been reading it a bit to a time each Monday night in the Adoration Chapel ever since. The sentences are often intricate, but the saint’s voice and genuine joy in serving God shines through. The book provides step-by-step guidance for increasing devotion and holiness in your life, and the saint’s suggestions, while intimidating taken in their entirety, are individually small, practical, and still relevant today. And every so often something strikes you as so profound that you incorporate it immediately into your prayer life. It is a challenge to anyone living in this world, but I suspect it rewards repeat readings.
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* Of course, I am an emotional guy…
** I’m still all of these things except young.

A Wee Bit Irish?

March 17, 2011March 17, 2021 / J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: The soundtrack to this post is above. You can about imagine a bare-knuckles brawl a la The Quiet Man, can’t you?

It’s St. Patrick’s Day, which in the U.S. means wearing o’ the green and drinkin’ o’ the beer. (Unfortunately, too many folks are drinking green beer tonight, instead of the real deal: thick, black, and pleasantly bitter.)

I’ll confess that I’m wearing green today. Am I Irish? Depends on how you count. I’m half Polish (my mother’s side: Galubenskis and Koczwaras), and the rest is a mix. According to my late grandfather, Duane Thorp, we Thorps are English, French, Dutch, maybe a little bit American Indian, and Scotch-Irish or Scots-Irish, which, according to at least one account I’ve read, means I’m descended from some really ornery Scotsmen whom the English settled in Ireland to drive out the Irish Catholics in the 1800s. Even in the 1950s, when my father was a boy in the Thumb of Michigan, he recalls an older relative — a bare-knuckles brawler of some repute — having a few drinks and going looking for Catholics to fight.*

So am I even a wee bit Irish? Well, tonight I won’t be drinking green beer, or black stout, or golden Irish whiskey, because it’s Lent, and I’ve given them up until Easter. Instead I’ll be celebrating with the beautiful Lorica of St.Patrick. These Thorps are Catholic now — and more Irish than ever!

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