faith

Touching the Supernatural

/ 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

/ 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

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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…

The Second Third, Week 25: No News Is Good News

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Blogger’s Note (unnecessary): This Second Third post was supposed to come before last week’s post. Last week’s post wasn’t posted until yesterday. And both are a slow build of sorts, toward a completely different post that needs more time and stewing. In my head, it’s going to be great.

I mentioned in “Less TV Is Good TV” that I used to love to watch This Week with Sam and Cokie. I used to devour news: I worked as a journalist, then as a media relations manager; I watched Peter Jennings (and sometimes Tom Brokaw); I listened to Morning Edition and All Things Considered and supported NPR with my ears and my dollars. I daydreamed about launching a Slashdot-style web site trafficking in political news and rumors instead of tech stuff. I even had a name and a URL at one time: Rabblerooster. Get it? Like a “rabble-rouser” combined with a rooster…wake up and smell the coffee!

I used to get emotionally wrapped up in the news. Still do, in fact. I get angry, or choked up, or joyfully buoyant based on things happening half a world away, to complete strangers. And that’s beautiful…to a point. But over time I’ve come to realize that A) we’ve got plenty of news and compelling stories unfolding right next to us, and B) nobody’s got the straight scoop, so nobody’s giving it. I’d get riled about stories that were only half true, and wonder what I could really know for sure about what’s going on in the world…then realize that the only thing I can really understand and influence is what’s going on with me, right here, and to a lesser extent, with my family, neighborhood, and community. As a result, I installed tighter filters and began to tune out.

The timing was perfect, actually. TV news is entertainment now, and there are so many faster, easier sources of information. I try to track a variety of online news sources enough to keep tabs on what’s happening out there, and when something catches my eye or interest, I try to read accounts from the Right and the Left, then make sense of it myself. And I ignore a lot more “news” that I once would’ve obsessed over. And my heart is at peace.

I rarely watch TV news at all anymore. (I did flip it on the other night; I was in bed, setting my cell-phone alarm, when a friend posted something on Facebook about Bin Laden’s death. My laptop was already packed up for the morning commute, so I flipped on the tube.) I still listen to the news on the radio — I’ve always been an auditory learner (hence my regular attendance of college classes and lack of reading) and love good radio — but today I balance my NPR with Relevant Radio and Garage Logic, and keep my filters clean. And sometimes I willfully secede from the news stream. On a beautiful spring day like this one, for example, no news is good news.

Three Disconnected Thoughts

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Every so often on my commute I surf the FM airwaves to hear what “the kids” are listening to. Not my kids, mind you — I brought them up right on The White Stripes and Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Cash and stuff — but their classmates and friends. I discovered two things: 1) nothing worthwhile is going on above 100 on the dial (unless you get nostalgic for high school; then there’s Jack FM*) and 2) the five most requested songs in the Twin Cities (as compiled by KDWB) are brainless, heartless, soulless, and painfully repetitive. It’s like a free day in junior-high Phys Ed class, as scored by R2D2. Beeps and bleeps. Twits and tweets. A steady bass thud and random screeching. Whining and bravado. Cat-calls and wolf-whistles. Turns out I’d rather listen to death metal. Anyone can wear excess makeup and questionable clothing, jump around on stage, and not sing. But at least the metalheads play instruments and break stuff.

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Ever walk down the street and spot someone coming toward you whom you can’t quite place…and as she gets closer, her face breaks into the sweetest smile, and her eyes gleam, and you’re a bit embarrassed because you must have met her, but you just can’t remember…so you smile a little, sheepishly, and now she’s grinning, and gives a little wave, and you start to raise your hand in greeting, almost close enough to speak…and then you realize there’s someone walking about 15 feet directly behind you, and you don’t know this girl at all?

No? Okay, yeah, me neither…

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I did a little Easter shopping this evening at St. George Catholic Books and Gifts in Blaine. Wonderful selection of all things Catholic — like many such stores, it used to be in a tiny little space, but it has since expanded significantly. Nevertheless, every time I go in there, they have boxes of new stock on the floor and seem to be reorganizing; every shelf is chock-a-block with books, icons, statues, and keepsakes; the walls are lined with paintings and crucifixes…clearly they have everything, if they could just remember where they put it! I love the store, and always spend more than I intend. It occurred to me today that St. George’s is very like the local hardware: everything is organized just well enough that I feel comfortable browsing myself, and everything is in just enough disarray that by the time I find what I’m looking for, I’ve picked up at least two other items, as well. Savvy storekeepers?

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* Ever re-listen to the songs we were singing along to back then? Eesh. I had no idea.